Last week, I stepped up to the 20-yard line at the trap club and had a heck of a streak going. I moved through three stations before I dropped my first shot. Granted, on that fourth station, I missed all but one of the dang targets. But it was looking pretty good there for a while.
The second round, I didn’t do as well. I was pretty much back to my usual form. But with that first-round 21, I improved my overall score remarkably.
I’m starting to understand how golfers feel. You go out there to enjoy yourself playing what’s supposed to be a very entertaining game, but you just get more and more frustrated the longer you play.
I don’t play golf, but I did try my hand at it a few times in college, and I have plenty of friends who torture themselves out on the greens for some strange reason. But from what I gather, there’s a very similar level of frustration involved.
The only difference is that before I gave it up as a lost cause, I came awful close to chucking my driver as far as I could throw it a few times, but I wouldn’t even dream of throwing my shotgun. A driver’s probably not going to go off accidentally and maim or kill someone. I might get mad enough to fling my earmuffs, but I haven’t gotten to that point yet.
Granted, the season’s still young, and I’ve got another date at the trap line tonight. We’ll see if I can repeat my first-round improvement, and better yet, if I can carry that improvement all the way through the second round. See the bird, squeeze the trigger, and follow through. See, squeeze, follow through. And keep my head down. And breathe. And … well, now I’m starting to think about it too much, and I’m pretty sure that’s my whole problem.
Some of my golfing friends keep trying to get me to join them on the fairway, but I have enough frustration in my life right now. I think I’ll stick to trap shooting. I can only be bad at one sport at a time.