Grand Nationals and the NRA
Back in the mid-80s when those cars were new, I was coordinating an Olympic Festival shooting venue, a sort of Olympic B-team qualifier. Back then, the NRA was the Olympic organization for shooting in the USA. There was a guy from NRA HQ Competition Division there who was an old-timey, hard-working type who made sure matches ran like they were supposed to. He and I stuck together most of the time when he wasn't telling me what I'd screwed up and how to fix it.
During the middle of competition, a Grand National drives right past the parking lot, onto the range, and parks behind the firing line. Everybody oohed and ahhed because even back then everybody knew it was a special car. The two occupants get out and the man driving looked like a bad cologne ad. Every thread was in place, his hair must have taken a whole can of spray to keep in place, cashmere sweater tied around his shoulders - just one of those people you knew you were going to hate.
I was about to go over and tell them to get their car off the range. Old guy grabs my arm, walks me over, and introduces me. Mr. Perfect Hair blows us both off, saying he was just here to take a look around.
Old guy takes me to one side and explains. "NRA executives. You know, the ones who make enough money to drive fast cars, show off their trophy wives, and wear their sunglasses up on top of their head. Their jobs are schmoozing with politicians and getting paid 10 times my salary to do next to nothing. Most of 'em don't know which end of the pistol the bullet comes out but they show up at every event to walk around for 10 minutes and pretend they're in charge. Forget that guy. Let's get back to work."
Since that day, I've never really like the Grand Nationals. Can't quite figure out why.
Back in the mid-80s when those cars were new, I was coordinating an Olympic Festival shooting venue, a sort of Olympic B-team qualifier. Back then, the NRA was the Olympic organization for shooting in the USA. There was a guy from NRA HQ Competition Division there who was an old-timey, hard-working type who made sure matches ran like they were supposed to. He and I stuck together most of the time when he wasn't telling me what I'd screwed up and how to fix it.
During the middle of competition, a Grand National drives right past the parking lot, onto the range, and parks behind the firing line. Everybody oohed and ahhed because even back then everybody knew it was a special car. The two occupants get out and the man driving looked like a bad cologne ad. Every thread was in place, his hair must have taken a whole can of spray to keep in place, cashmere sweater tied around his shoulders - just one of those people you knew you were going to hate.
I was about to go over and tell them to get their car off the range. Old guy grabs my arm, walks me over, and introduces me. Mr. Perfect Hair blows us both off, saying he was just here to take a look around.
Old guy takes me to one side and explains. "NRA executives. You know, the ones who make enough money to drive fast cars, show off their trophy wives, and wear their sunglasses up on top of their head. Their jobs are schmoozing with politicians and getting paid 10 times my salary to do next to nothing. Most of 'em don't know which end of the pistol the bullet comes out but they show up at every event to walk around for 10 minutes and pretend they're in charge. Forget that guy. Let's get back to work."
Since that day, I've never really like the Grand Nationals. Can't quite figure out why.
