Waste Not, Want Not

by Hap Rocketto

When I was a young pup, first on the All National Guard Smallbore Rifle Team, I was amazed at how well they took care of us. We were supplied with fancy team clothing, rifles, sights, rifle and spotting scopes, selected lots of as much Eley Tenex as you might care to shoot, entry fees, expenses, and a pay check to round out the good deal. I was feeding high on the hog at the public trough and had yet to appreciate my good fortune.

Fortunately there were a few older and wiser heads such as Dean Oakes and Don Durbin who insured that my new found success would not go to my head. Both had started out as enlisted men and eventually gained commissioned status so they knew both sides of the coin. I had to respect them for this alone, as well as the fact that they had been in the system long enough to know its ins and outs, and they could also shoot circles around me.

During team training sessions these two old warhorses, who ran the team, would keep a sharp eye on us. Later they would sit down with us privately to discuss our activities and progress. One day Oakes stood behind me for a while and took notes as he watched me work at standing. I would shoot five foulers before I went to the sighter, endless sighters before between and after record bulls, and more than a few shots were blown off into the backstop when I felt I just couldn’t get that shot off the way I wanted. None of this additional ammunition expenditure seemed to make much of an improvement upon my performance but I felt compelled to shoot that way.

After the practice had ended and the team had cleaned up we would sit around relaxing with a cold soft drink waiting out turn with one or the other of our leaders. On this day Dean looked over in my direction, pointed his right index finger at me and waggled it, beckoning me over he then bade me sit down. Leafing through the ubiquitous green government pocket memo pad in his hand he reviewed his notes.

“Rocketto,” he started, “Let me start off by telling you a little tale. An old prospector had been out in the desert for about six months without a drop of whiskey or a word of conversation. One day he and his tired old mule meandered into a little western town looking for a little bit of relaxation and refreshment.

He stopped at the first saloon he came to and tied the mule to the hitch rail. As he stood there wiping the dust from his face with his tattered bandana, a  young gunslinger strutted  out of the saloon with a fancy two gun rig about his waist and a bottle of whiskey in his hand. The kid looked the old man up and down and laughed malevolently, calling out, ‘Hey old man, have you ever danced?’

The old man looked up and said, ‘No, I never did dance. I just never wanted to.’

By then a crowd of wastrels and layabouts had gathered in anticipation of some fun. The gunslinger handed off the bottle, drew his two pistols and called out ‘Well, you old fool, you’re gonna’ dance now,’ as he cocked his pistols and started shooting. To everyone’s raucous amusement the old prospector quickly began hopping around to avoid the flying bullets as the kid emptied his two six shooters.

The kid fired his last cartridge, holstered his pistols, waved self-importantly to the crowd, and took back his bottle. The kid casually turned his back on the old man to return to the saloon. It was at that moment that the old prospector chose to reach up and draw his shotgun from the pack, and shoulder it. Thumbing back the two big hammers produced a very loud distinctive click which startled the crowd into immediate silence. At the sound the gun slinger slowly turned back to face the old man and to look, with quickly widening eyes, down the shotgun’s barrels.

Quietly the old man asked the kid, ‘Hey, son, have you ever kissed a mule’s hind end?’

The gunslinger swallowed hard and said,   ‘No. I never did kiss a mule’s hind end.” And, staring down the twin ten bore barrels he croaked through his suddenly dry throat, “But I’ve just always wanted to.”

I laughed politely at the story but was totally confused as to Dean’s purpose in telling it. It didn’t seem to have any relationship to the situation at hand. For one thing the kid had a pistol, and we were a rifle team. Dean sensed that I was at a loss; he was trying to make a subtle point that I was too obtuse to understand. He shook his head and sighed in exasperation going on to explain to me that I was like the gunfighter in three ways. I had a gift, and was being a given a golden opportunity to develop it, but I was cocky.

“I guess you are right.” I replied. Properly chastened I promised myself that I’d change my ways. “That’s two, what is the third?” I asked.

Dean replied, “You waste ammunition.”

About Hap Rocketto

Hap Rocketto is a Distinguished Rifleman with service and smallbore rifle, member of The Presidents Hundred, and the National Guard’s Chief’s 50. He is a National Smallbore Record holder, a member of the 1600 Club and the Connecticut Shooters’ Hall Of Fame. He was the 2002 Intermediate Senior Three Position National Smallbore Rifle Champion, the 2012 Senior Three Position National Smallbore Rifle Champion a member of the 2007 and 2012 National Four Position Indoor Championship team, coach and captain of the US Drew Cup Team, and adjutant of the United States 2009 Roberts and 2013 Pershing Teams. Rocketto is very active in coaching juniors. He is, along with his brother Steve, a cofounder of the Corporal Digby Hand Schützenverein. A historian of the shooting sports, his work appears in Shooting Sports USA, the late Precision Shooting Magazine, The Outdoor Message, the American Rifleman, the Civilian Marksmanship Program’s website, and most recently, the apogee of his literary career, pronematch.com.
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