A Chance to be the Worst

I only recently discovered sporting clays. A humbling, somewhat demeaning shooting game unlike either skeet or trap, sporting clays can quickly reduce the most confident shooter to a sniveling, timorous fragment of what he thought he was. To my knowledge, it is the only recreational pursuit besides co-ed aerobics that charges a man to humiliate himself.

Despite this negative consideration, sporting clays is addictive, and so far I love it. First, there is challenge. On a given day, when the stars are aligned just so and the moon is on the wane, I know it is possible for me to do wonderful, impossible things. Perhaps I will dig into my underwear drawer at a groggy, dark, 4:30 a.m. and actually put on my shorts so the fly is in the front. Perhaps I will be able to fix the electric fry pan without it exploding and starting a grease fire in the kitchen. Maybe, I will shoot a perfect 25 at trap-a miracle, to be sure, but possible nevertheless. Never ever, however, will I run a hundred at sporting clays. Probably, I won’t even run half that. Physically, mathematically, and psychologically, it is an impossibility that I, the man that once fired 53 shots to down four chukars, will ever achieve the perfection shown by only a handful men in the history of sporting clays. But there’s no law that says I can’t try.

I like sporting clays because of the comfortable informality and congeniality the participants. With the certainty you are about to be humbled, it is unlikely that anyone can be pompous, patronizing,, or blustery on a clays course-even if that is their normal obnoxious nature. On a typical clays course, a group of three shooters might have one good wing shot, one good trap shot, and one good skeet shot-all with an equal opportunity to be terrible. The game shooter will misjudge the speed of the targets, the trap shooter will miss the crossers, and the skeet specialist won’t adjust to the long, going-away shots against an unfamiliar backyard. But the best part is, everyone will be so preoccupied with their own inadequacies, they won’t much give a hoot what the next guy is doing.

The informality of a clays course carries over to all aspects of the sport, including the guns used. Should someone show up with a $4,000 custom job, he will have little or no advantage over the man toting his grandfather’s old side-by-side Baker. At the gun range near the river where I sometimes shoot an off-season round of trap, my old Ithaca double with the taped-camo barrels gets an occasionally snooty look from the chap at the next station with the engraved Bernardelli. Some of that, of course, may be directed at me personally because of a faux pas that occurred a couple years back when a bluebill flew out of the fog while I was in the middle of a round and before I could think, I had dumped it amid broken clays. In any event, a good hunting gun makes a good sporting clay gun, too, and nobody will try you differently.

For me, sporting clays is more than pure recreation, though I have long been proponent of recreating just for the sake of goofing off. Sporting clays provide me off-season exercise and keeps my shooting eye focused. True, the "birds" are no better to eat than those sailing from the number four house on skeet range, but it is easier to pretend they are, and usually, somewhat on the course, I get a realistic rush of adrenaline. On a course near El Campo, Texas, several years back, in fact, I embarrassed my host by forgetting where I was and what I was doing, and I chased off across the field after a clay I had barely ticked. He said I was yelling " Dead bird! Dead bird!" as I ran, but I do not remember that part. I do, however, remember thinking it was a pity there wasn’t a spaniel around to help me find it.

My lone complaint about sporting clays is that no course has come even close to simulating my three most commonly-blown shots. I need a station called "Late Season Pheasants" which would require the shooter to sprint 200 yards, stop sharply and swing quickly as the bird rises behind him. For added effect the thrower could cackle as the clay launched, and for even more realism, the shooter could be required to soak his hands in ice water just prior to the sprint.

Another station called "Barbed Wire and Bobwhites" would require the shooter to slide his unload gun under a four-stand fence, slithering after it on his back. When he almost cleared the fence, slithering after it on his back. When he almost cleared the fence and just barely touched the stock again, the bird will be launched toward him and over his head. The shooter must ride, load, and fire without impaling himself. Penalty points will be assessed for cursing, ripping L-shaped tears, or bleeding.

The third station on my improved sporting clays course would be called "Wild Tom Staredown" and will simulate turkey hunting from a ground blind. Shooters will be required to sit on an ant’s nest and stare without blinking or breathing for 20minutes as a clay bird on a stick moves slowly toward him on some kind of track. When the "bird" is finally in range, it will bob a couple times. And then drop from sight. The shooter will have approximately two seconds to react. For more realism, the shooter’s glasses can be smeared with Vaseline to simulate the blur created by heavy breathing beneath a camouflage face mask.

With these added stations, sporting clays would meet my most immediate situational shooting needs. Then, hopefully, someone will come up with a station that can correct my tendencies for flinch, lifting my head, and stopping my swing. I’d also like to learn to remain upright on the chukar slopes, but holding my breath. I don’t even think a waning moon could help me with that one.

Alan Liere has written two award-winning collections of outdoor humor,…and pandemonium rained and Dancin’ With Shirley. Either is available, autographed for $17.95 from Pease Mountain Publication, P.O. Box 216, Deer Park, WA 99006. Two copies mix or match for $29.90.