Honor was the Mead of Victory…
By Hap Rocketto
Every year, like clockwork, it seems that about the time of the various National Championships, be they the Civilian Marksmanship Program, the National Rifle Association, or USA Shooting, the various shooting websites ‘hits’ spike on the subject of awards. The general gist of the argument is that what ever organization, or organizations, one is affiliated with they are just not handing out enough or large enough awards in proportion to the entry fees paid.
The old timers drag out the tales of the days when the NRA gave away sterling silver flatware and platters, when there were target boys to change your targets in smallbore or the military pulled targets in highpower, and a case of 22 ammo had 10,000 rounds packed in a real well built wooden crate, not the effete 5,000 round cardboard boxes of today. Service rifle shooters complain that Distinguished Badges are now base metal coated only with a thin veneer of 1/10 karat gold, forgetting the real meaning of the award. Others bemoan the fact that if they shot shotgun instead and went to the Grand American, where there are “big money” awards they would do better, but they don’t seem to swapping their rifled firearms for smoothbore money guns.
Personally, I would much rather have a low entry fee to just cover costs and minimal awards rather than a big entry fee with concurrent large awards. Perhaps that is because I have spent most of my shooting career being a contributor to the award well and seldom drawing from it. But I have often said that the only way to make a small fortune in shooting is to start with a large one.
This is not to say that I am against awards. I have a cork board covered with inexpensive, but prized, Blackington medals that bring back memories of times, friends, and ranges now long gone. There are a few trophies and trophy plaques on shelves or walls that remind me that, once upon a time, I was better than I am today.
It is really is a matter of perspective. Shooting is an avenue for me to test my mental and physical skill against a fixed standard-the target. It is also a night, day, a weekend, or week away with the “boys” where I can recharge my batteries, swap lies, and even scratch when and where I please. Most men of my age are couch triathletes-a six pack, a pizza, and a game on TV-reveling in the memories of their past glory days on the field or the court. Unlike them I am still competing in the same sport in which I lettered in high school in 1962. Don’t get me wrong, the prizes are nice, but the real trophies exist in one’s heart, not in a glass case.
The cry of poor prize givings by many in the shooting community brings to mind two pieces by extremely diverse authors; Mario Puzo and Herodotus of Halicarnassus. Puzo is the author of one of the great American novels, The Godfather, while the fifth century Greek author of The Histories, Herodotus, is considered to be the “Father of History.”
Michael Corleone, the protagonist of The Godfather, finds himself in Cuba during the waning days of the Batista regime. Traveling to a meeting he observes one of rebel leader Fidel Casto’s men taking his own life, and those of several of Batista’s soldiers with him, with a hand grenade. As he meets with fellow racketeer Hyman Roth he relates the story ending with, “The soldiers are paid to fight. The rebels aren’t.” A curious Roth, who plans to invest in Cuban gambling enterprises, replies, “What does that tell you?” Corleone replies, “That they can win.”
Herodotus relates the story of King Leonidas and his fellow 300 Spartans, who along with 700 Thespians fought to the death defending the Pass of Thermopylae against 10,000 Persian soldiers under King Xerxes. The battle over, Xerxes was curious as to why there was such a small Greek force guarding the strategic pass. Arcadian prisoners told that the king that this was an Olympic year and many men were off participating and forbidden to engae in warfare during that most holy of religious festivals.
One of Xerxes’ retinue, shocked that the Greek City States would so casually allow their freedom to be jeopardized by allowing its warrior class to vie for athletic prizes, concluded that the prizes must be of enormous value. What else but a great prize would cause the Greeks to put up their swords and spears to run, jump, throw, and wrestle amongst themselves in a time of supreme danger? So he asked the Arcadian, “And what is the prize for which they contend?”
“An olive-wreath,” returned the Arcadian, “which is given to the man who wins.” Hearing the man say that the prize was not a great sum of money or herds of livestock or vast amounts land, but a simple wreath of olive, the retainer blurted out to Xerxes, “Good heavens! What manner of men are these against whom thou hast brought us to fight? Men who contend with one another, not for money, but for honor!”
The Persian and the Godfather both knew the truth that we would be well served to remember. Winner’s do not vie for medallions of precious metal, valuable merchandise, or specie but rather for more precious things, the honor and respect offered freely by fellow competitors who have prevailed through, and been measured by, the same conditions in the same endeavor.
