Bullseye at Seventy-Two

I've always been the kind of person who watches. Never the kind who plays. So when my granddaughter, who shoots archery for her high school team, asked me to come try it with her in March, I almost said no.

The range was indoors, in a long warehouse with straw targets at one end. She fitted me with an arm guard and a small recurve bow. She showed me how to stand sideways, nock the arrow, draw back to my cheek and breathe out before letting go.

My first arrow went into the floor. My second hit the edge of the target. My third hit the blue ring, and I shouted so loudly that a man three lanes over dropped his arrow.

We shot for two hours. My arms were shaking by the end. On my very last arrow, I hit the yellow center. My granddaughter screamed, hugged me and took a picture of me next to the target, holding up the arrow like a fish I'd caught.

I bought my own bow the next week. We go every Sunday. She says my form is "honestly pretty good, Grandpa." I'll take that.