Scoring tens...

Urban Jungle: I grew up in the suburbs in the north of Baltimore. My playgrounds were green; we had a yard for a good game of whiffle ball; there were a few cement-lined streams nearby to mess with. But we also exploited the huge stretches of paved surface for skateboarding, and the quick bus ride to the harbor to hang out among the tall buildings, tourists, and businessmen. Later, when we were older, we found the harder parts of Baltimore, heading west, south and east, exploring the more "real" sides of a great but struggling Charm City...

The Tranquillity of the Wild: We were fortunate enough—my family and me—to spend considerable time growing up, vacationing four hours west of Baltimore in a rustic spot in Garrett Co. Maryland, on a lake, with woods and waterfalls all around. Winters were fierce; fall was glorious; sumer, lazy; and we were allowed to explore to our hearts content—so many expeditions led by our father, pocket knives in hand, sticks for walking found, paths to explore, dams to build. We were less wild in the wild...

The 80s: Boomboxes and Targets

Outposts of Experience: When I was nine my parents agreed to send me to Maine to a summer camp run by my 5th grade teacher. I engaged in more serious play than I did in Baltimore or in Garrett Co.—Hiking, climbing, water battle games, and above all, riflery! I seemed to have a knack for it. I won a little trophy my first year with accolades from all around; I was young to win the plaque. I felt so important bringing home that trophy. How could I not win something given how many periods I spent at the range? Part of my award was a chance to shoot skeet with the other winners (middle and senior champions) and some staff. Twelve gage, full recoil, and the smallest, lightest ten year old you have ever seen made for a disastrous "prize". My first shot blew me, literally, to the ground. The second sent me stumbling; the third reduced me to tears and left purple on my shoulder for days. (I developed a solidly profound fear of shotguns along with an immense respect for the super-macho people who could actually use them without tears.)

Prone at 14

What will they think?: I worried my parents would not approve of my chosen activities, but their attitude was so much more accepting. Camp, they told me, was for new experiences, rock climbing, sailing, kayaking, archery! By my second summer—I was ten—I had achieved my Sharpshooter qualification and was working towards Expert. And then my 5th grade teacher thought to close his small camp in Maine...

I Had to Find a New Summer Home: I went to live with my aunt in London the summer Thriller landed in music stores, and can't for the life of me remember what I did the summer of '84. But in 1985 I found the best summer camp a kid could hope to attend on the North Carolina-South Carolina border snuggled in the shade of the Smokey Mountains. I learned how to do so many new things, including broadcasting on the camp radio station, turning a wrench on mountain bikes, performing a barrel roll in a kayak, and how to sail a Flying J solo. But my heart belonged to the rifle range and I won the dubious award "Give Me Bullets Award" my first year there. I was completely shut out of the top three spots in the prone, kneeling, and standing competitions. I was a little disappointed that, at thirteen, I was not as good as I had thought in my ten-year-old self's ego. My new camp did not use the NRA qualification system, so my delusions of achieving Expert or Distinguished Expert were left on the range with the bits of ripped target paper soiled with trace lead...

Treasures from Childhood

I peaked at 14: I lived at the range in my free periods the following summer. I had an instructor who had been British Special Forces and had the heart of a Care Bear. His patience and faith in me led me to find my way to learn better breathing and patience. I felt like a zen master in my moments of clarity, calm and in control, motor-mouth not moving, hyper-active brain not spinning, peace! I went on to take 3rd in Prone and Standing, 1st in Kneeling, Best overall Senior, and placed in a tri-camp competition at the end of the summer. God, did I love target shooting...

And then my camper days were over. I later worked as a CIT, kitchen-crew, and then back home in the restaurant industry, but I never lay prone with a rifle in my hand until 28 years later...

Science

Today: I cannot completely explain the joy I have for shooting a firearm at a target. I have strong feelings about violence and the use of force. I feel some element of guilt about loving the sport I engage in as a function of war-making in history and today. I respect hunters for their willingness to work for their meat, and feel loathing for the trophy hunting that results in wasted flesh and endangered species death. But I have always liked the science behind the shot and the intuitive nature of taking the shot. I took up target shooting again last year. Many years ago I moved away from the streets of Charm City, passing through the best city in America, Boston. I moved west to the shade of the Greens and Taconics, the northern brothers of the Smokies and Alleghenies. I chose to live where black bear occasionally hunts in my back lot, where deer run regularly, where bald eagles make their comeback. I live in a place where there is room for target shooting again.

I have lost my keen eyesight; my patience has been tested by so many responsibilities; my intuition has been replaced with a lot of busy thought. But on the good weather days, when a light breeze wafts through the lilac blossoms, and the sun lights the target for these middle-aged man's tired eyes, I can work on my zen and seek to squeeze the trigger so lightly that the .22 report comes as a surprise before scoring a 10...