Duas coisas são infinitas: o universo e a estupidez humana. Mas, em relação ao universo, ainda não tenho a certeza absoluta.
(Einstein)
But the tune ends too soon for us all (Ian Anderson)
I like ice hockey, 7-Eleven Big Gulps and the choice of six lanes on the Interstate. I like almost everything about America except the guns, which is why I decided to challenge my prejudices at a pistol range in Fresno, California. Walking in, I was welcomed by ‘Don’t tread on me!’ stickers and signs in military stencil fonts. I had anticipated hearing gunshots, but the irregular, endless bangs were worse than I’d expected.
‘We’re from Britain and would like to try a gun,’ explained my friend. We signed some waivers and a friendly assistant called Tom reached back to the pistol rack behind him and replaced one of the handguns with my driving licence. It felt like we’d opened a bar tab.
A tutorial ensued and I absorbed roughly half of what Tom said, worrying instead that the pistol would fire randomly while bouncing around in his hands. ‘It’s the Europeans who actually listen’ Tom said to a colleague.
We were equipped with earplugs and safety glasses, then handed our Glock and bullets in a plastic carrier case. We stepped into the range. There were about ten lanes, each fitted with bulletproof dividers to form booths. Still, the surrounding space felt communal. To my right: a stocky gentleman with enough bullets to keep him occupied till sunset. To his right: a dolled-up soccer mom firing rounds with conviction. And to my left, Tom was jogging our memories, telling us how to correctly wield the weapon.
I didn’t feel ready, despite his assurances. I worried that the Glock could malfunction. What if there was a faulty bullet? Or the soccer mom suddenly found the paper targets boring and went berserk?
Tom left. I had imagined he – or another attendant – would be present alongside us amateurs. But perhaps it was better this way. Had this been in Britain, someone would have been peering over my shoulder, putting me off. It’s why I’d refuse to do axe-throwing again in London – the staff were constantly fussing about my stance and the way I swung the axe.
The Glock wasn’t heavy, but it felt substantial when gripped tightly. I loaded the magazine with five bullets, pulled back the slide and felt an unnatural sense of gallantry when lifting the gun at the paper target – a confidence that I hadn’t earned. My eyes locked onto the front sight. I knew the time to shoot had come.
All my doubts and worries vanished. I wasn’t sparing a thought for my friend, Tom or the neighbouring booths. I had one thing in mind: shoot and do so correctly, without distraction.
Bam. I was knocked backwards by the recoil. The bullet shell flew into the air and bounced off my hand and onto the floor. I looked back at the target and squinted. Headshot. I fired four more shots, with a little pause in between. The slide locked back into place. I’d emptied the chamber. I carefully lowered my arms and sighed.
I was relieved that I had tamed the Glock. Yes, it was explosive, loud and I felt a little on edge watching others fire. But when I held the pistol, I knew it was under my command. As we worked through the remaining 40 bullets, the cycle of tunnel vision and relief continued.
After we left the shooting range, retrieved my licence and returned to the comfort of our car, I felt a flurry of pleasure. Rarely is a congruent focus of the mind and body required in daily life.If it is, it is even rarer that a mistake could be fatal. But I shot when it felt right to and that felt like therapy as much as like sport.
‘Yuck, guns’ a friend responded after I shared a photo of my tolerable aim. Before that trip to Fresno, I would have agreed. But I’ve realised that while there may be an unsettling glorification of firearms in America, shooting can be therapeutic too.
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