Archery

When I was a child, studying the arts of being a boy though not yet understanding them, I was handed a bow and arrow, pointed down a course, and told to hit a bale of hay with a paper target on it. And if I hit the bullseye of that target, I was told that I would be given a small wooden bead with a poorly painted target on it to show as proof of my victory.

That may not sound like much to you, but to a ten year old boy, it was complete and utter magic to my ears.

I don't recall how many arrows I shot, or how many times I returned to the archery range to give it a second shot. I can, however, tell you how many of those tiny wooden beads I obtained.

A whole, whopping zero.

But the memory of the bow stayed with me and mixed with the inherent love I had of the middle ages. Like many boys, I spent a good amount of time playing make believe - a skill I wish adults still had, but I digress - and when doing so, if I didn't have a sword in my hands, you can bet I had a bow. Even when the game was all about using guns.

I tried a few times throughout my life to pick up toy bows and arrows, but it never had the same satisfaction to it. It was always too small, too unwieldy, too inaccurate. In time, I all but gave up the idea of ever really using a bow, and especially of ever having any talent at it.

But fortunately, the cub scouts lead to the boy scouts, and in boy scouts, you can be quite sure that chances arise a second time.

I was a young teenager by the time I picked up a bow again, and in the time between I had gained strength thanks to my new involvement in karate. Where once I had been a scrawny and weak child, though I was by no means strong, I was certainly stronger than times passed.

I didn't expect much. I remembered the past. I remembered taking my bow, with all the confidence in the world, and never once even hitting the target, firing one wide over the bale, and the next into the dirt at my feet.

And so I lifted that bow. I notched that arrow. I pulled back, further than ever before. I could feel it. The pull in my arm and in my back. I looked down the shaft of my arrow, straight at the target, and I let it go.

It struck true. And the arrow stuck halfway out of the bullseye. And I was handed that small wooden bead that I had sought so hard in the past.

And once more I was a boy. So happy with my bead, as I would have been back then.