The First Shot

In front of me stands a man with wild eyes, bushy hair, a terrible mustache and a gun he is pointing menacingly in my direction. Though my attacker is made only of paper, I’m nervous and my palms are just starting to sweat. I look down at the table in front of me and there is a revolver. The handgun is black as night, with a faint bluish tint you can only really notice when the light hits it just right. “Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special Revolver” is etched faintly along the side of the barrel, worn from years being placed and drawn from its matching leather holster. The grips are wooden, stained a deep coffee color, and I can feel their textured pattern as I pick up the firearm. It is heavy in my seven year old hands and I strain ever so slightly to steady the weapon. I press the ejector rod, releasing the cylinder and exposing its six empty chambers. I pick up the first of the shiny brass rounds, deceptively heavy for their size, and place them gently into each one of their chambers. Once I finish dropping the last round into place, I snap the cylinder back into position and the object in my hand transforms from a simple collection of steel components into a powerful tool capable of taking a life. I glance back up at my would-be attacker; raising the weapon up to my field of vision and closing one eye to take aim for the center of his chest. Now comes the moment that I have been waiting for, the culmination of all my preparation and everything I have been taught. I strain to pull back the hammer with one, giving in and eventually using both thumbs to pull it back. Unlike my father whom I have watched effortlessly pull it back a thousand times with only his right thumb. The pistol sways slowly from side to side as I remember my father’s words “Don’t hold your breath. Control your breathing and pause at the end of your exhale. When the moment comes, squeeze, don’t pull.” I squeeze the trigger and the handgun leaps in my hands. I could feel the recoil resonate through my hands and up my arms in to my chest. I could feel the percussion from the blast in my ears through the hearing protection I wore resemble some bizarre, oversized headphones. The hair on the back of my neck stands up straight and my entire body is overcome with goose bumps. The mildly acrid smell of gunpowder now burns my nostrils. Readdressing my target, I could see a perfectly round hole, a little smaller than a dime, dead center in the chest of my paper assailant.

From that very first shot, I was hooked on shooting. The feeling was exhilarating every time I pulled the trigger, but once that initial high wore off, I realized there was so much more to it. My father instilled in me the utmost respect for firearms long before I was ever allowed to pull the trigger for the first time. “Guns are not toys.” He would tell me. “They are tools designed with the purpose of taking a life. They are to be treated with great respect.” I never once remember being afraid of guns, I suppose my curiosity initially got the better of me. I wanted to know absolutely everything I could know about firearms and about shooting.

Every Sunday night my father would come home and head straight to the garage with his range bag. Running all along the back of the garage was his work bench, meticulously clean and organized; not a tool out of place. I would watch him take his weapons out of the olive green nylon case he carries with him when goes to the rang, the Smith & Wesson revolver, the Beretta M92FS 9mm, and then from long gray ballistic plastic hard case, his 12 gauge shotgun. I was always particularly fascinated with the Beretta. My father would start to break down the more than 70 individual components that made up the machine. He would describe each part in vivid detail, telling me not only what each part was, but also the purpose it served and how it functioned with all the other components. This lesson has not only given me a greater comprehension of shooting, but has stuck with me in all aspects of my life to this day. When faced with a problem, I think back of those nights huddled over the sterile white work bench. I picture my obstacle, just like that faithful handgun, and break it down piece by piece. I analyze each individual component and how it relates with its counterparts. If a piece is found flawed or worn, I take the steps necessary to fix or replace them.

Only once I fully comprehended every component of a firearm, and had a healthy respect for its capabilities, did my father even begin to teach me how to shoot. My father and I would stand in the garage where he had series of targets mounted on the wall. My favorite one was a medium sized target, about a foot and a half square. It consisted of a grid, with each square exactly one inch by one inch. There was one round target, about six inches in diameter in the center, and four more smaller ones about two inches in diameter in each corner. This was a true marksman’s target. The only thing that this target was designed for was sheer accuracy; it did not mimic a human or an animal. I would square off against this target, body turned slightly away from it with my left foot pointed directly at it. My right foot was about shoulders length away and turned 90 degrees. My father would offer me critique as I would find the proper position. “Bend your left knee just a little more.” “Turn slightly away from your target.” “Lean forward slightly.” Once I had found a comfortable position, I would unholster the Beretta, unloaded and safety engaged, and raise it towards the target. Gripping it with my right hand, I would bring my left hand up to meet it and pulling back towards me firmly, creating counter-tension to stabilize my aim. Finally having mastered the basics of my stance my father instilled upon me my next lesson. “Know your own self, but always be aware of your surroundings.” Situational awareness is one of the single most important aspects of shooting. Being aware of oneself and ones’ target is not nearly enough, one must be aware of what is behind and around the target, what may cross the field of fire, and more. This, as well as many other lessons, can be applied in other aspects of my life. When approaching every situation, it is important not to fixate on on objective, but be aware of all other influences on the situation.

Shooting has been a major influence on my life and has helped me grow as a person. My father was instrumental in this development, and the Army helped refine it even further. As an adult, I find myself using the fundamentals of shooting; respect, patience, comprehension, situational awareness, accuracy and practice, to master new endeavors. This has given me great advantage in my professional and personal life by giving me a system to approach problem solving, among other things. I now take what I have accumulated over the course of 20 years of shooting and teach a monthly class on firearms safety and marksmanship. I hope to not only help create safe and knowledgeable shooters out of my students, but also pass on some of the core life lessons I’ve learned as well.