Extra! 30-something Alabamian fires shotgun for first time

Guns don’t kill people; people kill people.

That’s a philosophy I’ve always embraced when it comes to gun ownership. The Second Amendment of the U.S. Constitution reads, “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

That’s right, as Americans, we have a right to keep and bear arms. I have no problem with that, as long as the guns are used responsibly.

Before two weekends ago, the last time I had fired a gun was a former roommate’s 9 mm handgun at a tree. Exciting stuff, to say the least.

My previous two instances of firing a weapon (water gun aside) are limited to a Daisy air rifle. I shot at my sister as an angst-ridden teenager. My mom promptly seized the weapon after that, though I never knew if it was because I shot at a family member or because I was a bad shot.

However, the air gun was hauled out of jail a few years later after my mom ordered a hit on a woodpecker that was chipping away at the Smith family home. The bird’s body was found in the yard a few days later. I never knew if I was the culprit or if a hungry cat had found a dining opportunity. I took credit for the kill, however, hoping to erase the legacy of not actually hitting my sister.

Earlier this month, my girlfriend, Lensey, and I visited her father on his farm in rural Tennessee. It was a relaxing, stress-free visit, far from the sirens and traffic I’ve grown accustomed to living in downtown Birmingham.

Everything was going great until Sunday morning. Lensey’s dad, an avid hunter, decided we’d have a shooting contest. Whoever popped the most balloons with an air rifle would win. I immediately felt as though my manhood was being tested. At the end of the contest, I finished third out of four. Lensey actually won the contest and hit six balloons from a distance of about 50 feet or so.

What came next would test my manliness far beyond the previous game — a shotgun shooting contest. However, we did not use skeet. We aimed at a black plastic flower pot on the ground. The object was to move the pot with the bird-shot spray from the shotgun. I thought it sounded easy enough, despite the fact I had never fired a shotgun.

In a moment of air-headed honesty and stupidity, I admitted to Lensey’s dad that I had never fired a shotgun before. A fleeting wave of great concern and disappointment came over his face. Nevertheless, we soldiered on and he gave me some basic instructions, namely where the safety was located.

However, Lensey, being the good girlfriend she is, knew I was having trouble with my ears that morning and gave me some earplugs. Having plugs in my ears meant the rest of the instructions were inaudible, though her dad kept pointing to my right shoulder and mimicked shooting the gun. Everything else was just his mouth moving and silence as I prayed the silent prayer of, “Please God, I hope I don’t look like a pansy.”

So, I nestled the butt of the gun into my shoulder, lurched forward and squeezed the trigger. The gun let out a boom as I felt the butt kick back into my shoulder. “Ouch,” I thought. “That really hurt.”

However, I did manage to move the flower pot slightly. “Awesome,” I said. “Guns rule.” I might not have said that, but I’m sure I came up with something manly at the time as I turned away and rubbed my shoulder.

I fired the gun twice more that morning. The last time, I think I accidentally punched myself in the face with my trigger hand after the gun kicked back.

In the last round of the contest, Lensey’s dad fired off four or five consecutive shots almost as if to say, “See that pot? That could be you, boy.” We then picked up the empty shell casings off the ground and he bestowed upon me that “every man should know how to fire some kind of gun.”

I agreed with him, if for no other reason than to appease a man who was still holding a shotgun. He then said next time we’d shoot skeet or something like that.

I may not have won any shooting contests that weekend, but I can guarantee my shoulder bruise is much nicer, blacker and greener than anyone else’s.

All in all, I’m glad I took part in the shotgun contest. If ever I am walking through the woods with a shotgun and a deer hops out of the woods and decides to start something with me, I feel confident I’ll know how to deal with him, all thanks to Lensey’s dad.

I won’t waste my time with cunning insults. I’ll blow it to smithereens.