by Hap Rocketto
It really does seem unfair. In my 25 trips to Camp Perry I have won exactly one match and placed second or third several times. I guess that is pretty heady stuff for a journeyman shooter such as myself and I should be satisfied. It just is that the Wily Wigger seems to win everything. During the awards ceremony he meanders around the stage greeting the various other winners as if he is, and for all I know he may well be, the Mayor of Camp Perry. You get the feeling that he is running for office as he greets the many whom both know him, and claim to know him, with equal familiarity and warmth. Let us face it; he has spent more time on the stage than most people have on the firing line. He has won so many of the trophies so many times that, to him, the hardware that decorates the stage are really old friends rather than the statuary, plaques, and silverware that we mere mortals see.
With his track record it came as a no surprise that, when I found myself head on head in competition with Wigger The Winner for the “Shot in The Tail Award” at the Black Hawk Annual Camp Perry Dinner, he beat me. Each year the club gives the award to the shooter who has perpetrated the biggest gaffe concerning shooting. Over the years the category has been stretched a bit and now includes non-shooting shenanigans that happen on the range. My particular bit of foolishness bears no mention here, as it was not considered worthy of note by my fellow club members. However, Wunderkind Wigger got to add another trophy to his already bursting display case because, since he has given up position shooting, he has apparently become afflicted with that particular prone shooter’s disorder known as “Parking Place Paresis”.
Those afflicted with P3, as opposed to 3P, develop a compulsive need to park their cars directly behind their firing point. In its earliest stages, this degenerative disease manifests itself in behaviors such as bringing a bicycle to Perry so one may get up at 3AM, drive one’s car to the firing line and park directly behind the firing point. Those affected then cycle back to the module to grab a few more hours’ sleep only to arise and peddle back to the line at 7AM. As the disease advances the shooter is no longer able to use the bike, as they have begun to loose their balance-if that is possible in light of their previous behavior. At this point, they begin to tow a spare car to the Nationals or simply park behind their point and sleep there.
The final stages of the illness are identified by the irrational claim that there is a measurable loss of points and Xs, in direct proportion to the car’s displacement from the firing point. Shooters who progress, if that is the correct word, beyond this point, to the terminal stage, are sometimes found at bench rest matches slumped and drooling over a sandbagged rifle atop a table babbling incoherently about ballistic jump, precession, and pudding night at the rest home. The disorder is apparently irreversible and it sad to see once proud 3P shooters degenerate until, with merciful finality, the Great Rangemaster In The Sky calls time on their relay.
It may be that Wigger, who has made a Federal case for the use of domestic match ammunition, may well be in the earliest stages of P3. He arrives at the range in time to park behind his point, set up his tarp, glad hand the multitudes, and win a match or two. When Wigger the wayfarer finds the need to leave the range during the day’s shooting he either places a trash can in his parking spot to keep it reserved and/or sets one of the Wigger wards, Deena-the winsome Wigger, or Ron-the weekend warrior Wigger to the task. Mary Kay, Wigger the womanly, will have no truck with guarding wandering Wigger’s parking place and Wigger wisely does not ask her to do so.
Actually, there has been a grassroots movement towards recognizing Wigger’s wonderful shooting accomplishments and his smallbore domination at Camp Perry. It has taken the form of a letter writing campaign requesting that he be permanently assigned his own Camp Perry firing point. The point being suggested is right next to the road that separates Rodriquez and Petrarca ranges. Furthermore, both the firing point and parking space behind it are to be deeded to him in perpetuity. In time, one might easily imagine the construction of a small condominium there, complete with a marquee for advertising.
The less kindly might suggest that this is being done so that he will have just one target number to remember for the rest of his shooting career. This will keep him from winning the less coveted “Crossfire Medal”, perhaps the only award he has not, and wishes not to, win. By odd coincidence, all of the many form letters, bearing the letterhead of “Friends of Wigger”, arriving at NRA Headquarters requesting this honor, bear postmarks from Colorado Springs, Colorado, Little Rock, Arkansas, or Anonka, Minnesota. The movement is getting off the ground rather slowly.
The 1999 National Smallbore Prone Rifle Championships were marked by a particularly enthusiastic enforcement of the parking regulations by one young member of the Military Police compliment at Perry. The youth went about his business with such intensity that he ticketed my car while I was in the process of loading it at the end of the day. I was at the back tossing in stuff with the engine running and the flashers on while he was at the front stuffing a pink slip under my wiper blade. He even managed to count coup on the NRA target van as it stood idling while picking up fired targets! Under these circumstances, the National Champion was to be held accountable for his actions, as you will soon see.
Perhaps heeding the call of nature, or with a touch of itchy feet, Wigger waltzed off, leaving his spot protected by a trashcan and his kids. Someone, with as much chutzpa as he pulled up, moved the can, and parked in Wigger’s way while the youngsters were otherwise engaged. Wigger’s warbling could be heard loud and clear when he returned. He then became Wigger the wrongdoer when he simply pulled into the first available parking spot, ignoring the posted injunctions against leaving an unauthorized vehicle there. Within a short time the young MP happened along, noticed the scofflaw’s car, and was quickly filling out a ticket to garnished Wigger’s windshield when he noticed one there already. Knowing the justice was being served he went on his way.
Wigger’s wailing, when he found the warning, was woeful. It was not that his parking space had been occupied. It was not that he had to walk further than he planned. Remember that rumor has it that he never took a physical fitness test during his entire military career and then retired from 3P because of his fragile knee. It was not even the fact that he did not even register the car on post anyway.
The burr under his saddle was that he was required to report to his commanding officer to deal with his infraction. In the past, Wigger might weasel his way out of this type of difficulty when he was on active duty. His past COs respected his skill and the positive publicity his shooting skills brought to the Army. Therefore, the evidence of his poor parking habits, with a knowing wink and a nod, disappeared. Reasonable men quite often reach such an accommodation. Since he left the comfortable rhythm of Fort Benning and Hook Range, he has had to answer, like the Hebrew National Company, to a higher authority-Mary Kay Wigger.
However, what is not widely known is that the ticket was a Red Herring. Wigger the Wise had simply saved a parking ticket he had received earlier. He learned about cover, concealment, and camouflage while a young second lieutenant. He has been putting that knowledge to use ever since, be it in the jungle of Viet Nam or the parking lot at Perry. Wigger the Worldly simply parks wherever he wishes, tucks his personal parking ticket under his wiper, and goes his way secure in the knowledge that no MP will ticket a car that another MP has already cited.
