I understand that a challenge is a good thing to a young boy on the cusp of manhood. Our scoutmaster, Mr. van was very fond of giving us challenging tasks to test our meatle, weather we wanted them or not. Such was the shootout at Blair high school.
Once upon a time, it was common place for young men to learn the fine points of the shooting sports. In the scouts back when I was in, they even had a merit badge for marksmenship. The only problem was that the only range available to us was when we went camping out at Gun Farm. Mr. Van decieded to do something about getting us able to use the range at Blair high school. This school had a 50 foot approved N.R.A. range in the basement, and it was just down the road from the quiet township of Wheaton to be convienent. The only problem was thier coach was a real horses rear end, and had some objections to letting some "kids" use his range. To settle things, Mr. Van had him agree to let us use it if we could beat his high school rifle team.
We set about practicing for the shootout with a great deal of viggor, not to mention fear. We were going to be shooting against the big kids, with our scout troops pride at stake. Mr. Van on the other hand told us that they were going to be over confident, too cock sure of themselves. He told us that it was a David and Goliath thing, and we could do it. Since the rifle range at the school had 10 fire positions, it was decided that each side would have a five man team to compete. Mr. Van took the five highest scores from the Gun Farm outings. Scout Dave Tate was the best shot in the troop, followed by Gary Stevens, Jeff Blummer, my bud Everett Snyder, then me. Standby shooters would be Danny Smithers. and Bobby Ryerson of all people. He was not a bad shot, and had surprised us by his marksmenship.
On the fateful Saturday morning dad drove me over to the church where our scout troop was headquartrered at. Mr. Van was going to load us into his big Chevy carryall with our rifles. We waited at the church for the missing shooter to show up. Dave Tate was late. About the 40th time Mr. Van was looking at his watch, there were footsteps out in the hallway, and Bobby Ryerson came in.
Mr. Van looked a bit shocked at the appearance of poor Bobby instead of Dave.
"Where the devil is young Mr. Tate?" asked Mr. Van
Bobby then told us how the day before Dave had fell off his bike and broke his wrist.
Then with as much tact as he could, Mr. Van asked where Danny Smithers was.
"Well, uh, since he did'nt know that Dave had a bike accident, he left for the beach with his family just a half hour ago" replied a stuttering Bobby Ryerson.
They say doom has a cold breath, and that morning I do believe we felt a cool draft on the back of our necks. We had to leave for a shooting match against a great foe, and our best shot fell off his bike, our next best back up shot was on the way to the beach, and there stood Bobby Ryerson. Our hero.
To the credit of Mr. Van, he never utered a bad word, but ushered us into the carryall and drove to the school. It was quiet in the truck, and I wondered if this was the way a condemed man felt on the way to his fate.
We arrived at the schol range and set up for the match with some jeering from the high school kids. Butterflies the size of Andian condors flapped around in my belly, and Ev cought my eye and I could see he felt the same way. But Mr. Van had thought of everything. He had invited an official from the N.R.A. office in Washington to judge the event. The judge was a middle age man with an air of authority about him like a school principal. He turned to the high school crowd.
"Gentlemen, " he said in a loud voice, "there will be no heckling or any other ungentlemanly conduct on this range. Do I make myself clear?"
We took our positions on the firing line, and all was ready.
"Ready on the right? Ready on the left? The line is ready, comence firing"
It started.
We would have one hour for the course of fire, one row of bullseyes across, one row down the right side , across the bottom, then up the left side. It was a long match for 12 and 13 year olds, and by the time I got to the bottom left of the target sheet, I could feel beads of sweat running down my back under my shirt. Going up the row of targets on the left side of the sheet was in the standing mode, and I remember the burn of fatigue between the shoulder blades.
The high school guys had fired fast and were done by the time we were only halfway through the course of fire. Now we could hear them quietly joking around in back of th line, with an occasional snigger that I'm sure was at us. I finished up about the same time as Ev, and we put our rifles in the rack as we left the firing line. Gary Stevens wrapped it up, with Jeff right after him.
Now it was only Bobby Ryerson left on the line. He had several targets to go and the clock was running. That cool breath on the back of the neck had turned downright arctic. The fact that the preasure was getting to Bobby was not helping. He looked back at us once, and it was clear he was wishing he were someplace a long way away. He looked shaky.
A sudden derisive comment sounded from the bench of the other team. Bobby looked like he was ready to break.
"Gentlemen, to use the word very loosely. One more outburst like that and you will forfit the match. IS THAT CLEAR?" yelled the N.R.A. man at the high school team.
Suddenly Mr. Van walked over to Bobby's position and knelt down. Bobby started at the touch of Mr. Vans hand on his shoulder, and then Mr. Van was whispering in Bobbys ear. We never knew what was said, Mr. Van said that was between him, Bobby, and the almighty, and if we wanted to know we could ask the almighty if we ever met him. But what ever it was, it made a difference. Bobby looked up at Mr. Van, and Mr. Van smiled and squeezed his shoulder and knodded, then walked back behind the line. Bobby shouldered his rife and kept shooting with increased deliberation.
The clock on the official desk kept ticking, and it was a close thing. Just a handfull of seconds before the buzzer went, Bobby fired his last shot. Now was the agonizing part. They reeled in his target sheet and brought it to the officials table. He had an official N.R.A. scoring tool, like a little .22 caliber tapered rod on a magnifier to put in each hole to examine if it broke the paper of the next scoring ring up. The N.R.A. man scored each hole with care, writing down the number in a collum. Mr. Van and the high school coach looked over his shoulder the whole time.
Finally the official loked up and asked the two men " Are we in agreement?" he asked.
Mr.Van was as impassive as ever, the high school coach looked stunned. The impossable had happened.
"Gentlemen" the N.R.A. man stood up, " This days match goes to troop 469 by two points!. Good shooting scouts!"
The high school guys were sore loosers, and tried hard to grind our knuckles when they had to shake hands, but this was our day, and no matter how it hurt, we'd not let out a single sound. Afterward in Mr. Vans carryall, we pushed Bobby for what Mr. Van said to him. He would just shake his head, and not say anything.
Mr. Van drove us to the drug store, and in those days the drug stores had real soda fountains. We all bellied up to the polished black counter, and Mr. Van put his money out and told the soda jerk to make up ice cream soda's all round. double scoop! I feel a bit sorry for the young kids who never had the pleasure of a real soda fountain ice cream soda. I guess its an era thing. But maybe those ice cream soda's tasted so good because we felt we really earned them. We'd done something that we never thought we could, and never would have attempted if it were not for Mr. Van. He had raised the bar on us, like he was apt to do, and we had to jump higher. In the time he was our scoutmaster, he would raise the bar many times in many ways. He'd tell us that only our imagination would limit us, and if we would'nt dare, how would we ever know if we could. That Saturday morning we learned yet another lesson from that man, who was a teacher of priciples of life in addition to being our scoutmaster.
We also learned that a man's confidence was something one never broke. Niether he, nor Bobby Ryerson would ever tell what was said that day on the range, that let Bobby Ryerson find some inner strength to finish the match. We went all the way to high school graduation with Bobby, yet he would never reveal what was said that day.
Many years later, when I was a young man home on leave from the army, I visited Mr. Van. He was elderly then, sitting in a rocker on his back porch with a blanket over his lap. In the course of conversation and general reminising I asked him about that day, and what he said.
"Well, I'll tell you what son," he replied, " I'm going to shuffle off this mortal plane soon but I'm going to save you a seat up there. Ask me when we meet again and I'll tell you what I said."
I guess I'll have to wait till then.
Once upon a time, it was common place for young men to learn the fine points of the shooting sports. In the scouts back when I was in, they even had a merit badge for marksmenship. The only problem was that the only range available to us was when we went camping out at Gun Farm. Mr. Van decieded to do something about getting us able to use the range at Blair high school. This school had a 50 foot approved N.R.A. range in the basement, and it was just down the road from the quiet township of Wheaton to be convienent. The only problem was thier coach was a real horses rear end, and had some objections to letting some "kids" use his range. To settle things, Mr. Van had him agree to let us use it if we could beat his high school rifle team.
We set about practicing for the shootout with a great deal of viggor, not to mention fear. We were going to be shooting against the big kids, with our scout troops pride at stake. Mr. Van on the other hand told us that they were going to be over confident, too cock sure of themselves. He told us that it was a David and Goliath thing, and we could do it. Since the rifle range at the school had 10 fire positions, it was decided that each side would have a five man team to compete. Mr. Van took the five highest scores from the Gun Farm outings. Scout Dave Tate was the best shot in the troop, followed by Gary Stevens, Jeff Blummer, my bud Everett Snyder, then me. Standby shooters would be Danny Smithers. and Bobby Ryerson of all people. He was not a bad shot, and had surprised us by his marksmenship.
On the fateful Saturday morning dad drove me over to the church where our scout troop was headquartrered at. Mr. Van was going to load us into his big Chevy carryall with our rifles. We waited at the church for the missing shooter to show up. Dave Tate was late. About the 40th time Mr. Van was looking at his watch, there were footsteps out in the hallway, and Bobby Ryerson came in.
Mr. Van looked a bit shocked at the appearance of poor Bobby instead of Dave.
"Where the devil is young Mr. Tate?" asked Mr. Van
Bobby then told us how the day before Dave had fell off his bike and broke his wrist.
Then with as much tact as he could, Mr. Van asked where Danny Smithers was.
"Well, uh, since he did'nt know that Dave had a bike accident, he left for the beach with his family just a half hour ago" replied a stuttering Bobby Ryerson.
They say doom has a cold breath, and that morning I do believe we felt a cool draft on the back of our necks. We had to leave for a shooting match against a great foe, and our best shot fell off his bike, our next best back up shot was on the way to the beach, and there stood Bobby Ryerson. Our hero.
To the credit of Mr. Van, he never utered a bad word, but ushered us into the carryall and drove to the school. It was quiet in the truck, and I wondered if this was the way a condemed man felt on the way to his fate.
We arrived at the schol range and set up for the match with some jeering from the high school kids. Butterflies the size of Andian condors flapped around in my belly, and Ev cought my eye and I could see he felt the same way. But Mr. Van had thought of everything. He had invited an official from the N.R.A. office in Washington to judge the event. The judge was a middle age man with an air of authority about him like a school principal. He turned to the high school crowd.
"Gentlemen, " he said in a loud voice, "there will be no heckling or any other ungentlemanly conduct on this range. Do I make myself clear?"
We took our positions on the firing line, and all was ready.
"Ready on the right? Ready on the left? The line is ready, comence firing"
It started.
We would have one hour for the course of fire, one row of bullseyes across, one row down the right side , across the bottom, then up the left side. It was a long match for 12 and 13 year olds, and by the time I got to the bottom left of the target sheet, I could feel beads of sweat running down my back under my shirt. Going up the row of targets on the left side of the sheet was in the standing mode, and I remember the burn of fatigue between the shoulder blades.
The high school guys had fired fast and were done by the time we were only halfway through the course of fire. Now we could hear them quietly joking around in back of th line, with an occasional snigger that I'm sure was at us. I finished up about the same time as Ev, and we put our rifles in the rack as we left the firing line. Gary Stevens wrapped it up, with Jeff right after him.
Now it was only Bobby Ryerson left on the line. He had several targets to go and the clock was running. That cool breath on the back of the neck had turned downright arctic. The fact that the preasure was getting to Bobby was not helping. He looked back at us once, and it was clear he was wishing he were someplace a long way away. He looked shaky.
A sudden derisive comment sounded from the bench of the other team. Bobby looked like he was ready to break.
"Gentlemen, to use the word very loosely. One more outburst like that and you will forfit the match. IS THAT CLEAR?" yelled the N.R.A. man at the high school team.
Suddenly Mr. Van walked over to Bobby's position and knelt down. Bobby started at the touch of Mr. Vans hand on his shoulder, and then Mr. Van was whispering in Bobbys ear. We never knew what was said, Mr. Van said that was between him, Bobby, and the almighty, and if we wanted to know we could ask the almighty if we ever met him. But what ever it was, it made a difference. Bobby looked up at Mr. Van, and Mr. Van smiled and squeezed his shoulder and knodded, then walked back behind the line. Bobby shouldered his rife and kept shooting with increased deliberation.
The clock on the official desk kept ticking, and it was a close thing. Just a handfull of seconds before the buzzer went, Bobby fired his last shot. Now was the agonizing part. They reeled in his target sheet and brought it to the officials table. He had an official N.R.A. scoring tool, like a little .22 caliber tapered rod on a magnifier to put in each hole to examine if it broke the paper of the next scoring ring up. The N.R.A. man scored each hole with care, writing down the number in a collum. Mr. Van and the high school coach looked over his shoulder the whole time.
Finally the official loked up and asked the two men " Are we in agreement?" he asked.
Mr.Van was as impassive as ever, the high school coach looked stunned. The impossable had happened.
"Gentlemen" the N.R.A. man stood up, " This days match goes to troop 469 by two points!. Good shooting scouts!"
The high school guys were sore loosers, and tried hard to grind our knuckles when they had to shake hands, but this was our day, and no matter how it hurt, we'd not let out a single sound. Afterward in Mr. Vans carryall, we pushed Bobby for what Mr. Van said to him. He would just shake his head, and not say anything.
Mr. Van drove us to the drug store, and in those days the drug stores had real soda fountains. We all bellied up to the polished black counter, and Mr. Van put his money out and told the soda jerk to make up ice cream soda's all round. double scoop! I feel a bit sorry for the young kids who never had the pleasure of a real soda fountain ice cream soda. I guess its an era thing. But maybe those ice cream soda's tasted so good because we felt we really earned them. We'd done something that we never thought we could, and never would have attempted if it were not for Mr. Van. He had raised the bar on us, like he was apt to do, and we had to jump higher. In the time he was our scoutmaster, he would raise the bar many times in many ways. He'd tell us that only our imagination would limit us, and if we would'nt dare, how would we ever know if we could. That Saturday morning we learned yet another lesson from that man, who was a teacher of priciples of life in addition to being our scoutmaster.
We also learned that a man's confidence was something one never broke. Niether he, nor Bobby Ryerson would ever tell what was said that day on the range, that let Bobby Ryerson find some inner strength to finish the match. We went all the way to high school graduation with Bobby, yet he would never reveal what was said that day.
Many years later, when I was a young man home on leave from the army, I visited Mr. Van. He was elderly then, sitting in a rocker on his back porch with a blanket over his lap. In the course of conversation and general reminising I asked him about that day, and what he said.
"Well, I'll tell you what son," he replied, " I'm going to shuffle off this mortal plane soon but I'm going to save you a seat up there. Ask me when we meet again and I'll tell you what I said."
I guess I'll have to wait till then.
