And so it went that after a couple of years of that annoyance, I finally leveled with myself and began to answer:
“Why, yes… yes, I am trying out for Delta. (So I can get the hell away from you!)”
Back to Pat Mac’s Plethora of Pain: Most of the fellows, depending on what they had going on the day of the shoot, just stopped by long enough to queue up and make their run through the course. Others, most often myself, hung around to watch the brothers make their runs and pal around with Pat Mac. I typically watched enough evolutions to realize how much I sucked, then sad-sacked my way back to the compound to be productive.
The course, naturally, is scored on Comstock standard, where time and accuracy are pitted against each other. It’s a beautiful thing. Which is more important: time or accuracy? I’m actually asking YOU. Which is more important? Let’s consider this scenario:
Billy the Kid and Josie Wales meet facing each other 50 feet apart in front of the Blue Moon Saloon; they fittin’ to drawdown.
Fittin’ To Drawdown
Kid: “So, yer the big outlaw Josie Wales, eh? Funny, the only thing I see there that’s big is a big ol’ pile a myool $hit.”
Wales: “Kid, I think it’s way past your nap time, and you need to be burped. Does your mammy even know you escaped from your crib?”
Kid: “Yer the one that one whose gonna burp when my .44 slug slams into that fat belly a yours — look at that belly; it’s as big as a… a wale!”
Wales: “The only thing that’s gonna get slammed is yer mammy, boy…”
Kid: “That’s it, grandpa — draw!!”
It’s simple enough: whoever gets their gat out the fastest wins… provided they have an accurate body shot. Therein lies the balance of how fast one can get a kill shot on target. Practice calls for increasing speed until accuracy is out of tolerance; that is, out of the kill zone. Speed and accuracy leap-frog each other as they both increase. At some point, you will achieve the golden balance of speed-to-accuracy ratio.
*BA-BANG!!*
“I told ya… it’s way past yer nap time, kid.”
Mac’s scenario started in a car. Shooters were seated in the driver’s seat, junked up in full assault regalia. The door was shut, the seatbelt buckled, and both hands were on the steering wheel. The window was rolled down so the shooter could hear the buzz of the Pro Timer sound off. Once the buzzer sounded, the shooter was to extract himself as fast as he could from the car and sprint down to the first shooting station.
*BEEEEEEEP*
I unhooked the seatbelt with my right hand and threw the door open hard with my left. As I twisted my body toward the door, something hooked onto something and pinned me fast. With a sweep of my right hand, I cleared the snag because… well, because I was the MAN!
The door had swung out, hyperextended, at which point it immediately swung back and slammed shut; I crumpled myself into the unexpectedly closed door. As it was stuck (somehow) I pulled the latch out hard and slammed my shoulder into it hard several times — nothing! What I had not detected was that when the door slammed shut, the vehicle locking knob at the window sill had dropped into the locked position.
I launched into the astronomically awkward transition over the console to the passenger door. I threw it open, tripped on the door jamb, and plummeted head-first through the door into the sand. My apparent time had just begun, though my actual time was already many (MANY) seconds into the shoot.
In retrospect, I shouldn’t have totally assed up that car transition piece, a point I have never argued with myself over. Believe it or not, I didn’t have the slowest time of the day, my debut notwithstanding. Though I was not the top gun king for the day, I did receive a consolation prize for the most comic start.
That prize was presented to me by Mac himself: a framed picture of Laurel and Hardy.
By Almighty God and with honor,
geo sends
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Editor’s Note: Let’s all do Geo a solid. Go out and buy his NEW book and visit his website. I promise it’s all good stuff. — GDM
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