By Hap Rocketto
As a rule I am a very patient sort of guy with people I am meeting for the first time, especially if they are new shooters. I was a tyro once myself and learned a great deal from observing those about me, most who were gracious enough to share their experience. One of my rules, taken from my Old Man’s seemingly bottomless bag of good advice, was to never say no to any thing that was free. The Old Man believed that, one day, the person you had once said no to might have something you wanted and not offer it to you because of your previous refusal. Simply accept gifts, with profound thanks and later either dispose of it or pack it safely away. It is a good policy to follow, be it an old moldy shooting glove or a valuable piece of advice.
In the old days at Camp Perry, when I first started shooting, we were squadded three to a point and stayed together for the whole week. I was one of two experts, part of a trio that contained what can only be charitably called a “lifetime sharpshooter.” That status, in itself, is certainly no big deal or shame. Many a fine person you meet shooting makes up for a lack of skill with unbounded enthusiasm and love of the sport.
However, this fellow was one of the type who knew everything about high power rifle shooting, except how to hit the center of the target with any degree of regularity and very free with his advice. For two days we had listened to him tell, on a first name basis, of his famous barrel maker, sight manufacturer, and gunsmith. It was followed with tales of his proficiency with the reloading press, flash hole reamer, neck turner, brass tumbler, bullet seating depth tool, concentricity and wall thickness gauge, and other assorted esoteric tools of the trade. One had to admit that his bolt gun and ammo were works of art.
He tactlessly commented on our service rifles and out of the box ammo. The fact that we were keeping all of our shots in the black while he was struggling to maintain a five ring hold seemed lost upon him. Some might call him grating or obtuse, if not down right obnoxious. The Old Man once told me that good manners are free so you shouldn’t fail to use them lavishly. I wish he had told this guy that little nugget. On top of things his wife was cut from the same bolt of cloth and, like a shadow, she even went to the pits with us. They even wore matching outfits each day.
At first I eagerly listened in the hope of picking up some tips that would catapult me into the master class. His credibility waned when I noticed that his group sizes were about the size of a spare tire. He complained that he wasn’t shooting as well here as he did at home. On he droned, dropping names left and right, moaning how perhaps the Perry humidity might be effecting the rifle’s bedding or the pit service was slow or that the boats were in the impact area. He never once mentioned what I thought was the problem. Personally I thought he spent too much money on fancy equipment, too much time hobnobbing with the greats and telling others about them, too much time his reloading room and not enough time facing a target with all of his fancy equipment.
Came the Navy Cup and he was on the firing line, our third was scoring him, and I was blackening my sights on the ready line. It was a gorgeous day, just a light and variable wind coming off of the lake with the sun half way up in a near cloudless sky. The prep period ended and the targets came up and this guy started his watch and continued fiddling around. He held up small anemometer, he jotted notes in his scorebook, he checked his sights, and he shuffled his feet. He did everything but shoot.
His scorer patiently sat there and watched the little Kabuki dance that was unfolding in front of us. About three minutes into the match the scorer, thinking this guy might have Buck Fever in the biggest offhand match of the year, cleared his throat rather flamboyantly to get his attention, and said, “Time is running, maybe you ought to shoot. You certainly don’t want to eat any rounds in slow fire.
The guy indignantly snapped back, “My wife is up there watching me from the assembly area. I want to make this a perfect shot.”
“Forget it, man.” came the tart reply from the scorer who could no longer hold his tongue, “I’ve watched you shoot for two days and even at this short distance you don’t stand a snowball’s chance of hitting her from offhand!”
