Call it a man thing. A guy thing. But every year, as the cycle of life pedals its precarious path from season to season (baseball, football, basketball); something in a man’s primitive DNA is triggered and our attention, albeit somewhat limited, turns to the fourth season. Shooting season. If it flies, crawls, walks or runs-we’ll shoot it.
Barney, Leo and I and our wives (Leo’s third, although his first two always join us) all got together for what is possibly the most significant sports season in the history of the world and is most certainly one of the most important events in our little lives. That’s right. I’m talking about Dancing With The Stars.
I know that many of you do not consider dancing a sport, but pound for pound, professional dancers are some of the most physically fit athletes in the world. Take for instance that Russian fella who used to dance in Leningrad’s Kirov Ballet, Mikhail Baryshnikov. Not only was he one of the most physically fit athletes in the world, he was one of the most intelligent. He figured out early in his sports career that it would be, shall we say … um … much more interesting (not to mention fun) lifting Gelsey Kirkland over his head than cast-iron weights.
When is the last time that you watched a fat NFL linebacker? Like … every Sunday.
When is the last time you watched a fat Bolshoi ballet dancer? Like … never.
For me, professional dancing ranks right up there with the two most exciting sports of all time-bowling and poker. NASCAR would have been included in that prestigious classification, but as we all know, NASCAR is not a sport. All those guys do is cruise in circles with their $267,000-a-squarefoot decaled dreadnaughts for a few hours, guzzling Gatorade. Then they trailer their NASCAR cars, and maybe, if they feel so inclined, wave to a few fawning fans before boarding their private $18 million jets to fly home to their Bahamian beach mansions.
My old man … now there was a true athlete-driver. I’d put him up against any of those NASCAR pretty boys. He didn’t have the $267,000-a-tooth perfect orthodontic smile or a perfectly coiffed curly-haired head (there was nothing to coiffe), but he could ferry a Freightliner from Philly to Frisco in 14 hours nonstop on nothing more than five or six gallons of coffee. And then unload the entire cargo himself. Sometimes they’d let him use a fork truck.
We gasped in disbelief as the final contestants in the dance-off fell and the woman fractured a fingernail and stormed off the stage crying and violently making obscene gestures with her fractured-fingernail finger at her partner.
Our two wives and Leo’s three decided to go down to Kelly’s for a beer or two and shoot some nine-ball. Leo, Barney and I demurred and decided to stay home to plan our coming duck-shooting trip. This was going to be our last year to shoot at one of our favorite locations, so we wanted to be sure that everything was right.
For all of you who are not enthusiasts, the logistics of a successful outing are mind-boggling. Location is paramount. You want to position yourself where you know the ducks will be in abundance. They can be wily creatures, and despite your best efforts, can thwart all of your preparations by simply not showing up.
Equipment and gear can be especially challenging. Thick-soled, heavy boots of Frankensteinian proportions are paramount. Full-dress camouflage (“camo” to us seasoned aficionados), right down to the ascot and pocket hankie, is de rigueur. To dress in anything less would be akin to Lebron James shooting hoops in a tutu (although I have to believe it couldn’t hurt his game … or his image). The idea is to blend in so as not to be noticed by the ducks.
And finally-timing. Timing is everything. Over the years we have found that the
ducks are most active in the early morning and late afternoon. It’s almost as though they are triggered by either their internal clocks or some external environmental influence.
Afew weeks later, our preparations were complete. Boots, camo, grease-painted faces, and “beverage” flasks. We loaded up Leo’s F-250 and headed out early in the morning, certain in the knowledge that we were mere hours from success.
When we arrived, we were shocked at how many others had gotten there ahead of us. Undaunted, we gathered our gear and got everything set up. I crouched down where I was sure they would not see me. Leo backed me up-just in case I missed. We couldn’t afford a dog, so Barney would flush them out.
Suddenly, as if on cue, they appeared. They saw us and stayed low, depriving both of us of a clear shot. I gave Barney our prearranged signal. He exploded into action, furiously flapping his arms. Shouting, yelping and screaming like some psychopathic, camo-clad survivalist just down from the hills.
The frightened fowl attempted to take flight. Scattering and quacking in a frenzy of feathers, fluff and … um … stuff.
Leo and I took several shots. I got lucky and nailed three of them with a single shot before the security guys escorted us from the Peabody Hotel lobby.
Today, I have my 18x24 full-color, framed shot hanging next to the hilarious shot of two men in white jackets dragging Barney to their van.
Adios, Peabody … we’re going to miss you. You too, Barney.
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Bill Rausch is a freelance writer from Little Rock. Email him at [email protected].
Editorial, Pages 17 on 04/27/2013