Really, because it's really f%$#@^g fun.
Though I grew up with three brothers and a revolving door of brothers friends living with us, I always ended up being the one to do guy things with my dad. I was the one who tossed the ball around with him in the backyard. I was the one who went fishing with him. And I was the one who he invited to go shooting with him. I had a little experience with shooting as when I was a child of five I fired my first rifle. I just remember a huge bang, pain in my shoulder, and my father, who was behind me, comforting me afterwards. It would be thirteen years before I'd pick up a gun again.
I grew up around guns. Though we lived in the suburbs my dad loved collecting them. Pistols, rifles, even an AK before they became illegal. They were always under lock and key but on occasion he'd pull one out to clean it. They scared me. They could kill people. But as I got older and started to read mystery novels I became more and more fascinated with them. Could I hit the target? What did it feel like to hold a death machine in my hand? When my dad bought my brother a BB gun he quickly got bored with it, but I'd spend hours in the backyard hitting cans on the fence. At eighteen I felt I was ready to graduate to the real thing.
I was nervous when I walked into the shooting range. I was afraid I'd shatter my ear drum. I was afraid it'd hurt my arms. Mostly I was afraid I'd make an ass of myself. And I did. Because no matter how many guns my dad had, he had never shot a one of them since that time I was a kid. But I didn't know that at the time. (More on that later.) I shot a Glock 9mm at first. It was heavy in my hands, heavier than I thought it would be. And when it came time to pull the trigger I was in for a shock. The force was hard, like someone shoving me back. Even with the mufflers the sound made me wince. But...I could feel the power in my hands. And I hit the target seven out of ten times! I left that range feeling like hot shit. Dad and I went twice more, and I went once with my brother, but it was an expensive hobby and I got really busy. I didn't pick up a gun for seven years. Then I moved to California.
My family was worried about me living alone across the country, though I had two roommates, so they insisted I get a gun. A month before I moved Dad and I walked into a gun store, and about two hours later I walked out with a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver (Virginia has very lax gun regulations, not sure that's a good thing.) I put it away and mostly forgot about it until things got nuts in CA. It was a tough time, and working out and screaming into my pillow three times a day just wasn't cutting it anymore. Though I was nervous to walk into a shooting range alone I did it anyway. There I was, firing away, when an elderly man saddled up beside me. At first I thought he was a freak, but then he told me I was doing everything wrong. My stance, my breathing, how I pulled the trigger was totally wrong. (Thanks, Dad.) Here is the wisdom he imparted:
1. Feet shoulder length apart and flat.
2. Use tea cup grip-one hand on base of handle and other around it
3. Lock your elbows
4. Don't put your finger on the trigger until the last moment
5. Keep both your eyes open
6. As you're about to fire take a deep breath, letting it out as you squeeze, not pull the trigger
7. Rinse and repeat
By doing this, I hit the target 10 out of 10 times. So thank you anonymous gun enthusiast. I now know how to kill someone more effectively.
Guns should be considered a tool. Like a chainsaw you need to read the instructions and practice before you use it. It's a good skill to have. And it does make you feel like a badass. I just pray none of us ever really need to know how to use this particular tool.
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