(Posted in http://forum.m1911.org/ by “edski”)
I often practice at an indoor range in Scottsdale AZ. It’s a very nice place and draws a wide range of clients including many LEOs as well as airline pilots practicing for their qualifications. And while I enjoy observing and talking with these shooters, I must confess there is another moment I enjoy even more.
Here’s the scene. As I enter the range and walk to my assigned firing point, I notice that on my left is a 22 year old man (?) standing at the line and pumping magazine after magazine of 9mm ammunition through his Glock into the man-target at 7 yards. There are a lot of holes in the target’s torso, concentrated toward the center but ranging out to the edge of the paper as well.
Six feet back and directly behind the shooter is the girlfriend he is trying to impress with this flood of death and destruction. She is dutifully watching, she smiles when he looks back at her, but the smile drops as he reloads and resumes shooting. Instead of lead flying downrange, she sees coins, lots of coins, flying away to be absorbed by the shooting range.
So, I methodically set up my box, open it, take out my 45 and its ammunition, tape up a target and send it all the way out to the far end of the range 75 feet away. I unfold the telescope support arms, align it on the target, and then spend a couple of minutes getting my NPA dead set on the target. I dry fire a couple of rounds and then decide I’m ready.
I load my two magazines with five rounds each and then stop and read through the shot plan taped to the inside of my shooting box one last time. Finally, I re-assume my position, check the NPA one last time, raise my arm, hold my breath and then stand there as my trigger finger slowly rolls off a shot. (Well, at least I wish it worked that nicely.) Looking in the scope, I confirm where the round landed versus where I thought it went.
Nine rounds and about that many minutes later, I put the gun down and recall the target with 10 nicely placed holes.
Over my shoulder I notice she is looking.
I wait and, yes, as often as not, she leans forward to her boyfriend, taps him on the shoulder, says something in his ear and points over at my target.
The shooting point to my left is almost always empty shortly after my first target.
Please pardon my wallowing in the exquisite pleasure I get from tormenting that poor young man but it is oh so true that “old age and bullseye-precision will always beat youth and testosterone.”