Back to Friendship

A year ago, I returned to Friendship.

I wish I could say I went back because I had made some grand decision to return to competition, or because I had carefully planned the next chapter of my shooting life.

I hadn’t.

I went back because my dad had died.

And I was devastated.

My father was much more than the person who introduced me to shooting. He was my coach, my mentor, and one of the people who shaped the shooter — and the person — I became.

Shooting had been something we shared for most of my life.

I began competing internationally when I was 14. There were matches, practices, trips, lessons, victories, disappointments and countless hours spent working toward becoming a better shooter. Through so much of it, Dad was there.

Then suddenly he wasn’t.

After he died, I found myself searching for ways to feel close to him again.

And somehow, that search led me back to Friendship, Indiana.

Going Back

There is something about returning to a place that holds a lifetime of memories.

You know the roads.

You recognize the ranges.

There are familiar sounds and smells. The crack of a rifle somewhere down the line. Smoke hanging for a moment in the air. Shooters carrying boxes and rifles and gear. Conversations between people who may only see each other at matches but pick up where they left off.

It was all familiar.

And yet it was completely different.

Dad wasn't there.

Grief does strange things to familiar places. Sometimes the things that bring the greatest comfort are also the things that remind you most sharply of what you've lost.

But I needed to be there.

I wasn't sure what I expected to find.

Maybe I thought that if I stood on a firing line again, went through the familiar routines, loaded a rifle and looked downrange, some part of him would feel close again.

In a way, it did.

The Things We Carry With Us

A coach's voice doesn't disappear simply because the coach is gone.

There are things I know because Dad taught them to me so many times that they became part of how I shoot.

There are habits I probably don't even recognize as his anymore.

A way of looking at a target.

A thought that comes before a shot.

A reminder to slow down.

A lesson learned years ago that suddenly appears when I need it.

Standing on the range again, I began to realize that I hadn't lost all of him.

So much of what he taught me was still there.

In me.

That doesn't make the loss easier. I still wish he were standing beside me. I still wish I could tell him about a good target, complain to him about a bad one, ask what he saw or hear what he thought I should change.

There are probably always going to be moments when I want to turn around and talk to him.

But returning to Friendship reminded me that the story didn't have to end when his did.

Finding My Way Back

Something happened during that trip.

I started shooting again.

Not just pulling a trigger.

I started wanting to shoot again.

I started thinking about improvement. About matches. About things I wanted to learn. About things I once knew and needed to relearn.

Eventually, those thoughts became bigger.

Could I compete seriously again?

Could I become a better shooter now than I had been before?

Could I take everything Dad had taught me and continue building on it?

And perhaps most surprisingly — where could shooting take me next?

I didn't come home from Friendship with all of those answers.

I still don't have all of them.

But I came home wanting to find out.

That trip became the beginning of something I didn't know I was beginning.

A year later, I'm preparing to return to Friendship again.

This time feels different.

I'm practicing. I'm studying. I'm paying attention to my equipment and my performance. I'm keeping notes. I'm asking questions. I'm setting goals that, not very long ago, I wouldn't have imagined setting again.

I'm even allowing myself to think about international competition again.

There is a lot of road between here and there.

That's okay.

I'm learning that returning doesn't mean recreating who I was twenty or thirty years ago.

It means discovering who I am as a shooter now.

Dad will always be part of that.

He was my father.

He was my coach.

He was my mentor.

And when I step onto the line, I carry a lifetime of things he taught me with me.

Last year I went back to Friendship because I was searching for a way to feel close to my dad again.

I didn't expect that, somewhere along the way, I might also begin finding my way back to myself.

Maybe that's what this next trip is really about.

We'll see what happens when I get to the line.

Bye for now.