Day at the range, ‘the rush’ turn pacifist soft on gun control issues

Adrenaline made me a hypocrite. I have always proclaimed myself a pacifist. My friends accuse me of having liberal views, almost to the point of socialist, and in nearly 30 years never had I held a gun in my hand, in fact I’ve chastised those who had — until last week.

Last Friday, a friend called to ask if I would go with him to his outdoors club so he could shoot some of his guns. Obviously he was desperate for company because I had to be the very last person he’d call for such an excursion. My initial instinct told me to decline, but boredom and curiosity beat out principle.

Still strong in my convictions, I repeated in my head all the facts and statistics about the dangers of firearms I could remember.

Almost 40,000 Americans die every year from gunshot wounds. More people are shot and killed in a week in the United States than in a year in Europe.

Yet, there I was, despite my beliefs, on my way to the shooting range. It looked like I’d pictured as we arrived, like a golf driving range with a tin roof sheltering the area from which people shoot. Further inspection revealed several bullet holes in the roof.

“How did those get there?” I asked.

“Dumbasses,” my friend responded.

Hah! Point proven. Even here in the most responsible and professional of settings dumbasses still shoot their guns without knowing which direction it’s pointed. This was my vindication for all of the preaching I had ever done.

After donning the required safety glasses and earplugs, I watched my friend fire off several rounds through a paper target on a stick 25 yards away. The entertainment value in this activity eluded me, but he was having a great time.

Eventually he turned to me and said, “It’s your turn.”

At this point, whatever boredom I was enduring when my friend originally asked me to accompany him paled in comparison to now, so I figured I’d give it a go. He gave me a quick lesson on the safety switch and how to aim using the metal guides on the muzzle of the gun and told me to “let her rip.”

And so I did. Bullseye. I aimed and fired nine more times, emptying the gun.

Nothing I could admit to without incrimination compares to the rush I experienced as we walked out to see where the bullets had hit. Pride joined the chemistry when I saw the results. All 10 hit the target, four of them almost dead center. I couldn’t believe it.

I shot several more times that afternoon. The eye-hand coordination involved with aiming and shooting a gun, it surprised me to discover, is just as challenging as any other more socially acceptable sport. And the adrenaline buzz given by feeling the power generated simply by squeezing my index finger is well beyond anything other sports have to offer.

Then it hit me. The terrible realization that I was now a hypocrite. My nieces, nephews and future children will still hear from me that there is no reason they ever need to fire a gun in their lives. I’ll still support gun control or abolition and cast my votes towards those who share that view.
But truthfully, I’ll probably call and ask him when he’s going again.

Greg Macleery is a columnist for the Kentucky Kernel at the University of Kentucky. This column was distributed by U-Wire.

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