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But nobody ever said the cat didn’t die having fun.
I’ve been shooting rifles and pistols all my life. I still do, and I still love it. There’s something special about sighting in a new rifle with a new scope—figuring out which ammo groups best, dialing in the elevation, making those tiny adjustments: four clicks down, four clicks right. I loved every shot, every session.
To get to the pistol and rifle range at my gun club, you first have to pass a series of trap fields and skeet houses. Over the years, I’ve passed many an old-timer blasting away with a shotgun. I’ve driven through countless shoots and watched people assembling their shotguns with equal parts joy and seriousness.
But I never really knew what they were doing. What was this thing that kept them coming back, weekend after weekend? And more importantly—why in the world would anyone get up that early on a Saturday to do it?
One day, much like that curious cat, I let my curiosity lead. I was arriving at the range when I spotted someone leaving—a familiar face I’d seen sitting by the trap fields. I stopped him and asked, “What do you guys do up there every weekend?”
He gave me an explanation that mostly flew over my head, but he made sure to tell me when they’d be shooting next. That stuck.
A few weeks later, I showed up with a shotgun that had no business being used for trap (a Stevens 555) and a box of high-speed shells that were definitely not meant for shooting singles. But what did I know? I was just there to see what all the fuss was about.
I parked, got out, and approached a group of guys sitting around, laughing and enjoying the afternoon. Despite normally being a confident person, I meekly asked, “Would it be okay if I shot with you all today?”
“OF COURSE!”
“ABSOLUTELY!”
I set my gear down and took a seat at the picnic table. I didn’t jump in right away. I had no idea what I was doing, so I figured I’d just watch and try to learn. These guys made it look easy—every clay target that flew out of that little green shelter seemed to shatter mid-air.
About 10 minutes in, a man named Joe walked up to me. In a friendly Texas drawl, he asked, “You ever done this before?”
He must’ve seen the lost puppy look on my face. I told him I hadn’t, but I was curious. Joe went on to explain the basics—the rules, how the ERAD worked, the rotation—and then encouraged me to give it a shot.
If memory serves, I broke six targets. I was humbled, to say the least. I figured this wasn’t the sport for me and planned to retreat back to the rifle range, tail between my legs. But Joe didn’t flinch.
“You shot great,” he said. “Just need to do a couple extra things, and you’ll break more.”
I tried to follow his advice. I might have broken one or two more—maybe. Out of 50 shots, I hit just 12 or 13.
Thoroughly humbled, I packed up and headed home to lick my wounds. But as I drove, something unexpected happened: I realized I’d actually had fun. I started thinking about how satisfying it felt when those targets broke. It was way more exciting than punching holes in paper.
So I came back. Again. And again. Slowly but surely, I started getting better.
A few weeks in, someone offered to let me try a real trap gun. I said no at first—I’d been browsing online and knew what those things cost. But they insisted, and eventually, I relented. I grabbed a box of shells and stepped up to the line.
I broke 19.
I was stunned—overjoyed, even. Was it the gun? Was it me? A bit of both? Either way, I was hooked. That was the moment the bug bit me—and it didn’t nibble. It clamped down hard.
From that day on, I rarely missed a weekday or weekend shoot at the Senior Center (Buckhorn). I got great advice, met incredible people, and had more fun than I could’ve imagined.
Eventually, I bought a Browning BT-99. I loved that gun. It felt like one of the coolest things I’d ever held. I was convinced this was the one—the gun I’d learn the sport with.
About a month later, I was encouraged to attend my first official shoot. I wasn’t sure if I was ready, but I signed up anyway.
I arrived at the shoot, got squadded, and started getting ready for a practice round. That’s when I noticed a guy with a big personality making his way around, clearly getting ready to shoot as well. He seemed to know everyone—joking, laughing, shaking hands—but I’d never seen him before. His name was Dan.
Do I dare warm up with this guy?
I figured I might as well. I walked over and asked, “Mind if I shoot a practice round with you?”
“Sure ya can, let’s go,” Dan said without hesitation.
I watched him shoot—smooth, confident. He broke 24. I managed to break 20.
Was I ready for today? Was this too soon? Too much, too fast?
Didn’t matter. I was already squadded. No turning back now.
On my fourth box I ran my first 25 straight.
I won my class.
I shot a 96 in singles.
Could this be real? Was I a decent trap shooter?
What I’ve learned since then—from every shoot I could make, every practice I could squeeze in—is that anyone can be a trap shooter. And everyone should try. It’s a sport built not just on breaking clays, but on lifting each other up. It’s a community of joy, generosity, and encouragement—and I’m proud to be part of it.
I’ve shot well since that day; I’ve shot genuinely awful. It’s all fun.
One day, I’ll shoot my last target—hopefully many years from now. When that day comes, I’ll look back and know exactly why I spent so many weekends, so much time, and so much money chasing orange discs through the air.
It’s because one man, Joe Nalley, took a moment to show a totally lost new guy the ropes.
So, this article is a heartfelt thank you—and a slightly sarcastic up-yours—to Joe. Thank you for your kindness and generosity with your time. And up-yours for not warning me how much money this was going to cost me.