“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There’s no point being a damn fool about it.”
– W.C. Fields
Hard work and practice are necessary to perfect any skill. But sometimes an utter lack of aptitude rears its ugly head, and no amount of hard work and practice can overcome it.
I’m reminded of this whenever I pick up a shotgun.
I’m not talking about the occasional bad day, but rather a lifelong inability to hit clay pigeons. When I do manage–by sheer chance–to break one, onlookers and competitors alike break into surprised, spontaneous cheers.
Everyone experiences failure in life. I’m not a person that shies away from trying new things, and have accordingly racked up more than my share of failures:
Back in school, a basic engineering course that was widely viewed as a “gimme” utterly flummoxed me, despite hours of tutoring and patient explanation from kind and generous facility members. They eventually took pity on me and gave me a merciful “D.”
(thus I became a history major)
On the other hand, I generally did okay in PE–but even that solace was denied me when I took Phys Ed 342: Golf.
On the day of our final exam, I teed up to demonstrate a drive. I kept my head down as we’d been taught and connected solidly with the tee. The ball, however, went almost straight up before being caught by the wind. It landed about 10 feet behind me.
The instructor dropped his clipboard and laughed until the tears came. Eventually he composed himself, apologized, and offered me another ball. “Son, allow me to introduce a golfing term I predict you’ll find useful–take a ‘mulligan’.”
And then there’s my continuing inability to master the Two-Step. Under normal circumstances I’m perfectly capable of counting to two (and even higher), but on the dance floor I invariably fall to pieces and end up stepping on my partner’s toes.
When I lie awake nights remembering failures more serious than these (and they are legion), I try to take comfort from the occasional offsetting success. I think that’s healthy: dwelling excessively on past failures can rob us of the courage needed to live life to the fullest.
But the opposite error–hubris–is even more dangerous. Forgetting one’s own fallibility allows charity to wither, opinions to harden, and arrogance to grow unchecked.
Fortunately, all I have to do is pick up a shotgun and the balance is soon restored.
It’s not news that challenging ourselves–and risking failure–is beneficial. It’s extremely satisfying to develop new skills, however modest: I remember taking great pride in having progressed from being one of the worst intramural boxers in AF Academy history to scoring above average in a subsequent introductory boxing class!
(a smarter person would have taken the class before competing in intramurals, but I digress…)
And a willingness to acknowledge one’s weaknesses, then work to correct them, was essential to the aviation career I enjoyed in decades to follow.
But as W.C. Fields pointed out, there sometimes comes a point where giving up is the wiser option.
In wingshooting, I passed that point long ago.
In my defense, I did eventually opt for a 20 gauge vs. a 12–I figured if I was going to miss anyway, a less powerful load was a fair tradeoff for lighter recoil.
And I certainly can’t blame the gun: in more capable hands, my Mossberg 500 has proven itself to be consistently accurate.
Thing is, I like shooting a shotgun. Every time I shoulder the gun I think “maybe THIS time I’ll hit something” and on the rare occasion that I do, I happily join in the general amazement.
I’ve decided to shoot a box of shells every week or two at our County range as long as my finances and the availability of ammunition permit. Maybe someday–all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding–I’ll figure this out.
In the meantime, it’s good for my character.