Last Battle

I strolled up to the firing line with a nonchalance which belied the situation. This was probably my last chance to meet the enemy. I had become old and a burden to the younger and tougher men who walked these fields. But, I wanted to attempt a comeback one more time.

There was a soft mist which enveloped the battlefield. I could see movement in the distance but the figures seemed to cavort in a manner of tag alongs. I guessed that they were the cooks and bottle washers supporting the main troop deployment.

I was fully dressed in blue. I had my weapon, a Taylormade R580, some single projectile support pods and three Pro V1 projectiles. I wore a black leather glove on my left hand for a better grip on the shaft of the weapon. I was ready to proceed.

I employed a firing stance, drew back the weapon slowly until the shaft was parallel to my toe line and then with an aggressive upward hinging of the wrists I moved the weapon up above my right shoulder into firing position. I then pulled the trigger by sliding my legs toward the target and releasing my hips as my right hand slipped over the left.

I made perfect contact with the projectile but neglected to aggressively pronate my left wrist through impact. The resulting cupping action forced the projectile thirty degrees left of the target.

The projectile flew into the woods to the left, never to be seen again. I was then in a quandary. Should I venture into enemy territory to determine the result of my errant shot or should I retreat to the rear and partake of the sustenance provided by the tag alongs.

I chose the latter. At that moment, the war ended for me. I would have future battles of a greater magnitude, but would never again venture on to the “Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden” battlefield with weapons ill equipped for the job and muscles ill prepared for the task at hand.