This past weekend, at my shooting club, I helped run an event we call the Running Deer, in which a more or less life-sized deer silhouette travels 30 yards at 12 miles an hour, and the shooters, who are 100 yards away, get five shots at it. A perfect score is a 50; qualifying is 34. There are very few 50s, and there are a great many shooters who dishonor themselves with 20s and lower, but no one shoots a zero.
But by crackey, on this Saturday, there I was, looking at a zero.
“Who the hell shot that?” I asked on the radio.