sm
member
Locomotive
This is about the Mental Game.
This is a true story as experienced by the author.
Part I
In the shuffling madess
of the locomotive breath,
runs the all-time loser,
headlong to his death.
– Locomotive Breath Jethro Tull
The Gentleman had been watching; not the first time had he seen these two kids shoot. He would give them a few minutes to enjoy their good fortunes on this day, and then he would offer an invitation.
Phil, is this damn wind ever going to let up?
Well babe, this is Oklahoma, not much to stop it…
The two kids put away their shotguns, and other gear. Others shooters came by and offered congratulations, and they them in return. A cold Heineken Dark had been handed the kids, they clinked the bottles in toast and took a long pull.
Hello Phil and Melissa, my name is Henry; I am an acquaintance of Dave, and have an invitation for you two.
Whoa Phil, this is some serious invitation, I mean I am honored and all – still I get butterflies just thinking about this
I feel like a whole covey of quail just flushed in my gut myself babe…
Phil did his James Dean Lean against the Yellow Chevelle with black racing stripes, stared out into the clouds, took another pull from his beer…his mind was recalling everything he could about what mentors had shared…
Mel knew that look; she just sat on the trunk of her car and put an arm around his waist, set her head on his shoulder ….
You kids have the basics; one always continues to repeat the basics, one can never stop learning the basics and building upon them .
Dave was Phil’s running buddy, though they lived in different states. Just Phil seemed to be in Texas often enough.
Dave was a Vietnam Veteran, Phil had given Dave Shot gunning instructions, made him read some books, Dave was repeating back all he had been taught. Phil had shared more about the invite, than how well they had shot in a tournament in Oklahoma. Not like Phil to let something get in his brain like that.
Mel, as friends called Melissa, was listening intently, not so much to Dave, to Phil’s body language.
Dave was also a widower, raising his daughter Lara, Lara motioned for Mel to come help her in the kitchen.
Well you two had fun it seems in Okalahoma, you shot well, won some monies and prizes- and then your bubble got busted it seems. Phil, well Phil is just tries to hard. He wants stuff so bad, he hurts himself. He misses some mentors now passed, I can see the pain in his eyes, he wishes he would hear them old mentors share with him the mental game again…
Lara was right, Phil had started young and in the right manner. He knew Fred Misseldine’s take, he could also quote Bob Brister, and Robert Ruark amongst others…
--
Dammit to hell!!
Dave had wondered where Phil had wandered off to. Mel and Lara had run into town, Phil was supposed to be watching Rascal, the cocker spaniel. Dave had come in from a meeting in the Big City…Phil was not in the house, Rascal was gone, so was them buckets of reloads, and Phil’s gun.
Dave marched right up to Phil, waited until he fired, snatched his shotgun from his hands, made safe and glared at Phil.
Mr. Willie, ain’t your fault, your family, but damn why didn’t you just kick Phil’s butt, hog tie him or something?
Mr. Willie explained it wouldn’t have done any good. Phil would have driven to the Big City to shoot, better to keep him local, than off somewhere where he couldn’t’ be kept tabbed on.
Phil had dry-fired, according to Mel, over one thousand times last night. She had done about 300 herself. Did no good to try to reason with the boy, he was damned and determined. Phil had not slept, he instead was reading them old works, looking at old notes, had reloaded shells…he had asked Rascal for advice, Rascal just snuggled up and tried to ease the frustration Phil had.
Best one could figure, Phil had shot the equivalent of about 18 practice rounds of skeet, he looked like hell, and he was limping. Phil had a set of bad knees, when he overdid it; his knees gave him away…
Phil, get your butt to the house NOW!
Phil didn’t need a butt-chewing from his best bud or anyone; he could beat himself up better than anyone.
Orders were given for Phil to rest, when the Deputy Sheriff came by as he often did, he was told to shoot Phil first – then detain him, if he came anywhere near the private range, headed to the big city for fear of going shooting out there, and even if he so much looked in the direction of the gun store in the little town. Further orders were given for Rascal to bite Phil if he went near the gun room or reloading area. The girls, Mel and Lara, well was not so much the curse words used, the tone made it clear Phil needed to back down a notch or three.
Mel, you two have less than a week for that invite shoot. Go ahead and do your prep work, just use some common sense, Lara will assist. Phil, that boy has to get rid of a burr, I hate this, but I have to pull reins on him. You, Lara, me…we all know how Phil can get, he ain’t practicing what he preaches, and he is pissing me off!
Phil just sat outside listening to Jethro Tull, he was rubbing Rascal’s tummy. When the stars came out, all he saw was orange slivers. A falling star was Low 7 being pushed down by the wind.
Mel came out onto the back porch, Phil woke up, and she offered her hand and Phil got up…he snored all night long…
Phil had behaved himself, best could, He had not run off and shot, not done all them repetitions , he was quiet. Dave Mel, Lara and even Rascal sensed Phil’s brain was running away with itself.
His guns had been cleaned for him, his ammo reloaded for him, even his set of keys to Mel’s Chevelle , he had handed over. They could make him rest, get his knees stronger with rest and exercise – they could not turn off his brain.
Phil did not even offer resistance when his notebook and various works had been removed from him…he just got up, grabbed his smokes, cup of coffee and walked outside. He just listened to the pitter-patter of rain on the tin roof of the porch out back…
Phil was going thru another of one them “dimensions” his Mentors and Elders had spoken of. They just forgot to mention it hurt like hell sometimes….
One shoots great locally, attends a notch higher tournament, and drops birds they shouldn’t. You learn from it. It takes experience to learn the Mental Game. Like taking two steps forward and one back, the more difficult the shoot, more likely to drop birds, when you drop back in difficulty of shoots – you shoot better than you ever have.
When you step up, nothing else exists except that one bird. You have seen the seasoned shooters; you know some were shooting their best, knowing all the while they had mental baggage. Teenager wrecking the family car, wife needing minor surgery, grandson breaking an arm playing on the swings…Phil, these seasoned shooters may even talk about these things on the field between boxes, filling up trap machines…when they step up to shoot, they drop the baggage. You will have to learn this for yourself. It is not an easy learning experience, truth is – some never do, that is what separates the Big Boys from the ones on the porch…
Phil did not have the ability to be honest with himself – he was blinded by taking all this competition too serious. Worse- he was taking himself too serious.
Henry saw the potential; Henry knew the boy had to be brought down a notch or three.
That Mel was picking up Phil’s mindset, most of which was good, he hated to hurt a lady, she had to fall too…
To be continued…
Copyright 2005 – Phil Carson
This is about the Mental Game.
This is a true story as experienced by the author.
Part I
In the shuffling madess
of the locomotive breath,
runs the all-time loser,
headlong to his death.
– Locomotive Breath Jethro Tull
The Gentleman had been watching; not the first time had he seen these two kids shoot. He would give them a few minutes to enjoy their good fortunes on this day, and then he would offer an invitation.
Phil, is this damn wind ever going to let up?
Well babe, this is Oklahoma, not much to stop it…
The two kids put away their shotguns, and other gear. Others shooters came by and offered congratulations, and they them in return. A cold Heineken Dark had been handed the kids, they clinked the bottles in toast and took a long pull.
Hello Phil and Melissa, my name is Henry; I am an acquaintance of Dave, and have an invitation for you two.
Whoa Phil, this is some serious invitation, I mean I am honored and all – still I get butterflies just thinking about this
I feel like a whole covey of quail just flushed in my gut myself babe…
Phil did his James Dean Lean against the Yellow Chevelle with black racing stripes, stared out into the clouds, took another pull from his beer…his mind was recalling everything he could about what mentors had shared…
Mel knew that look; she just sat on the trunk of her car and put an arm around his waist, set her head on his shoulder ….
You kids have the basics; one always continues to repeat the basics, one can never stop learning the basics and building upon them .
Dave was Phil’s running buddy, though they lived in different states. Just Phil seemed to be in Texas often enough.
Dave was a Vietnam Veteran, Phil had given Dave Shot gunning instructions, made him read some books, Dave was repeating back all he had been taught. Phil had shared more about the invite, than how well they had shot in a tournament in Oklahoma. Not like Phil to let something get in his brain like that.
Mel, as friends called Melissa, was listening intently, not so much to Dave, to Phil’s body language.
Dave was also a widower, raising his daughter Lara, Lara motioned for Mel to come help her in the kitchen.
Well you two had fun it seems in Okalahoma, you shot well, won some monies and prizes- and then your bubble got busted it seems. Phil, well Phil is just tries to hard. He wants stuff so bad, he hurts himself. He misses some mentors now passed, I can see the pain in his eyes, he wishes he would hear them old mentors share with him the mental game again…
Lara was right, Phil had started young and in the right manner. He knew Fred Misseldine’s take, he could also quote Bob Brister, and Robert Ruark amongst others…
--
Dammit to hell!!
Dave had wondered where Phil had wandered off to. Mel and Lara had run into town, Phil was supposed to be watching Rascal, the cocker spaniel. Dave had come in from a meeting in the Big City…Phil was not in the house, Rascal was gone, so was them buckets of reloads, and Phil’s gun.
Dave marched right up to Phil, waited until he fired, snatched his shotgun from his hands, made safe and glared at Phil.
Mr. Willie, ain’t your fault, your family, but damn why didn’t you just kick Phil’s butt, hog tie him or something?
Mr. Willie explained it wouldn’t have done any good. Phil would have driven to the Big City to shoot, better to keep him local, than off somewhere where he couldn’t’ be kept tabbed on.
Phil had dry-fired, according to Mel, over one thousand times last night. She had done about 300 herself. Did no good to try to reason with the boy, he was damned and determined. Phil had not slept, he instead was reading them old works, looking at old notes, had reloaded shells…he had asked Rascal for advice, Rascal just snuggled up and tried to ease the frustration Phil had.
Best one could figure, Phil had shot the equivalent of about 18 practice rounds of skeet, he looked like hell, and he was limping. Phil had a set of bad knees, when he overdid it; his knees gave him away…
Phil, get your butt to the house NOW!
Phil didn’t need a butt-chewing from his best bud or anyone; he could beat himself up better than anyone.
Orders were given for Phil to rest, when the Deputy Sheriff came by as he often did, he was told to shoot Phil first – then detain him, if he came anywhere near the private range, headed to the big city for fear of going shooting out there, and even if he so much looked in the direction of the gun store in the little town. Further orders were given for Rascal to bite Phil if he went near the gun room or reloading area. The girls, Mel and Lara, well was not so much the curse words used, the tone made it clear Phil needed to back down a notch or three.
Mel, you two have less than a week for that invite shoot. Go ahead and do your prep work, just use some common sense, Lara will assist. Phil, that boy has to get rid of a burr, I hate this, but I have to pull reins on him. You, Lara, me…we all know how Phil can get, he ain’t practicing what he preaches, and he is pissing me off!
Phil just sat outside listening to Jethro Tull, he was rubbing Rascal’s tummy. When the stars came out, all he saw was orange slivers. A falling star was Low 7 being pushed down by the wind.
Mel came out onto the back porch, Phil woke up, and she offered her hand and Phil got up…he snored all night long…
Phil had behaved himself, best could, He had not run off and shot, not done all them repetitions , he was quiet. Dave Mel, Lara and even Rascal sensed Phil’s brain was running away with itself.
His guns had been cleaned for him, his ammo reloaded for him, even his set of keys to Mel’s Chevelle , he had handed over. They could make him rest, get his knees stronger with rest and exercise – they could not turn off his brain.
Phil did not even offer resistance when his notebook and various works had been removed from him…he just got up, grabbed his smokes, cup of coffee and walked outside. He just listened to the pitter-patter of rain on the tin roof of the porch out back…
Phil was going thru another of one them “dimensions” his Mentors and Elders had spoken of. They just forgot to mention it hurt like hell sometimes….
One shoots great locally, attends a notch higher tournament, and drops birds they shouldn’t. You learn from it. It takes experience to learn the Mental Game. Like taking two steps forward and one back, the more difficult the shoot, more likely to drop birds, when you drop back in difficulty of shoots – you shoot better than you ever have.
When you step up, nothing else exists except that one bird. You have seen the seasoned shooters; you know some were shooting their best, knowing all the while they had mental baggage. Teenager wrecking the family car, wife needing minor surgery, grandson breaking an arm playing on the swings…Phil, these seasoned shooters may even talk about these things on the field between boxes, filling up trap machines…when they step up to shoot, they drop the baggage. You will have to learn this for yourself. It is not an easy learning experience, truth is – some never do, that is what separates the Big Boys from the ones on the porch…
Phil did not have the ability to be honest with himself – he was blinded by taking all this competition too serious. Worse- he was taking himself too serious.
Henry saw the potential; Henry knew the boy had to be brought down a notch or three.
That Mel was picking up Phil’s mindset, most of which was good, he hated to hurt a lady, she had to fall too…
To be continued…
Copyright 2005 – Phil Carson
Last edited: