At least twice a month, I visit the trap club.
Trap is a game for shotgun shooters. Clay pigeons are thrown to represent flushing pheasants or speeding ducks jumped from a pond. It began as a way for hunters to sharpen their shooting skills. It became a competitive sport. There are rules, tournaments with prize money, and it is even an Olympic
event.
My afternoons at the trap club are much different. I join the other gray beards. It’s a time for old men to gather. Some will tell themselves that they are practicing for league shoots or local tournaments. In between our turns to shoot, we sit in the shade, tell stories of hunting trips, and complain about the cost of shotgun shells, gas, and everything.
It was there that I met Roger.
He seems to be there each time I visit. He shoots one round with a battered old pump gun, puts the gun in its case, and takes it to his car. Then he returns to his place in the shade. We move so he can have it. He listens, observes, and offers advice to shooters on why they missed a shot. We listen to him and smile.
He’s earned that right. Roger is ninety-seven years old.
I hope someday to be a Roger.