Chapter Two
Trenton McClelland's Story: Part Two
The crowd started to settle down as the Director of the Archer's Federation of America, Charles Fulman, raised his hand calling for silence. He was standing in front of a podium on a stage that had been set up behind the targets. There was a microphone attached to the podium, and PA speakers on either end of the stage. As a hush fell over everyone, Charles Fulman began to speak.
“Thank you all for coming out to the AFA's 2010, Northwest Pro-Am Tournament!” The crowd again started screaming. Charles Fulman raised his hand, once more to quiet the people in front of him. “Today's event's,” he continued, “will be underway with the Junior Level tournament, ages eight to twelve. Immediately following will be the Junior Level tournament, ages thirteen to seventeen. At the conclusion of all Junior events, at about five o'clock tonight, we will break for dinner. For those interested in staying, there will be an amazing buffet arranged in Aspen Hall, just off of Pacific Park Ln, not far off that direction,” he said, pointing the wrong way towards Aspen Hall. Several local audience members, laughing hysterically, corrected his mistake, and only then was he able to move on. “After dinner, in my opinion, is the most exciting event of every tournament. The Longshot begins at six thirty!” The crowd once again burst into a buzzing brouhaha. Charles Fulman waited for everyone's full attention. “LET THE GAME'S BEGIN!” he screamed. Thunderous applause bellowed from the anxious, whooping mob.
Only lanes 5-12 were being prepared for the Juniors ages eight to twelve because there were only eight shooters in that division. Jonathan Somerset, who had just turned nine years old in January, was one of those eight participants. He was nervous, mostly due to the over twelve hundred spectators. His father, Jason Somerset, was an avid bow hunter and had taught Jonathan how to shoot by the time he could walk and talk. He was aware of all of the pressure mounting in the tense afternoon atmosphere.
Jonathan took his place in lane 7 first at the thirty-five foot mark. All of the other Juniors in his division were lining up as well. Jonathan was small, even for a nine year old. He had sandy blonde hair and dark, chocolate colored eyes. When his father caught his attention from the crowd, Jonathan gave a wide smile, revealing several missing teeth. Jason waved to him, and they each then nodded to one another. Next to Jonathan, in lane 8, was his round one opponent.
The boy he was about to face off against had to be at the border age of twelve. Jonathan couldn't believe how big this boy was. Several heads taller than Jonathan, he also seemed to cast a shadow three times larger than Jonathan could. The boy's name tag said Alexander Norton A11.
“Each shooter will line up at the thirty-five foot hash mark for their first attempts,” came the voice of Charles Fulman through the speakers. “They will shoot five arrows at their targets and we will determine who was closest to the bull's eye. Each shooter will then move back to the forty foot hash mark, and will shoot five more arrows. If, at this time there is a tie between shooters, they must move back to the fifty foot mark, and at that time, they will be required to take turns shooting only three arrows, alternating one shooter at a time. The winner of each round will advance to the next. The non-winners will have another year to practice.”
Jonathan took his mark. Odd lanes were the first to shoot, then the even lanes took their turns. Being in lane 7, Jonathan would fire the first arrow. Earlier in the morning, he had snapped the string that had been on his bow since he had gotten it. He and his father had gone to a big burly old man with a bushy black and gray beard to have it restrung. While they were there, he saw the nicest compound bow he had ever seen before in his life. “Too bad we can't use compound bows,” Jonathan muttered to himself.
Jonathan's bow was a basic recurve made by Samick. It's limbs and grip were covered in a hardwood laminate that was beginning to peel. From tip to tip, it was an inch shy of two and a half feet tall, which was only a foot and three inches shorter than Jonathan himself. He was well aware by now that his bow liked to shoot the arrows up and slightly to the left. Correcting his aim towards the target, down and to the right of the bull's eye, Jonathan landed his first arrow right in the center circle. His second shot was even closer to the center. Shots three and four were a little shy of the bull's eye, in the next ring out. Concentrating hard, he nocked his final arrow, aimed, and SNAP! Dead center.
His opponent looked dumbfounded. At twelve years old, Alexander Norton knew he had already met defeat. He took his five shots, none of which landed in the center circle. As they stepped back to the forty foot hash mark, a very similar scene transpired. Jonathan Somerset ended his first round, victorious.
With four shooters now eliminated, only four remained. Jonathan had been moved to Lane 8. In Lane 7 stood his round two opponent, Phil Hart, who would start the second round. Jonathan watched as Phil landed three of his five arrows within the bull's eye. That feat alone, however, was not going to be enough to stay alive to see the final match.
Jonathan's first shot hit just left of the exact center of the target, and he would not need to fire any more from the thirty-five foot mark. Moving back to the forty foot hash mark, he again waited for Phil to take his five shots. Two of them were very close, but there was definitely room for Jonathan to win round two outright. On his third arrow, he did just that. Phil shook Jonathan's hand and wished him luck in the final round.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the finalists of the Junior's eight to twelve division!” exclaimed Charles Fulman's voice over the PA. The crowd began cheering. “Shooting in Lane 9 will be young Jonathan Somerset, age nine.” More cheering and applause broke out from the surrounding gallery. “And shooting in Lane 10 is last year's champion, Diego Ruiz, age eleven!”
After the loud ovation had died down, Jonathan took his stance at the thirty-five foot hash mark. His nerves had not yet gotten to him, but the real pressure was now escalating. All of the attention was focused directly upon him alone. He took another look around, only to see thousands of eyes staring back at him. He nocked an arrow, pulled back to full draw, steadied his aim and dispatched his first final round arrow. It had landed completely in the second circle, outside of the bull's eye.
Hands sweaty and shaking, he nocked his next arrow. With the snap of the string came the thunk of the arrow hitting the target, very close to the heart of the bull's eye. His third shot hit within the bull's eye, but further away than the second. Nocking his fourth shot, he did not remember to aim low and right. For only the fourth time in the tournament, Jonathan missed the bull's eye altogether.
Taking careful aim, Jonathan nocked his final arrow at thirty-five feet. At full draw, he stood there, motionless. He made certain his aim was down and to the right as his fifth arrow was sent hurtling towards the target. Another bull's eye, but there was plenty of room for Diego Ruiz to take the first heat.
In Lane 10, Diego took aim and fired. It was a bull's eye, but no one could tell if it was close enough or not, so he nocked a second attempt. This one left no room for doubt. Diego Ruiz took the early lead in the final match.
Jonathan moved back to the forty foot hash mark. If he was nervous before, he was now beyond apprehensive. He had to win this heat in order to force a fifty foot shoot out. Otherwise, Diego Ruiz would be the reigning champion two years running. Jonathan reached into his quiver, and pulled out his first arrow. Taking aim at full draw, he fired. He hit the outer edge of the bull's eye, crossing just slightly into the next ring out. His next shot wasn't much better. Neither his third, nor his fourth arrows were able to give him any confidence that he would win, though they had been bull's eyes.
Making sure that he was aligned where he thought he should be, Jonathan gave his final arrow every bit of concentration he could muster. With so much riding on this final attempt, no one in the crowd was making any noise. He released his grip on the string and the arrow dashed to the target. It hit within the bull's eye, only millimeters from the black dot in the exact center of the target. The audience erupted in a deafening approval of his final shot. Proud that he had done his best, and could do no more, he awaited Diego Ruiz's turn.
Just as Jonathan had done to Phil Hart in the second round at thirty-five feet, Diego was about to accomplish against Jonathan. He nocked his first arrow, took aim, and off he sent it. There was no doubt in Jonathan's mind, nor anyone in the crowd for that matter, that the tournament was now over. Staring down at the target for Lane 10, there was no more black dot in the center of the bull's eye. There was only the shaft of a single arrow visible.
Jonathan turned to the boy that had just beaten him, Diego Ruiz, and offered his hand in congratulations, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. Diego shook his hand, and Jonathan turned to see his father running towards him smiling.
“You did great, buddy. I'm so proud of you. You should have seen the look on that poor boy's face when you landed that last arrow. I thought we were about to see an eleven year old have a heart attack.” Jason Somerset chuckled and gave his son a big hug.
Jonathan, enveloped in his father's arms, wanted nothing more than to begin bawling right there. As several tears streamed down his cheeks, he wiped his face on his sleeve, and, sniffling, gave his father his best toothless grin. Several spectators had gathered around Diego to congratulate him on his win. As they finished complimenting the winner, a few had noticed Jonathan and a small crowd had amassed itself around him to give him their praises as well.
Just then, Charles Fulman's voice came back into the speakers. “Congratulations to the runner-up of the Juniors Ages 8-12. Jonathan Somerset, please join me on stage.” A large round of applause, accompanied by hooting and several loud whistles came from around the audience.
Jonathan looked up at his father. Jason smiled down at his son and said, “Go on then.” With the biggest, most obviously toothless grin he had yet had that day, Jonathan bolted through the people around him and climbed the stairs to meet several AFA officials. Charles Fulman was still at the microphone.
“And please,” Fulman continued, “let's hear it one more time for our Juniors Ages 8-12 champion, two years running now, DIEGO RUIZ!” As Charles Fulman shouted into the mic, the sea of people, now in front of Jonathan, began chanting “DEE AY GO!” over and over again as Diego made his way onto the stage. After the hysteria had lulled, Charles Fulman began again. “To our runner-up, you receive a $100 gift certificate to Briggs Archery Supply, here in Bend. Jonathan, I congratulate you on your fine performance today. I would like to present you with the second place trophy. Well done.” The crowd gave him a round of applause as Jonathan accepted his winnings. “Diego Ruiz. Congratulations on your achievement. You will receive a $250 gift certificate to archersunlimited.com. I would like to present you with your trophy.”
Jonathan didn't notice the crowd. Being on stage, in front of that many people, he was so overwhelmed with wonder, that none of his senses could focus. He held his trophy up in the air, proud of what he had done. He didn't win, but he still felt like he had. Charles Fulman began announcing the next event, Juniors Ages 13-17, as the other officials escorted Jonathan and Diego off stage.
Jonathan ran back to his father, who smoothly lifted him off of the ground and swung him around in the air. Jason brought his son into himself, and they hugged each other for several moments. When Jonathan was back, feet on the ground, he examined, for the first time, his trophy. He had already noticed is was smaller than the one Diego had won, but he hadn't had the chance to really look at it yet. There was a light gray veined, white marble base. Atop the base sat a bronze figure of an archer with his bow at full draw. The man was so detailed, his cropped hair seemed to be blowing in the wind. Even the quiver that was on his back had several arrows jutting out of it, and a criss-crossing diamond pattern down its length.
In his other hand, Jonathan remembered he had a gift certificate. He handed it up to Jason. “Oh, that's perfect,” his father said happily. “That store is where we got your bow restrung this morning. He did excellent work. We can go look some more later, but how would you like to go get some ice cream, right now?” Jonathan screamed with excitement, and together the two of them strolled off towards the food vendors. They left behind them the conclusion of the first round of the next tournament.
Darby Wilson sat off to the side of the competitors, watching as fourteen lanes of boys shot arrows to determine who would move on into the next round. She was not your typical sixteen year old girl. As a few of the lanes began to clear out, she heard the boy who had won his first round in Lane 14 shout out at her, “The next bye you're gonna get is from me, when I kick your ass! Why do they even let stupid girls enter? You should just go shopping or something!”
Taking into consideration that one; it wasn't her fault she was the only female archer her age; two, it wasn't her fault there weren't an even sixteen shooters and that the AFA decided to give her the BYE for the first round; and three, she was better with a bow than anyone she had ever shot with before, she decided to just ignore the foolish teenage boy. He was soon to find out that talking a big game, and actually having a big game, were two entirely different ways to go about his life. She said nothing as all of the lanes cleared for round two.
As fortune would have it, she was set into Lane 12 for the start of the round. Lane 11, was filled by that same boy who had just been yelling at her. She noticed his name tag said Dana Butler A13. She smiled to herself, so he wouldn't notice. Amusing as it was that this mouthy little shit had a girl's name, Darby knew she would have to center her attention on the task at hand, not spend time arguing with some idiot. Because Dana was in Lane 11, he would start the second round from which one of them would be eliminated. Darby was confident it would not be her.
She watched as Dana completed his third shot. Just as his first two shots were, this was also a bull's eye. However, Darby saw her opponent was having trouble bringing in any of his arrows. The fourth lingered on the edge of the inner circle as well. When he missed the bull's eye entirely on his last shot, he turned and looked at Darby with a presumptuous look on his face. “Good luck with that, girl. I bet you can't even hit the target. Don't choke!” He placed his hands over his throat and began to pretend gag and convulse.
Darby pulled a single arrow from her quiver, and threw the rest behind her. From thirty-five feet, Darby rarely missed. Stretching the string back to full draw, and aiming for only a moment, she released the arrow. It hit its intended target. The black dot in the center of the bull's eye was now the shaft of an arrow and the first heat was over. Dana and Darby both lined up at the forty foot line, and again, Dana would shoot first.
“Beginner's Luck,” he said to her, his voice having lost its self-important tone, though the words remained cocky. “Watch and learn how it's really done.” Dana took his first shot and hit the inner circle. His second and third shots were even closer now to the center. He had found something within himself that allowed him to improve in the second heat. It appeared to Darby, that he was actually shooting more accurately, as the pressure had mounted on his side. Dana's final shot was nearly dead center. “Beat that, bitch.”
Darby stared her opponent down, with a dangerous look in her eye. Dana's face went pale with the sudden loss of blood pressure inside his head. She made sure he knew she meant him harm, and then she began laughing hysterically at him. As pale as his face was just a moment ago, it was now twice that red, compensating for not only embarrassment, but a rush of anger that pulsed throughout his hormone driven body.
Before Darby had finished laughing at him, so hard her eyes were closed, and before Dana could think of what he was doing, he had balled up a fist and swung as hard as he could towards her head. Several people had begun watching what was going on between the two shooters in the last two lanes. As his fist slammed into the side of Darby's face, the people that were observing gasped in one collective breath. Her mouth filled instantly with a mixture of thick, foamy saliva, and rich, warm blood.
Several of the onlookers rushed to see if Darby had been seriously injured, while a few older men had restrained Dana from being able to inflict any more damage. One of the AFA officials hurried to the scene and began asking people what they had seen.
“I don't even think she's said a word to him yet,” said one of the other boys from the competition. “He called her a bitch,” said an older woman. “She's only even shot once,” came another voice. After the official seemed to have gotten a good enough sampling from everyone as to what had taken place, he turned to Darby.
“Ms. Wilson, are you alright?” he asked her. All she could do was nod to him and spit out more blood. Her head was throbbing, and her vision was still blurred by tears that had formed in her eyes. She was shaking uncontrollably at the sudden burst of adrenaline. “Are your parents here? Do you want to press charges?” the official asked her, looking nervous.
“NO!” shouted Darby. Her parents would be furious with her if they found out she had come to compete in an archery tournament. The man from the AFA looked shocked at the way she reacted to his questioning, and she quickly added, “No, my parents aren't here. I'm fine. He's just a sore loser and I hadn't even beaten him yet. No, we don't need to deal with my parents or the police.” Darby looked around and found her quiver. She slid out an arrow and nocked it to her bowstring. People leaped out of the way as she took aim from the forty foot hash mark and fired. Again, she had replaced the little black dot in the bull's eye with her arrow. “Just to prove a point,” she said to herself.
A splattering of applause broke out at her resilience. Charles Fulman, the man directing the tournament, had even come down to see what was holding up the third round. He looked at Darby's most recent shot, then looked back to her. He said only one word. “Winner.”
Dana Butler's parents were now escorting him out of the park and you could her his father yelling. “I can't believe you hit a girl. For Christ's sake son, you'll regret this day for years to come. Just wait until we get home!” Officially, Dana had been disqualified from the tournament for unsportsmanlike conduct, although everyone was aware that he had gotten off far too easy. He could have been slapped with a Measure 8 violation, which was a “Zero Tolerance” policy enacted in Oregon for violent crimes dealing with minors.
When all of the chaos had settled, Darby had picked up a large group of fans preparing to watch her in the next round. From fifteen original shooters, there were now four going to the third round. Darby Wilson had still not technically won a single match, and she was now entering the semi-finals. She walked over to Lane 9 and prepared herself for the first shots from thirty-five feet. This time, she would fire first.
As her first arrow landed slightly off to the left, Darby realized that her vision still had not been fully regained. She nocked a second arrow and fired again, this time landing in the second ring. Trying not to lose her composure, let alone her second match, she asked her opponent for a time extension. He said it would be fine, and she ran over to a little table set up behind the shooters. There, she found several large water coolers and tall red plastic cups full of icy cold water. She grabbed one of the cups and threw its contents on her face. The second one she grabbed, she took a drink from, and ran with it, back to her lane. Quickly gulping down the rest of the water, she returned to the thirty-five foot hash mark, and took aim at her target once more. The third arrow hit dead center. Her opponent would have to try very hard to beat her this heat. Her fourth and fifth shots were more careless, because she knew she could not get any closer.
Her opponent, Jake Albright, was not able to get any closer, either. In fact he could not place an arrow to match hers, and Darby Wilson had won the first heat. Both of them stepped back to the forty foot mark, and again, Darby would have the honors. Each arrow she shot seemed to creep inward toward the center mark until finally, her fifth attempt landed mere millimeters from the true bull's eye. Glad to look over and see Jake Albright unsure of his chances, Darby took a seat in the grass and awaited Jake's turn to finish.
The audience surrounding Lanes 7-10 were rapt with attention. The object of their scrutiny being what took place in this match. Lanes 7 and 8 had finished their match, and the winner, Brady Hayes, would be meeting either Jake Albright, or Darby Wilson in the finals, to determine the champion. The outcome of this match would be decided in five shots.
Jake lined up the target and fired. The arrow was not close enough to win, so he would have to try again. He nocked the second arrow, pulled back, and fired. Again, within the bull's eye, but not as close as the first. His third arrow was what caused a huge round of applause. It looked as though it had come very close to the direct center point. His fourth and fifth shots, though all bull's eyes, were not any better than his third.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention for a moment,” came the familiar voice of Charles Fulman. “Mr. Albright has forced a measurement against Ms. Wilson.” The audience began screaming wildly. “As the judges are removing the targets for the measurement, I would like to thank all of the Juniors who came out to compete today. Let's have a round of applause for all of the participants!” The audience again exploded. Only a few moments had gone by before everyone was shushing their neighbors.
“The judges have measured each shooter's closest shot to the center. Miss Wilson, whom has had a very rough day, if I do say so myself, measured out at two point three millimeters,” Fulman stated. There was a subdued celebration, as no one was sure yet who had won the second heat. “Mr. Albright,” he continued, “has measured out at...” With the pause in his sentence, the only audible sound in the entire area was a flock of Canadian Geese that were flying overhead. “TWO POINT SEVEN MILLIMETERS!” As Charles Fulman shouted this information, a barbaric uproar overpowered Darby's ears. The crowd had a new hometown hero, and her name was Darby Wilson.
For what seemed like five full minutes, the crowd was in hysterics. After the decibels had decreased, there was still a very loud buzzing from hundreds of excited conversations. Darby made her way over to Lane 8, where she would face one of the toughest competitors she would ever again come up against. Standing in Lane 7, where he had won his last round, was Brady Hayes. Darby knew that any archer with the family name of Hayes, was as good as impossible to beat.
As she approached her final opponent, he winced as he made eye contact with her. “Darby, right?” Brady asked. Darby nodded her head affirmatively, and he then asked, “Does it still hurt?”
“No. Thank you,” she lied, pleased that he was concerned, but not wanting to show any weakness. Brady was seventeen, and this would be his last Juniors event. He was a very attractive young man, with dark brown hair that fell over his deep brown eyes. Darby had seen him once before, and had an instant crush. One of the top archers in their age group in the country, he was also an extremely humble, and soft spoken person. Darby liked that, because it was something of herself that she saw in him.
“Are you sure,” Brady asked again, “because that looks painful.” He pointed at her face. Only then did she realize she had no idea what she must look like. Darby reached her hand up to the left side of her face, and ran it across her cheek, where she had been punched. The whole of the left side felt swollen, and the area was tender, and hurt to touch. She started to get the picture in her head. The entire left side of her face had to be deep purples and blues by now. Her jaw was also very stiff, and she felt every bit of movement her mouth made when she spoke.
“I'm fine, thanks.” Darby wanted Brady's attention, just not this way. She decided that if he was going to worry about her, it would be over the outcome of the final match, not her stupid bruise. Right then, Charles Fulman walked up the staircase leading to the stage. Everyone was waiting with their full attention to hear what he had to say, but instead of walking to the podium, he began talking to and shaking the hands of the other officials that were standing in a row along the back of the stage. Any minute, he would be announcing the start of the championship match in the Juniors Ages 13-17 Division. But there was something he was all of the sudden very excited for.
Trenton opened the blue cooler and pulled out a can of Lemon-Lime soda. He cracked it open and made his way back over to his chair that was set up within the merchandise area of Briggs Archery Supply. He sat down and took a big chug, draining half the can in one loud gulp. He set the can into the cup holder of his chair. From the pocket in his sweatshirt, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He lifted the lid and raised the pack to his lips, using them to secure a single stick. He lowered the pack, closed the lid and returned the cigarettes to his pocket. There, he switched the pack for his new Bic and, striking the flint, set flame to the end of his cigarette.
“Get me one'a them, wontcha?” Clay said to Trenton. Clay had smoked his last cigarette after he had returned to the store following there mini excursion into the woods after lunch. Trenton opened the lid on his pack and held it in front of Clay, gesturing to take one. Clay held out his hand again for the lighter, and soon Mark Dagget had a Marb in his mouth.
The three of them sat there, silently smoking cigarettes. Clay reached behind the back of his chair and, without looking back, popped open the top of the red cooler. Inside were two gold cans remaining of a six pack of Miller Genuine Draft, and six 22oz bottles of Silver Moon Brewery's selections. Clay, still not looking and, with one hand still smoking a cigarette, removed one of the cans from its plastic ring and closed the cooler. Across the long field of Shevlin Park, the voice of Charles Fulman began speaking.
“If I may have your attention please. Let me introduce to you our two finalists in the Juniors 13-17 age division. Brady Hayes, and Darby Wilson!” As he shouted the names, the whole of the crowd in front of Briggs Archery Supply was cheering. “A coin toss decided who would open the championship round. Mr. Hayes won that coin toss and he has elected to be the first to shoot. Give them one more round of applause!”
When the noise had died down, Trenton and Clay were each finishing their cigarettes. Trenton hurriedly drank down the last of his Lemon-Lime, and Clay had already finished the beer he had just opened, and then opened his final can of MGD. Mark leading the way, the three of them began rushing to watch the final match take place.
As Trenton and Mark were returning from the woods to the store, at the beginning of the tournament, they had noticed a huge crowd of people rushing around. One of those people had informed the two of them that there had been a fight, and a girl had been punched in the face.
They had told Clay what they had heard and seen, and that she was competing in the tournament. When Charles Fulman announced Darby Wilson would be a finalist, all three of them were very curious to see what this girl was made of.
Pushing their way through the crowd of people, trying to get a glimpse of the final match, was not an easy task. From where Trenton stood, he could just make out the girl, Darby. He watched her fire toward the target. It looked to him to have landed on the center point. The crowd in front of him cheered, clapping their hands violently and stomping the ground so hard, Trenton thought that that was what a small earthquake must feel like.
He moved closer and saw her land another shot almost touching her first. The crowd went even more insane. As her opponents target came into view, Trenton realized that, though one arrow had also removed the black dot from his target, the second closest was not remotely touching the first. Darby Wilson had won her first heat.
The screaming turned into whispers as her opponent lined up at forty feet. Trenton realized then that this boy, Brady Hayes, was unmistakably the younger brother of Everette Hayes. Knowing this to be the case, Trenton knew it meant also that this girl, Darby, had not only pulled off a stunning victory in the first heat, but also, that she was still a long way from winning the tournament. Just then, he thought he saw something by the stage. A brown robe. He whipped his eyes back to the spot he thought he'd seen it, but nothing was there.
Brady fired his first shot from forty feet, and landed it exclusively in the center dot. This time around, his second arrow did nestle up to the first. And the third. The fourth arrow hit the shaft of one already embedded in the target, and deflected itself into the second ring. The fifth arrow was a bull's eye, but not touching the other three. Wildly, the crowd applauded Brady for his fine shooting.
The crowd began fervently hushing itself to give Darby an atmosphere in which to concentrate. Lined up at the forty foot mark, Trenton watched as her first attempt was as accurate as possible. Her second arrow stuck right against the first, just as Brady had done. One thing was certain, this girl knew how to shoot. Trenton was impressed at her third shot. She had employed the archer's version of a golfer's lay-up. Instead of trying to kill the bull's eye and have three shafts touching, all she did was make sure that it didn't land as far out as Brady's fourth furthest arrow.
Trenton knew from experience that what she was doing here was placing a guide shaft. As long as Darby was able to place her first of two remaining arrows, clustered in with the two in the center of the target, all she would have to do on her final arrow is land it anywhere closer than her guide and the tournament would be over. The audience around appeared to be keen to this fact as well, for Trenton did not witness anyone near him blink. Very few people were even breathing.
Darby gave her fourth arrow a full draw and steady aim. Trenton could hear the snap of the bowstring and the whispering whistle of the flying fletching. Perfect shot. The arrow indeed rested right against the other two shots clustered on the center point. A quick burst of cheering and applause disappeared before it had even really begun. The heat was not over. She took out her fifth and final arrow.
The clanking sound of the metal arrow tip ricocheting off one of the embedded arrows, brought a sudden, horrified gasp from the spectators. Darby's last arrow did not land in the bull's eye. It did not land in the second ring out, either. Trenton stared down at her last attempt, and the final shot was barely on the target paper at all. The shaft hung downward, diagonally to the right, and was almost flush with the paper. If her guide point did not measure out closer than Brady's fourth furthest shaft, there would be a fifty foot shoot out, best of three.
“Please may I have your attention,” came an all to familiar voice. Trenton looked up and saw that it belonged to the Uncle Pennybags looking man that cleared him out of Lane 13 that morning. Charles Fulman was standing at the podium, hands raised above his head calling for quiet. “Miss Wilson has forced a measurement against Mr. Hayes. Please bear with me a moment while our judges are figuring it out. Because we are so near the end of the Junior Division tournaments, I would like to take this time to remind you that at the conclusion, there will be a buffet in Aspen Hall for anyone wishing to attend.” He turned to two of the officials standing off to his right and smiled. The two men grinned back at him. Charles then turned to the line of six men and three women behind him, presumably other officials and some of the sponsors. He nodded to them, and they all began grinning as well. “Do make sure...”
The judges began making their way up to the stage, and Charles' voice had been instantly drowned out by the excitement of the people he was attempting to address. Trenton turned to ask Clay what he thought of this girl with a half-purple face, that was making life difficult for Brady Hayes, but his mouth was no sooner able to open when Clay asked, “She's one helluva shot, ain't she?”
“Yeah, boss,” Trenton responded. “Imagine if she beats a Hayes. She's gonna have a story to tell, if she pulls this off. Not too many people can say they've done it.” Trenton felt sick knowing that he was only a couple of hours away from his own trouble with Everette Hayes. Trying not to think about it, he changed the subject. “We can hear whats happening from the parking lot. You guys want a smoke?”
“Not now, kid. Figure I'm 'onna stick this one through.” Clay wasn't one to smoke cigarettes as regularly, but Mark looked as if he couldn't wait to get out of the crowd. As conversations began to dwindle, Mark and Trenton shoved their way through the audience, and walked quickly toward the parking lot.
“Now that I have your undivided attention,” came Charles Fulman's voice through the PA, “I would like to continue with what I was saying before I read the results from the judges.” Trenton laughed as the whole crowd behind them let out a collective, disapproving groan. “Do make certain not to forget that after tonight's dinner, the longshot competition will begin. There are only seven shooters signed up for this event. I would really like it if some of you would come and register before or during dinner.”
“Only seven,” Mark said, shocked. “How are there only seven people signed up for it?”
“One thing,” Trenton explained, “it doesn't pay out like tomorrow's event. Secondly, most of these guys here, they're good at close range shooting. Put them out another hundred and fifty feet, another two hundred feet, a lot of them lose their depth perception. Finally, the reason most won't do it is it can be a huge game changer. You might feel confident in your shooting of the 50-60-80, but miss the target completely, three for three no less, and you're no longer so hopeful for the next day.”
“Sounds kinda like being on tilt, doesn't it?” asked Mark. While he loved working with Clay and Trenton, and while he was a decent shot himself, Mark was a poker player, not an archer. He preferred to win money by having his opponents willingly give it to him.
“Exactly like being on tilt.” Trenton lit his cigarette, and inhaled deeply. He had gone to some of the private games that Mark had invited him to, and one night, he found out the hard way that poker was an easy way to misplace your rent if you were ever on tilt. Thoughts aren't as clear as they should be. You no longer are able to make rational decisions based on instinct and practice. Emotions guide your hand when you're on tilt, be it at a poker table, an archery tournament, or at work giving a presentation for the boss of your boss's boss. If you tilt, you need to do everything you can think of to forget the past disaster, and focus on the present situation.
Trenton and Mark continued smoking as Charles Fulman's voice filled the distant background, announcing the outcome of the measurement. “Our judges have informed me that they had to measure out to the fourth. This means that both Mr. Hayes and Ms. Wilson's closest three shots were equidistant to each other. The fourth arrow from the center did come out two different distances. With a measurement of four point seven three centimeters is Mr. Brady Hayes!”
Where normally the audience would be buoyant with enthusiasm for a competitor who had shot four arrows within four and three quarters centimeters space, they were instead, deeply absorbed into the silence, waiting to hear of their heroine's proficiency. Trenton took one last long pull off of his cigarette, and dropped it to the asphalt beneath him. He stomped out the cherry with his feet.
“Ms. Wilson's measurement, which I'm sure is what you are all waiting to hear was...” Charles Fulman spat slow staccato syllables when enunciating Darby's measurement, almost as if each were it's own word. “FOUR. POINT. SEH. VEN. TWO. CENTIM. METERS!”
Even in the parking lot, well over fifty yards from the side of the crowd, the sound was deafening. Trenton had to cover his ears while the city of archery enthusiasts had just witnessed a near miracle. Not only had Darby managed to beat Brady Hayes, but she had done so in two heats. Trenton was highly impressed.
“Good for her, then,” Mark said. “Wanna see if Clay wants a smoke smoke 'fore dinner?” Trenton thought that maybe he should abstain from another session, but after a brief reconsideration, thought it couldn't hurt. He realized now that dinner was the only thing left between him and a likely face off between him and Everette Hayes. A bit of weed would help lower his nervousness.
They headed back as Fulman was presenting the two finalists with their winnings. Brady had received a $500 gift certificate to Jack's Traditional Archery, which is where Trenton's new quiver came from. Darby had won $750 gift certificate to Briggs and that meant he would get a chance to congratulate her in person when she came into the store to redeem it, if the chance didn't come today. The audience was disbanding, most headed in the direction of Aspen Hall, but some passed Mark and Trenton on their way to the parking lot. When they found Clay still standing where he had been earlier, he was on his phone.
“Sure's shit, babe. I love you more, alw'ys.” Clay smiled as he closed the flip. “Reckon we oughta head towards and get grub 'fore it's gone.” Trenton was about to ask if Sonya would be joining them for dinner, when Clay said, “Shain't go'n be here for twenty minutes, so no sense waitin' 'round.” He ushered Trenton and Mark to his sides, and the three of them motivated themselves to follow the rest of the crowd towards food.
“WAIT!” Mark shouted, startling Clay and Trenton out of their lemming-like state. “Why don't we, uh, just wait in the store for her?”
“Now why'n the hell would we wanna do that?” Clay said. Trenton noticed an all to familiar twinkle in the old man's eyes, and Clay all of the sudden grinned as wide as Trenton had ever seen him go in the past. “I knew I kept you 'round for a reason, Mark. It's your quick thinkin'. That, and your witless charm.”
“Hear me, y'old nut bag. I have no charm of which to speak!” Trenton snickered. Listening to Clay and Mark banter back and forth was one of his favorite things to do. Every once in awhile, he found himself stepping in, but his relationship with Clay was far different than that of Mark's.
Mark was the first one of them to reach the tables, and he pulled the furthest one out at an angle, enough to allow all three of them to get through, and then replaced it once they were. Clay closed the roof over the trailer, the legs of the awning snapping back into the storage slots. Inside the trailer, Mark pulled out his clay jar and loaded his own glass pipe that he called “Pipesces.”
The pipe was a solid black, basic glass steamroller, with a quarter inch carb at the end. Below the bowl was an ergonomically designed clear glass protrusion. The design allowed the person holding it to cup the almost ball in their hand, and use their index finger to block the carb with ease. Encased inside that clear glass were two neon tetra fish, both about an inch long. The fish each had a bright blue strip along their sides, and a bright red stripe along their tail fin.
Mark passed the fresh bowl to his best friend, who took a hit. Exhaling the smoke he had been holding in his lungs straight into the air where the roof was again in place, Trenton felt his nerves lessen. As the pipe was handed back to him, he inhaled another lung full. From out of the corner of his eye and out the doorway of the trailer, Trenton saw someone standing on the outside of the far table. “Boss,” he said, using his eyes to indicate to Clay what was going on.
Clay stood from the one work stool and went outside. Trenton and Mark made eye contact, and both of them leapt towards the seat at the same time. Mark had been quicker, and yanked the stool from Trenton, scraping the feet along the metal floor. Trenton slammed into the back counter and, with the impact, shouted a loud “GRAAGHH!!” When he turned around, Mark was sitting on the stool, chuckling to himself.
“Keep it down in there, you two!” Clay shouted from outside. Trenton tried to hear what the two men were talking about, but all he could make out were monotonous mumblings. The conversation outside continued on for several more minutes, all the while, Mark and Trenton were only able to hear words like, “This isn't...” or, “highly unusual,” or, “...provided with,” or, “additional event.” Those last two words intrigued Trenton the most. Finally, the two men outside seemed to wrap up their conversation. “Thanks a lot, Charles,” they heard Clay say, before he stepped back inside.
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