The first real gun I shot was Dad's 22. I remember sitting on a pile of blankets, my body tense as I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out and I eagerly looked towards my brothers, wondering if I hit the metal target propped up down range. They shook their heads and I prepared to try again. I squeezed the trigger, keeping my eyes open this time as the boys had instructed. This time when I looked, I read success in my brothers' smiles.
The feeling of giddy joy that came over me when I hit that metal target hasn't faded. Every time I break a clay pigeon, or watch a bird drop, I feel like a kid again.