Style, you
either have it or you
don't. And if you have it, you have it
all the time.The Rogue's Gambit
by Tux Toledo
Page 10
Ted beamed as we waited for the tournament to begin. The
officials had complimented him on the quality of the clay pigeons and
to him that was almost as good as winning the event. However,
Rigger was not beaming. He appeared to be in the grip of
something akin to opening night jitters. Nance was
unsympathetic. Her gaze was cold but her emotions were
steaming. I, of course, was able to retain my
composure. As I've told you before, when one owns a Rolls
one's behavior must measure up. I have told you that before,
haven't I?
The first shooting station was set up to duplicate rabbit and
pheasant. The targets were launched in pairs, those
simulating pheasant crossing high and fast, those simulating rabbit
bounding along the ground so realistically that you could almost see
furry tails. Rigger carefully watched each contestant's shot,
following the flight of each clay pigeon as it sailed through the trees
or along the grass. He watched where the pieces landed when
they were hit and even where the unhit targets landed.
"You're awfully intent on the targets," I said to him.
"What? Oh, I'm studying the trajectories."
I figured Rigger would use this trajectory information to improve his
shooting. I figured wrong.
Ted shot first for our team and hit just two of the targets.
"They're just like real pheasants," he grumbled.
Rigger shot next. The uncertain manner in which he held his
gun did not inspire confidence. And, as you probably guessed,
he wasn't properly dressed. He looked more like a clam digger
than a shooter. Rather an embarrassment, actually.
"Pull," he crackled.
Two clay pigeons sailed toward the trees. He watched the
first one intently but forgot to shoot at it. The second was
nearly out of range by the time he finally pulled the
trigger. That was followed quickly by a clay pigeon that
bounded along the ground. He also forgot to shoot at that
one. When the smoke had cleared he had missed all ten
shots. So much for studying trajectories.
"Bad luck," Ted said to him, bestowing a conciliatory pat on the back.
"Bad shooting," Nancy muttered to me.
Nancy salvaged the round for us by hitting half of her shots.
I'll admit that my six-for-ten didn't hurt either. We left
the first station a bit rattled but still resolved to giving it the old
college try. Rigger looked back as if he were trying to
figure out what had gone wrong.
© 2008 David Biagini