Testimonials

• The Same Way, Sixty Times By Hannah M.
  
  

The Same Way, Sixty Times
By Hannah M.

“Hello! Can I answer any questions?” The deep, familiar voice resonated in the sunken gym and I knew that my coach was about to have a bit of fun. I inhaled deeply and settled back into my standing position, trying to block out the sounds behind me. Concentration was key. Being mentally prepared was half of the battle, but hearing that voice behind me broke my resistance. I relaxed my stance with a grin and turned towards the sound. There was Coach Dorn, standing at the top of the gym stairs, engaging a group of adults and children in a lively question and answer session. My smile broadened, for they were all staring at my fellow teammates and me, the adults with a look of shock and the children with unabashed curiosity. To them, we were missing links, three-eyed aliens – something they hadn’t witnessed before.

“This is one thing you didn’t expect see in a school,” Coach Dorn was saying, amused at their questioning glances. “Guns.” Breathing softly, I strained to hear the conversation that was sure to prove interesting.

“What is this?” one man asked. “Are you shooting real guns?”

“These are CO2 charged air rifles and pistols. We fire lead pellets at the targets down range at ten meters. We shoot them pretty accurately, too!”

He motioned at the line of wooden backstops with pride and for a moment I was drawn back to the task at hand. Inhale, exhale. I closed my eyes and went back over my shot process. This was one thing I could do without looking. I opened the chamber of the rifle in my hands and reached towards my pellet box. My fingertips brushed against the lead and I felt the pellet’s odd shape rotate against my thumb and fingers. Placing the pellet in the rifle, I closed the chamber and looked towards my target.

The small black circles downrange had intimidated me once. Before my training, before the endless hours of practice, it had seemed impossible to stand perfectly still with a twelve pound rifle, beyond inconceivable to shoot at a blurry circle and get a ten. It had been ridiculous to do each shot the same way…sixty times. But that was what Coach Dorn had taught us to do.

I still remember four brief years ago, when I was the curious child standing at the top of the stairs. It was strange. It was foreign. It was air rifle. And when my sister and I had joined the club I had had no idea how much it would affect my life. But it had. Going to state and eventually national matches had shown me how much shooters wanted to compete with other teams. If I had left a sling or glove behind, there would always be someone willing to lend me one of theirs. I had seen teams give their own rifles to fellow competitors, just so they could shoot the match. I glanced up at Coach Dorn once more. From my position I could see our audience still squinting, trying to decide what they thought of us. But my coach was happily soaking in the attention and I guessed what his next line would be.

“This is a very small sport, but it is an NCAA sport, just like baseball and football. It’s also one of the safest sports out there.” With Coach Dorn, I thought, it wouldn’t be anything but safe. He had been so stern the first day of orientation, the usual jovial manner swept away by an almost fierce determinedness.

“AIAC has been very privileged to be here in Christian Liberty Academy. I will not have that trust damaged in any way. I stress safety above all else. Safety, safety, safety!” I carefully shouldered the stock against the crease in my shooting jacket. Saying something once wasn’t good enough for Coach Dorn. His theory, which has since been proven true by all of the shooters under his tutelage, was that emphasizing a point three times would drill it into our heads. “What we teach here,” he was telling one lady, “is respect. Respect of self, and respect of others.” I exhaled again, causing the wavering barrel to settle down at the exact height I wanted. He had taught us respect, but so much more as well. We had learned patience. We had learned to do a job well or not at all, to “only take a shot if it’s a ten.” Because of his determination, encouragement and Marine-like discipline, the Arlington International Airgun Club had evolved from a small group of teenagers who thought shooting would be an interesting sport to a focused team who knew how to win honestly, even when giving up a point would mean coming in second place.

My rifle was still and in that split second, before my finger knew what it was doing, I pulled the trigger. The group of spectators, having fulfilled their curiosity, left the range. Coach Dorn descended the stairs and marched down to his line of shooters with a pleased expression on his face. He had introduced more people to the world of competitive shooting, and had hopefully given them a different view of seeing guns in schools. He had also gotten a chance to brag about his team, which always made him happy. As I opened my chamber, readjusted my stance and prepared to take another shot, I was struck with a thought.

Out of all the things he could be doing, Coach Dorn had volunteered every Wednesday night for the past four years to coach us. He had taught us what sacrifice meant. And he hadn’t merely taught. He had shown.