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by Hap Rocketto

When I was a kid the circus always came to town on a Thursday in early September and spread its huge canvas tent and midway in Caulkin’s Park, which was right across the street from my classroom at Waller School. The railroad ran right by the park and the circus train would park on a convenient siding to unload. We elementary school kids were tortured by its proximity, the occasional tooting of the calliope as preparations were made for the opening performance as well as the exotic sounds and smells tantalized us almost to the bursting point. Our pubescent agitation and the commotion just a few hundred yards away drove our poor teachers to distraction as they tried to keep us focused on the educational tasks at hand. Other than snapping off the points to our pencils, the room often sounded like a bowl of Rice Krispies gone wild, so that we could go to the sharpener by the window to sneak a peek was our only other opportunity to watch the circus set up was our morning and afternoon 15 minute recess.

When the bell rang for the break we rushed to line up, two by two, to be lead by our teacher across Riverview Avenue to the park. We were sternly instructed by the principal to stay together and confine our play to the area north of the baseball diamond and not, under any circumstances wander toward the circus. Those were simpler times and we were simpler kids and we obeyed as we crowded the splintery wooden bleachers to gape and point at the elephants helping to erect the tent, the railcars full of wild animals, and the assorted roustabouts hurrying to and fro.

For weeks before the telephone poles had been plastered with posters nailed up by the circus’ advancemen and in these last two days before the weekend our badgering of our parents rose to a crescendo. Saturday morning would seem like forever because The Old Man, like most fathers in the early 50s, worked a 5 and a half day work week. After he got home from the shop and had a chance to clean up and have lunch he would give us our weekly allowance, a quarter for my older brother, 15 cents for me, and nothing for my kid sister as she was still in diapers. From this munificent sum we usually had enough to pay Scout dues and buy a comic book and candy bar. As soon as the circus’ handbills went up we began to scrimp and save, picked up deposit soda bottles for refund, and scavenged through the sofa for loose change. The Old Man, a child of the Depression, encouraged our activities and always seemed to find an extra silver coin or two for us on Circus day, an event he loved as much as we did.

Hand in hand we walked down the hill, past the school, and onto the midway where we squandered out meager fortune on candy apples, popcorn, fresh roasted peanuts, and cotton candy. The Old Man always generously paid our admission so, to our mother’s annoyance, we could load ourselves to the exploding point with enough sugar to rot our teeth to stumps and keep us hyperactive for a month. Hey, he was a kid once too and thought that a bellyache was both a rite of passage and a small price to pay for this rare kind of adventure.

Being young I was awed by the aerialists, terrified of the lions and tigers, and amused to no end by the clowns and in particular the act where about a zillion of them popped out of a tiny automobile.

A few weeks ago I was reminded of those golden days of my youth by a casual comment made by on of my rifle team mates, Tom McGurl. I had received a call from an old junior shooter, Dwayne Britt, who wanted to get back into the game and invited him to the range the next week. He showed up some 20 years older and 40 pounds heavier but still enthusiastic. He had no equipment so I offered him mine and offered to get him going. We got on the line and I helped into the gear, it was a thrill to note he couldn’t button my coat. It took a bit of time but it got done.

In the meantime my brother was getting ready. Just the week before he had cataract surgery and wasn’t sure he could see well enough to shoot but he was game to try. It turned out his vision was just too blurry and he popped of the line. I saw a chance to still shoot but Britt was in my gear. The prep period had just begun so I quickly had Steve and Britt both strip off their gear. Steve helped Britt into his stuff, and I was thrilled to note that Steve’s coat did button up on Britt. I grabbed all of my gear and slid into it, redoing the adjustments to the butt plate and hook and finished just as the end of the prep period was called. Thirty minutes later we were done and I shot my average and Britt shot a score that was almost high enough to make the team. Not a bad performance for a guy who was using strange gear and hadn’t practiced in two decades.

As we were packing up I noticed that Tom was grinning and shaking his head in wonderment as he stored his gear. “What’s up, Tom” I asked.

Containing himself, rather admirably I might add, Tom said, “Hap you just had to see it. There were the three of you guys, wearing funny clothes, hopping up and down all over the place, tossing stuff left and right, and jabbering orders, requests, and pleas to each other. It was just comic. Your shooting shoes were floppy enough so that about the only other thing you needed was a big red nose, white make-up, and a clown car to make that circus act complete.”

Tom’s observations were spot on and struck home. I guess, like most kids, I once wanted to run away to join the circus but of course never did. In retrospect I guess that is not quite true. I did actually did join one, but of a different kind, when I became a shooter.

by Hap Rocketto

A shooting match is a two way street that is traveled by the sponsor and the competitor. Each has goals and each has responsibilities to insure safe travel. The responsibilities are laid out in the rules books of the various disciplines. They follow common rules and, with the exception of some specific details, are the same for whatever gun is being shot. The duties and responsibilities of the competitor are laid down in section 18 of the NRA Rule Book while those of the match sponsor are stated in the various sections pertaining to match operation.

In general the competitor has just a few common sense rules to follow. The competitor must cooperate with the tournament officials to insure the conduct of a safe and efficient match. Furthermore the competitor must be familiar with the match program and comply with the various aspects of the match outlined in the document. The competitor must follow all range commands and is responsible for signing score cards in high power and pistol matches as well as checking the score board. A thorough knowledge of the rules and the adherence to those rules in regard to equipment and position is required. Perhaps this can be best summarized as the competitor must know the rules of the sport and comply with them

The match sponsor is responsible for conducting a safe and efficient match with the cooperation of the competitor. The sponsor’s duties begin with filing the match application with the NRA and only ends when the match bulletin and the awards are in hands of the competitors. In between the folks who run the match must order the targets. Prepare the range, arrange for the match staff, conduct the match in a safe and efficient manner, get the scores up as quickly as possible, and then see that the competitors receive bulletins and awards in a timely manner.

While all of this, on both sides of the fence, seems obvious it is amazing how many times things fall through the cracks. From the sponsor’s view it seems that the most important things the competitor can do are to be preregistered or have correct change at post registration, be safe, and cooperate with the range crew. From the competitor’s view the important things are an organized registration and squadding procedure, an efficient range and stat crew, and the speedy delivery of bulletins and awards.

I have run a great many matches and shot in more than I care to, or can, remember. I am sure I have violated most of the precepts I have just stated at one time or another. Perhaps the best thing we can do is realize that we all make mistakes and roll with the punches. Most matches are well run from both points of view and when it does not happen it is best to maintain a good sense of humor and try to be understanding. If it keeps up, don’t worry because poorly prepared matches, like poorly prepared competitors, just don’t last long.

by Hap Rocketto

Hockey fever was sweeping New England in the late spring of 2011 as the Boston Bruins battled it out for the National Hockey League Championship and the honor of hoisting the Stanley Cup. It was mentioned that the Stanley Cup is the oldest trophy competed for by professional athletes in North America and was donated, in 1892, by Sir Frederick Arthur Stanley, then the Governor General of Canada.

While Lord Stanley’s Cup may be the oldest professional athletic trophy it is still junior to the Leech Cup, which is arguably the oldest North American sports trophy, by nearly two decades. The Leech Cup was presented to the Amateur Rifle Club of New York by Major Arthur Blennerhassett Leech, Captain of the Irish Rifle Team on the occasion of that team’s visit to America in 1874 and passed on to the National Rifle Association of America in 1901. It is the oldest trophy in competitive target shooting in the United States.

The Stanley Cup, standing 35 ¼ inches and weighing in at 34 ½ pounds, consists of a bowl, three tiered bands, a collar, and five metal bands. The Leech Cup is a massive masterpiece of the Victorian Irish silversmith’s art. The silver tankard is heavily embossed and surmounted by a representation of an ancient tower in ruins. It is currently presented to the winner of the 1,000 yard metallic sight prone match which bears its name.

In the past match winners at the National Matches and NRA Championships were allowed to take the trophies home with them. However, the Leech Cup disappeared after the 1913 National Matches, not to be seen again until 1927. In response the NRA Board of Directors quickly required that all NRA trophies to be kept by the NRA and stored at NRA Headquarters or Camp Perry during the matches.

On the other hand the Stanley Cup, in a whimsical tradition unlike any other sport, is passed around like the first born at a baptism or briss. Each player and staff member of the winning team is allowed to keep the Cup in their possession for 24 hours during the summer following the play offs.

The past adventures of the Stanley Cup make the 14 year disappearance of the Leech Cup seem like a fortnight in a monastery. Apparently concurrent possession of the Stanley Cup, alcohol, and questionable judgment enjoy a long and storied relationship. For openers, after the Ottawa Silver Seven won it in 1905 they quickly began a pub crawl of Brobdingnagian proportions with the Cup in tow. In the shank of the night, after imbibing more than a few, several of the Seven thought it would be interesting to see if they could boot the trophy across the Rideau Canal which connects the city of Ottawa, on the Ottawa River, to the city of Kingston on Lake Ontario. The Cup disappeared in a soaring arc into the darkness and never made it across. Fortunately the Rideau was frozen and the players were able to retrieve it the following morning after they came to their senses.

The Montreal Wanderers won it in 1907 and proudly took their picture with the cup. Some months later they realized that no one knew the whereabouts of the trophy. Retracing their steps they eventually arrived at the photographer’s home where they found it holding the photographer’s mother’s prized geraniums.

The Montreal Canadiens proudly took possession of the Cup in 1924 and tucked it safely away in the trunk of the car taking them to the post game celebration. On the way the vehicle had a flat. The jack and spare were dug out and the tire quickly replaced. The exuberant hockey players arrived at the banquet hall and quickly uncorked a few Jeroboams of champagne to fill the Cup for a victory toast, only to find that they didn’t have it with them. They piled back into the car and frantically drove back to where they changed the tire and, much to their relief, found the Cup sitting forlornly in a snow bank three kilometers from the hotel.

Mark Messier, who won six Stanley Cups with both the Edmonton Oilers and New York Rangers, used to bring it to his favorite Edmonton strip club and let patrons drink out of it. When he dented it in 1998 he simply brought it to a local auto body repair shop to have it repaired.

More than one player has proudly posed his naked infant child in the cup for a celebratory photograph without regard to the child’s state of potty training. The results were inevitable when the baby was startled by the flash bulbs and excitement.

The Cup has been put to more bucolic and domestic use by others. Colorado Avalanche defenseman Sylvain Lefebvre, after insuring that La Coupe Stanley was sterilized I am sure, had it filled with Holy Water to serve as the baptismal font for his daughter, Alexanne.

While I am sure the NRA has the best interests of the trophies at heart by not letting them out of their sight there is something of the imp in me that wishes, like a Stanley Cup winner, I could have brought the RWS Trophy home with me from Camp Perry in 2002. In celebration of my victory I can picture in my mind’s eye my family poised about the silver bowl, napkins tucked into collars, spoons at the ready, prepared to dive into a massive ice cream treat. Imagine, if you will, pineapple topping spooned over strawberry, chocolate syrup enrobing vanilla, and strawberries oozing down the chocolate like lava on Kilauea. This mountain range of ice cream would be garnished with crushed nuts, whipped cream, and maraschino cherries, ringed by a garland of banana slices.

Thus, the victory would have been made all the sweeter.