US Soccer

My National Pastime...

(Way to ruin our romantic, patriotic moment, Alexi!)

A perfect Saturday for me does not involve watching eight hours – just two games worth - of college football; a great Sunday doesn’t mean plopping myself on the couch with a coffee for ESPN NFL pre-game, followed by the noon game, the three game, the post-games highlight recap show, then steak and wine for the Sunday night game. Waste of time.

Ever since I was a kid – dating back to the time when I actually liked “American” football (I'm taking an active stance against this now) – I have always associated great weekends with ones when the US National Soccer team plays. My memories of watching these games date back to sometime between 1990 and 1992, when relative unknown’s like Tab Ramos, Marcelo Balboa, Cobi Jones, Eric Wynalda and Alexi Lalas, who is pictured above, ruining, with his red ginger beard, the one picture of me where I’m not making a stupid face. Whose the jackass now, Melody!

There’s something great about being a long-time fan of the US Soccer Team. They’ve never been great, though they have pulled off a few great victories, most recently against Italy and Mexico, on foreign soil. Those nail-biters turn euphoria-jackers make up for the ridiculous number of silly losses or 1 – 1 ties against the likes of Jamaica, Ecuador and The Virgin Islands (maybe not a real team). They are – and have always been – a maddening bunch.

What makes their exploits fun is that they convene only every couple of months, depending on the tournaments going on in a particular year, play a few games, then hop on planes and disburse to their club teams. It’s never the same group of guys, but if you watch them enough, you’ll pick up on the names. The look and feel of the team is constantly changing, and with each iteration, hope springs from within long-time enthusiasts like myself.

One of the greatest – certainly most memorable – moments of my childhood was watching not the US team, but the German team play in the 1994 World Cup. Sweating through our clothes in the swampy upper deck of the Cotton Bowl in Dallas, my family and I were tiny white specs of foam in a roaring sea of blue-chested, face-painted South Korean fans. They didn’t care that their team was playing a tournament favorite, nor that no matter how loud they cheered, we’d never understand what the hell they were chanting.

They yelled and screamed until sweaty blue flecks of paint spattered those around them. When my then-hero, Jurgen Klinsmann (I’ll let you guess which team he played for) netted two early goals, I was resigned to celebrating on the inside, so as to not unnecessarily offend my new, passionate friends from the other side of the globe.

South Korea netted two second-half goals to bring the score to 3-2 (all five goals were scored on the opposite side of the pitch, unfortunately), making the last half-hour a tense affair in which the strong German side was in danger of dropping a few points to the plucky Koreans, whose fans, by the end of the game, had all but converted The Brantners (oh us of very German heritage). But it was not to be; Germany held on for a 3-2 victory in one of the better games of the tournament. No, the best game of the tournament for us at least, because after seeing a World Cup game in person, even having today’s digital television technology in the early 90's would have still been inferior.

I wandered off topic from the US team, but with good purpose. Jurgen Klinsmann, who scored twice in the only World Cup game I’ve seen in person, my favorite soccer player as a kid (though I rooted for the US team, but they never fielded a player of Jurgen’s quality or manliness), had now become the head coach for the US team. After only about 8 years of courtship.

(Jurgen - literally my favorite German-born US coach) 

The team hosted an open practice at LIVESTRONG Sporting Park, home of Sporting KC. Not expecting too much entertainment – not wanting it really, as I was nursing a hangover – Melody and I spent a few hours in the stands, chilly, watching Jurgen run the dudes through some drills. It was neat to see them interact with each other, goofing off as I once did with my club and high school teams, and as I assume all teams from rec leagues to the pro's do.

With a serious game in a few days, this was more of a shake-out-the-nerves practice - the players didn’t even wear shin guards. Jurgen addressed the crowd, as did SKC coach, and former US team member, Peter Vermes. Though not full-speed, what did amaze us was the technical skill of some of the players, primarily when messing around and juggling between drills. Simply mind-boggling, the control they have.

(Dreams do come true)

After the brief session, the players practiced their victory lap and we took off. After seeing them practice, I realized that if I had seriously pursued soccer after high school, there’s a great chance I could have kept up. With the guys shagging errant shots and taping calves.

 (VIDEO: Check out Jurgen finishing what his players can't)

To the game at hand, the US had to beat or tie Guatemala to ensure passage into the next qualifying round for the World Cup. Because of a silly first-round tie to Guatemala on the road, and a first-ever loss to Jamaica in Kingston, they had again, maddeningly, not coasted through the easiest of groups. Unless you count pasting the thoroughbreds from Antigua and Barbuda.

Were we nervous? No. Were we kinda nervous? Yeah, a bit. As a US fan you have to be optimistic, but fear the worst. But with a full A-team squad, minus only Landon Donovan, we had a decided advantage.

I was able to get a large group to enjoy the game with me – ten of us in the end. My brother Eric made the 5 hour drive from Oklahoma City for the game, which, if you ask me, is a decent thing to do. Being on a school night, we didn’t want to account for planning a tailgate, so instead we hit up The Yardhouse, our sometimes post-SKC game bar. Enjoying beautiful weather on their outdoor patio, we drowned our pre-game nerves into thick, dark, foamy stouts and lettuce wraps.

(Eric and I pre-game - this is taken from an odd angle, he's not really that much taller than me)

As we headed to the stadium, we were escorted by thousands of flag-waving, face and chest painted US soccer fans of all ages. The stadium filled up quickly, and once player introductions began, the sell-out crowd seemed to move as one, a unified sea of red, white and blue, pulsating and shifting with the very strong winds that night.

(Sneaking a patriotic shot with an unknowing fan's flag)

(Nice Pants)

(Sold out!) 

Our seats were within an penalty kick of the ESPN telecast table, at which sat ESPN anchor Bob Ley, former US team standout goalie Casey Keller, and, you guessed it, ginger himself, Alexi Lalas. A polarizing player due to his long red mane and scraggly goatee – not to mention his reckless and sometimes flawed style of play – more than a few heavily-imbibed fans strode past us yelling something that rhymed with “Alexi Lallas, you suck!” Maybe it was specifically that.

(Two of these guys, in the mind of the soccer public, do not suck) 

The highlight of the game for me took place not on the field, but rather on the stairs near the booth, when on my way to purchase a Guinness I made direct and non-creepy eye contact with Casey Keller. I gave him a pointer and mouthed out “You the man”. He simply responded by returning my pointer, and arching his eyebrows in a manner that suggested that not he, but rather I, was the man. That’s right, Casey Keller and I had a broment.

(As any true US fan knows, emotions can change in an instant) 

The on-the-field action was amazing. Other than the stunning 4^th minute Guatemalan goal, that is. Defense broke down and Tim Howard uncharacteristically let a guy make him look like a fool. Way too many blue-and-white-clad fans of the Central American not-quite-powerhouse sprang up from their seats, filling the stadium with a raucous cheer that the majority of the attendees had never expected to hear. At least not this soon.

(SKC was ROCKING!)

The fiesta would end soon however, as minutes later SKC star, and recent US team call-up, Graham Zusi sent a corner kick into the box, which was volleyed about until good-ole Captain Dreamy (Melody’s terms, not mine – though no dispute here) Carlos Bocanegra poked it into the net. In my elation, and still recovering from a right-side collarbone injury, I experienced a temporary moment of insanity and put Melody into what can only be described as a serious headlock. But now that she’s a fan of the team – in part because of the “dreamy” players thing – she understood that all was good. Even if her words said the opposite. 

(This guy is hot)

(Zusi: not as hot as Bocanegra) 

Next, Melody’s favorite piece of eye-candy, Clint Dempsey, netted a brace (that’s soccer for two goals) to put the game out of reach. The Guatemalans were overmatched and outplayed in all aspects of the game, even hustle, which is where the US sometimes falters. After a few stoppage-time minutes, the whistle blew and the US was securely into the next round.

(Victory Lap)

The players took another victory lap – this time a legitimate one, and the crowd stayed for a while to cheer them on. In what quite possibly was the funniest moment of the night, Clint Dempsey even took the time to pose with a super-creative fan’s oversized head poster of him giving the stank eye. 

(Clint Dempsey, the human bobble-head) 

Scrolling through recaps of the game the following day, I read that this was just the third time the US National Team had played in Kansas City. I attended last year’s win over Guadalupe – a 1-0 victory that should have been 7-0 – as well as the 2001 game against Costa Rica, though I missed half of that game because I didn’t own a GPS device at the time.  

I’ve attended every single US game played in Kansas City, all three of them victories. Chad as well, and my brothers have made it out to two of them apiece, even though they don’t live here. Rumor has it that this game was a tryout to see if the stadium would be a good venue for a larger, even more important, matchup, say, against the likes of Mexico. If so, I’ll pony up the cash once again, ceremoniously put on my US jersey, invite the crew and let the party begin. Because if El Tri thinks they’ll walk out of Sporting Park with a victory, they’re muy incorrecto!

Sublette, KS

Doing Manly Things in Western Kansas

(I dare you to argue with this guy)

Too many times, when a weekend excursion is being considered, we waste time on the little things such as logistics, schedules and planning. We get bogged down in the details of an event, and thus risk sucking the fun out of it. We remove the opportunity for something great and unexpected to cross our path by meticulously organizing the who's, the what's and the where's. Not in Western Kansas. 

Not in Sublette. 

Ever heard of it, yeah I thought not. When you ask for directions and the response is, "Go past Dodge City", you know you're headed to no-man's land. But alas, I do know a man who calls Sublette his home. This man went to college with me and owns his own construction company. He loves KU hoops, hates sober dancing, and runs a tight ship. He is Hef. And he lives in the middle of freaking nowhere. 

Jaron, Ashley (Hef's sister) and I decided to team up and make an impromptu trip to visit him out there, along with fellow Hefners Jordan and Whitney. Whitney's a schoolteacher in Moscow and Jordan has his own agricultural spraying business in Sublette. All the good citizenry of Sublette know the pair by name, making them the Kennedy's of their own town, just more masculine and less concerned about physical appearance. Which is exactly why it's a blast to visit them. 

(You know you've made it when your name is on buildings and dunebuggys)

After a relatively quite night eating at "The Restaurant", we watched some Olympics then shut it in before midnight. We wanted to save energy for what was going to be a busy day, and we needed some rest after a lovely seven hour car ride. This was smart though, as our next opportunity for shut-eye was Sunday at three in the morning. 

Coffee and some waxy donuts set the stage for our first country endeavor: Shooting. For the second time in a month, I fired firearms. I'm basically a gunsman. If I was seeking manliness the last time I sprayed some lead (do people actually say this?), then this time, I was solidifying it. See below. I'm doing no less than 7 manly things, all at the same time:

1) Holding a "tactical"

2) Looking like I know how to use it

3) Wearing a trucker's hat

4) Wearing shades

5) Sporting a beard

6) Unkempt hair

7) V-Neck t-shirt (of questionable manliness here, I'll admit)

(Could be a pic out of the classic action flick, The Rock)

We got our gun on at the classic I-live-in-the-country gun range: a field. Hef's buddy has a dirt mount arranged, as well as a variety of wooden and metal targets. All we needed was a table and, like, nine guns.

(The menu)

The girls were decorating Whitney's classroom - the complete opposite of manliness, I must say - so we met up with Hef's buddy Michael and his wife Chelsea at "the range". At our own pace and speed, we loaded clips, then unloaded the shells into the targets...or near the targets. There was always a watchful eye so those less familiar with weaponry (I'm looking at you, Greg) had a safety valve to lean on. Below is an amalgam of awesome shooting pics, a virtual shooting gallery, if you will:

(Is that clip aftermarket, Jaron?)

And of course, my favorite, our Secret Service shot:

And that was our morning...

During lunch, talk shifted towards how we'd occupy ourselves in the afternoon. With no clear winners being talked about, Hef proclaimed, "Why don't we go to the Dunes?". It was a great question. There was no good reason we shouldn't. It wasn't planned, but with the Hefner's trailer full of toys, it'd be a pretty quick process to head on out. So that's what we did. 

(Warning: this trailer contains awesomeness)

We headed over to Jordan's place, where we grabbed the four four-wheelers and his dunebuggy, then loaded them into their trailer. The trailer, built up from the inside, has residing in it all of the amenities one would need for a sweet dunes trip: helmets, gloves, boots, gasoline, spare parts, flags, straps and even a garbage can. All labeled, and in their proper resting position. It's a work of art. 

Michael and Chelsea met us at the Syracuse Sand Dunes Park, where we unloaded the rides, geared up and set out towards the sand. 

With relatively few hiccups, we were out and shredding in a moment's time. I've written about our adventures on the sand here, so there's no need to fully describe how it went. Needless to say, it was as badass as could be expected. With less people - our group comprised of five four-wheelers and on dunebuggy that seated two - we were quicker and more nimble as a group than in times past. 

There was one coming-of-age incident, however. In a never-before-seen display of manliness, I rolled my bike. Up a sand dune, I saw the action slowing down and decided to cut it right...moments before I hit a ridge. The four-wheeler rolled over me, burying half my body in the sand, its hind wheel repeatedly whapping my hind quarters as wormed my way out. No broken bones, no dislocated elbows, no strains or sprains...I was just left with a nice scrape on my lower back and an Eye of Sauron-looking bruise along my right thigh. Currently it has more colors than a Bob Ross happy sky. I feel very manly (except when I roll over and agitate the scrape). 

We hit it hard for a few hours - another advantage of rolling light - then packed it in. It was a great day to ride, and even though the muscles are always sore afterwards, it's a great feeling to be out there, kicking ass. Monday's go by so much better, when there's recent memories of fresh sand in the brain. 

The awesomeness did not stop, though, as we cleaned up and grabbed some delicious mexican food, and drowned in gigantic margaritas. Then, with nothing better to do on a Saturday night in Garden City, we went to Sammy's, which caters to three demographics: 1) people who stay in hotels, 2) people who eat steak and 3) people who like disco. Yes, it's a hotel/steak house/disco all in one. A marketing guy's nightmare. 

We did not dance, though the people watching was an Olympic event in itself. Lots of inappropriate grinding and too-tight shirts; quite a few mullets and mustaches; a drunken batch of bridesmaids; and a healthy variety of rap, latin and pop music. It's almost worth the seven hour drive, all in itself. 

By this point in the night, Ashley and Witney had rejoined the fracas, and we took turns ordering round after round for each other. We were headed to Michael and Chelsea's to crash, so what did we care? Besides, some of us had major muscle discomfort by this point in the night, and needed a natural numbing agent. 

So when the lights came on just before two, we almost headed home before detouring to IHOP. This makes the second time as an adult I've eaten there past 2am. The first time occurred at this very same IHOP the last time I was at Sammy's. Maybe it's something in the drinks. Or the air...it does have a faint odor of manure just about anywhere you go. 

And that was our day; not a bad one at all. And not a single bit of it planned. I guess amazing things just tend to fall into place when you're with the right people, in the right place, wherever in the world that may be. So next time you're in the middle of nowhere...look for a Hefner. I'm sure they'll show you a good time.

To view the rest of the photos, click here: Cool Sublette Photo Gallery

Bike MS: Fundraising

The 100 Mile Journey Begins...

(The Other Team Garmin members bundle up before last year's ride)

Bike MS is upon The Other Team Garmin (TOTG) once again, and I have but two goals: 1) Raise $300 in fundraising for the National MS Society, and 2) Complete the full century ride, 100 miles.

The fundraising goal is a mandatory for everyone that wants to participate in this excellent and entertaining two day, fully supported, heavily volunteered ride from Olathe to Lawrence. $200 is the minimum for the race, however the folks from TOTG have upped the ante an extra hundred. There are 60+ members riding with TOTG and our team goal is $40,000.

We’ll be doing auctions throughout the next few weeks - I’ve saved a few items to provide for bidding – in an attempt to reach our lofty goal. It’s nice to be a part of something so substantial, and it makes it easier to reach out to friends, family and strangers when everyone on the team is encouraging us to find inventive and creative manners in which to raise funds. More on that in a bit…

I fully expect to complete the century ride this time, weather provided. For a recap on the harrowing journey that saw my 100 mile hopes cut off at 78, check out my very first blog post:

2011 Bike MS Recap

Over the years, my friends and family have been fully supportive of all of my endeavors, whether it’s been a trip to Ireland, a longer stay in Nicaragua or some of the charities I’ve been involved with, such as Kiva and Bike MS. To reward you for your loyalty and graciousness, and also to firmly commit myself to the cause, I’ve added a new aspect to my donation request this year.

There will be a raffle at the end of the fundraising period, where you (the donor) have the chance to win one of two prizes. The more you donate, the better chance you have of winning. These are gifts I could have given to TOTG for the auction, however I view this as one way to thank you for your continued support.

For every Jayhawk alumni or family of a Jayhawk student, there’s a chance you’ll win a grab-bag of KU School of Business swag. This includes, but is not limited to, a soft logo shirt, a sweet pen, a hard plastic cup with straw, mouse pad and the white bag with two Jayhawk stickers that they came in. Very official.

(Jayhawk bag of goodies)

The other prize is an autographed copy of Argyle Armada, written by Mark Johnson. Even if you’re not into cycling, it’s an amazing glimpse into the demands and rigor a pro team goes through as they travel the world competing in international events. There’s a ton of wonderful photography, athlete interviews, and first-hand accounts by everyone from the team chef to seasoned veterans of the cycling circuit. And it’s autographed by, like, five guys from the team. Not really sure who. But it’s probably the good ones.

(Learn about the Pro's)

Finally, if you don’t want to play the odds, for anyone who donates $50 or greater to my team, I will send you a fancy TOTG mug or pint glass free of charge. The design was done by my riding partner Tommy (from the original Bike MS post), and every mug or glass purchased sends even more cash to the National MS Society. It’s a small expense for me to incur to (attempt to) properly thank you for supporting my interests, because I’m extremely fortunate to count on my great family and friends year after year. And in the end, more money goes to this wonderful cause.

You are free to send this link to your friends or anyone else you feel might be interested in donating to the cause. Every donation helps our team get closer to achieving our ultimate goal of $40,000. Something I’ll be thinking about as I tick off the miles in the saddle, training for this century ride, my first.

Thank you in advance!

To Donate: Access the link below, which takes you directly to my page. Select "Donate to Greg" and follow the prompts to fill in the amount. You can display the amount publicly, or if you prefer, choose not to do so. In that case, simply email the amount you donated and I'll get you in the raffle and send you a mug or glass if need be. 

Donate Here: Greg's Bike MS Page

Guns! (no big deal)

One Man's Quest to Impress...

(Pretty much straight out of North American Hunter)

In a good week, I’ll do two manly things. The trending average, though, likely hovers around half to a quarter of a manly thing per week. And oftentimes there are caveats. I bike…but I wear mandex. I shred sand dunes on four-wheeler’s…but I also wear mandex (under my pants, because the motor vibrations hurt my butt). I went to the hardware shop last week…to buy aromatic candles that shoo away mosquitoes. I call it a hardware shop instead of a hardware store – that can’t be manly.

It’s not that I don’t want to be manly – it just seems like a lot of effort. If I really enjoyed push-ups or didn’t want to keep my high-school biceps, I’d be motivated to make some changes. But I’m fine with my biceps, even if they’re the same size as when I was taking driver’s ed. Besides, both my younger brothers are both bigger than me now, so I’ve run out of people to punch.

And for some unexplainable reason, Greg at 31 retains the same level of interest in soccer, Star Trek, mustaches, wearing socks in the Summertime and dinosaurs as did his 21 year-old counterpart. And we’re pretty cool with that.

Sometimes manliness is forced upon me or there for the taking, and the outcome is what you would expect: Awesomely disastrous. Here are some examples:

• One of the last times I was on a speedboat, I thought it’d look cool to jump from the boat to the dock before the formal docking process was completed. It did look cool. Not landing the jump – what looked cool was that I was somehow able to remove my hat, grab my wallet from my pocket and stuff it inside the hat, then safely chuck it onto the dock. Seconds before my ribs hit the wood and I fell in. And my friends had to pull me out of the water.
• I’ve been to the sand dunes three times, spending hours each day thrashing sand at others at speeds of up to (probably) 50mph. Throughout all that awesomeness, I have flipped the ATV just once…not when attempting a jump or angling up a sharp incline. I turned it over in an attempt to create a “perfect circle” in the sand, going roughly the pace of unicycle.
• At a “whoot-e-nanny” shootout (I believe that’s the proper phrasing), my buddy Jaron peer-pressured me into firing his assault rifle. Because I don’t watch shows centered on firearms, of course I don’t remember the alpha-numerical denotation for the gun. You can only guess at what happened before I pulled the trigger. I turned off the safety and aimed at the target, only to slow-mo-movie watch the clip eject towards the ground, sending a few rounds in the air. Or are they shells? I know they’re one of the two. (I think I won back some man-points, however, when I positioned myself behind the free-standing door in front of the range, stuck a handgun through the glassless window and shouted “Officer Mulder” at the dirt before unloading some venom in the general vicinity of the metal targets).

In spite of these hiccups, I still make it a point to be a man every now and then. Which is why my initial reaction to Melody telling me that her dad was taking us shooting was excitement. Shortly thereafter followed by a disturbingly vivid premonition that I’d find a way to eject a clip, shoot someone I’m not supposed to, get a flat tire on the way to the farm and not hit a single clay pigeon. Or something along those lines…

(Blast from the past)

Ominously, we drove for over an hour before we came upon the rustic farmhouse that would serve as our range. Belonging to family friends, the place itself, which once housed multiple generations of family, had the beautiful and quaint appeal of a house that belongs in the type of movie that I probably didn’t appreciate as a kid (but my parents made me watch anyway).

It’s not entirely accurate to say that it feels like you’re stepping back in time, though with its collection-based decorum, the overwhelming number of family photos on the walls and a noticeable lack of technology, it feels calmer inside than anywhere I’ve been in a while. It’s the sort of place that you feel comfortable in, even if it’s your first visit. Like you’ll learn something interesting – something to prevent losing momentum during a fading bar conversation – if you put some effort reading what they’ve taken the time to hang up on the walls. 

(The barn that creepily watched us shoot)

And because the house had A/C, part of me wanted to hang out inside all afternoon, brushing up on its history. But we were there to shoot guns, and I had a reputation to forge.

First Neil, Nick and I pieced together the 10x10 canopy that was so old, there were multiple layers of labeling to help us erect it. There were numbers, colors, arrows and different kinds of tape. Yes, it took all three of us to complete the task. Sweat forced me to remove my short-sleeve cowboy shirt, a pearl-snapped plaid number which seemed cool at 8 in the morning, eschewing it for my simple white tank top, which always seems like a good idea.

(Some assembly required)

Ken provided us with the full setup. The various guns were laid out on the table, which was situated next to the grandparents, who were in lawn chairs attempting to stay ahead of the shifting sun, robbing them of shade by the hour. Under the canopy was a clay pigeon chucking machine (definitely the correct term); outside of the canopy was an orange traffic cone marking the shooting area; boxes of ammo and pigeons were kept at first on the tables, then brought to the canopy. Earplugs, glasses and a shell-bag (also the appropriate term) that provided convenient access to the rounds were dished out, as were safety instructions and on-the-fly shooting lessons.

(It was approximately 124 degrees in the shade)

Ken certainly had a captive audience – he was a real insert-famous-marksman-here. Neil and Nick seemed to know what they were doing, and since they play video games, they probably did. Still, they listened dutifully and took Ken’s every word to heart. Celia, Melody and I seemed a bit more tentative, but were reassured by Ken’s calm and obvious knowledge of the entire situation. It didn’t mean we were any more likely to hit the pigeons, though.

The dudes stepped up first and crushed it. Neil and Nick and their video-game-calloused fingers made it look easy. Melody and I went on the second go-round and proved that it was not. No goal I’ve ever scored in soccer felt better than when I lightly grazed the fourth pigeon, registering my first official “hit”. Finger quotes required. Amazingly, after we all had a crack at it, no one had come back goose-egg.

(Awesome Shooting Gallery)

Ken would calmly coach us as we stepped up: “Aim a bit lower”…”You see how you shot just to the left”…”You want to pick it up quickly, or it becomes harder to spot”. We would all nod, and though I can only speak for myself here, try our best to take what he said into consideration, seeing as every turn up was as uncertain as the first day in college…just a different class. Until the very end, I found no easy manner in which to replicate any previous shot’s success.

(Learning)

Even grandpa Butch got into the action, though he out manly-ied all of us by refusing to put in his earplugs. He was shooting back-up to us kids, though during this stint I somehow managed to absolutely obliterate three targets in a row, dead center. For those not familiar with my dry humor, I was not responsible for the kills. Butch holding a shotgun was like Emeril wielding a spatula – it just seemed right.

(Three generations of Stratman men. Can you guess which one was the theater major?)

After thoroughly embarrassing the others, then taking some awesome posed pictures, Nick and Neil had to head out. Myself, Melody, Celia and even Ken continued on, shredding some clay pigeons, dinging others, and flat-out missing a bunch. We had a blast. Grandma Alita was there to cheer us on and put cookies in our hands. That was nice.

After depleting our ammo, we called it a day. We took down the tent and table, and then started hauling the day’s supplies to the cars. The house provided a brief respite from the heat as we attempted to freshen up before heading out. It was a boiler of a day, and we spent its hottest hours under the sun, relatively stationary, firing bullets at the Sun Gods. It was no wonder my shoulders were redder than the state of Texas on a political map.

(Check out our amazing posed shots)

What was not red was the banana-crumble milkshake that Melody and I shared on our way home from the range. Oh yeah, in addition to dominating some clay pigeons, we dispossessed Chic-Fil-A of some delicious chicken sandwiches. Even if I had come up empty during the shoot, it would have been worth it to end the day at America’s favorite chicken sandwich restaurant, gobbling up not one, but two chicken sandwiches all by myself. How’s that for manly! (Added to the list).

It was a wonderful day for the family, an okay day for my self-perception of my manliness, and a great day for a good number of clay pigeons that escaped our attempted shellacking. There is no cooler feeling than cocking a shotgun, ejecting the shell and imaging that you’re on the hunt for bad guys (and/or space aliens). Because that’s what I did.

Many thanks to the Stratman fam for overseeing my safety during my latest quest to be manly. 

For more pics, check out the entire shooting album: GUNS!!!

(For you science nerds, check out the awesome pics of the cicada we found molting on the house's front steps)

To see Ken destroy five discs in a row, check out this video: