Nothing Like Duck Hunt

The Client sponsored a team-building afternoon event of clay pigeon shooting today. We assembled at noon at a shooting range near the mall, a few minutes from the house; I'd driven by the area countless times and never realized there was a shooting range nearby.

I arrived at the range, driving solo, because I'd opted to work remotely from home in the morning since the house was so close. Pulling into the parking lot was like entering a new country; there was an evident change in culture -- a people and a way of life that I knew existed somewhere in the state of Texas but had never actually witnessed firsthand.

There were Hummers and pick-ups adorned with Confederate emblems, scruffy overweight men in trucker hats and sleeveless denim vests. And camo.

There were guys in camo. At a place where you shoot clay discs.

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The team was split into four groups of four and one group of five.

I was teamed up with the infrastructures lead, the solutions architect, one of the business analysts, and the new SSIS developer. We named our team "The Fraggers" -- because we probably won't hit anything with our guns, but we're sure to get something with errant frag grenades.

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The sporting clays course consisted of ten stations of alternationg four- and six-count targets, totalling fifty targets.

The first station was a four-count with two clay pigeons being launched from both sides at a distance going toward the shooting stall. Having never held a shotgun before, I stepped into the stall cluelessly and dropped two 12-gauge shells into the chamber.

I mounted the shotgun, hesitated, and then yelled, "Pull!"

The first pigeon launched, and I pointed the barrel in the general direction. Lined up the near and far beads on top of the barrel onto the pigeon, followed it for a second, held my breath, and pulled the trigger.

The shotgun kicked and left a dull pain on my shoulder. The clay pigeon survived my fire.

I mounted the shotgun again, pressing the stock snug against my shoulder this time. I used to go to the batting cages when I worked farther north and needed to burn time to avoid rush-hour traffic. I learned to snug the butt of the bat against the hand to keep the vibration from bruising and blistering my hands and arms. I figured the same would probably be true for a gun.

"Pull!" I yelled again.

The pigeon launched from the opposite side of the field this time, and I lined the beads up on the disc. Exhaled. And squeezed.

This time, the pigeon shattered, and my shoulder absorbed the recoil. I beamed a little, and ejected the shells. The odor of gun powder was inexplicably refreshing.

I proceeded to hit my next two targets at that station, and with a bit of swagger, I balked, "Just like Rainbow Six, baby!"

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The first station was the only station in which the pigeons launched toward the shooting stall. Every other station launched the pigeons toward the field.

Out of the remaining forty-six targets in the course, I managed to hit only one. And I kind of cheated a little, because both pigeons were pulled simultaneously, and I squeezed both rounds at only one pigeon instead of trying to chase the second.

The solutions architect and SSIS developer both had around eighteen hits apiece. The business analyst had four hits. And the infrastructures lead, at the end of the day, was awarded a certificate for personal worst performance of zero hits.

My team, despite having a one-man advantage, had the least total number of hits. By double digits.