***
The Riga-Kemp shoot off came first, and it was a dreary affair. Frank suffered along with the rest of the crowd as the contestants moved cautiously from the 300 meter range down to shorter and shorter distances. The action was slow, boring, indecisive. Frank pulled his shabby overcoat closer around himself to ward off the chill.
“Man, this sucks!” somebody behind Frank muttered.
“Where do they dig up these clowns,” another spectator complained.
Frank smiled inwardly. Neither of these contenders looked like major threats for Bob. They simply weren’t geared for competition on the Obstacles. That could change in an instant, though. Over the years, he’d watched some amazing scenarios in the TV coverage – a contestant looks really awful, then BAM! a victory from out of nowhere. All it took was one good shot.
“Send the bums home!” somebody yelled.
Others took up the chant: “Send the bums home!”
A rising chorus of catcalls and boos issued from the crowd. Frank cowered under the verbal lash; his mind reeled back 25 years when he had received similar condemnation.
Then he joined in the shouts: “Send the bums home!”
The officials were not supposed to give much weight to ‘fan input,’ but how could they ignore such a rebellion? The fans sounded like a mob at an ancient Roman gladiatorial contest. They stamped their feet and roared in a single voice:
SEND THE BUMS HOME!
Finally, a harsh, whistling noise came over the loudspeakers. The crowd fell silent. The loudspeaker began to talk:
By unanimous decisions of the judges, both contestants are disqualified for exceeding the allowed time limit.
The crowd broke into cheers. After the racket died down a bit, Frank raised his binoculars and observed the two disgraced ‘warriors’ exiting the obstacle course, following the earlier contestants into lives of oblivion.
Poor bastards! he thought.
He could afford to be sympathetic, neither man stood in the way of his dream any longer.
Ground crew rushed onto the obstacles course to prepare it for the next match – Daniels vs. “that Kough kid,” in the crowd parlance.
A man near Frank stood up to leave.
“Where’re you going?” the man’s friend asked.
“I’ve seen enough crap for one day,” the man replied. “I’ll watch Daniels at the regional tourney where he’ll have some real competition.”
“I hear you,” the friend said, also getting up.
Frank wanted to slug the guys; if he were fit, he just might have done so.
“You’ll be sorry,” he muttered.
Daniels and Bob appeared on the course along with the referee. Frank zeroed in with his binoculars. Daniels was a big, mean-looking guy. He appeared relaxed, confident – cocky even. Bob kept his eyes fixed to the ground.
Hang in there, son!
And now for the final event, the loudspeaker boomed. The obstacle course face off between Bert Daniels and Robert Kough!
A polite ripple of applause greeted the announcement.
Bob lost the coin toss, so Daniels was allowed his choice of opening position as well as the first chance to shoot.
“Poor kid,” somebody near Frank said, “ain’t nothing going his way.”
“Kind of hate to see a mismatch like this,” somebody else said.
Frank shot a barbed stare at the two offenders, but they didn't notice.
“Yeah, but you’ve got to give the kid credit,” the first man said. “I never thought he’d get this far.”
These and similar comments beat on Frank’s skull like jungle tom-toms. He’d not consumed any alcohol, but his head was starting to spin.
“We’d better get going to the car,” someone said. “Going to be one hell of a traffic jam getting out of here.”
Another man rose and led his family away – others started to leave as well. Frank uttered a silent curse at each one of them.
We’ll show you! he seethed, but he was losing confidence. The brazen look on Daniels’ face had scared him badly.
He felt tears starting to well up; he donned sunglasses to hide his anger and fear . . .
Open sights at 300 meters. The match began with a shriek of the referee’s whistle.
Good luck, son!
This was the boring early round, the part that seldom yielded any results and which had dragged on so interminably in the previous match. The clock started running; Bob had fifteen seconds to make his first move between home position and one of three obstacles.
He chose the one to his left and was almost there when Daniel’s shot caught him. The bullet struck the Hatchel’s stock with a resounding Crack! and sent Bobber sprawling behind the protection of the concrete barrier.
A hammer blow struck Frank’s chest; he struggled to breathe. A collective gasp shot through the crowd. Then a mighty ovation thundered. The parking lot exodus reversed itself.
Kough signals he’s fit to go on, the loudspeaker announced.
Another roar from the crowd, like a savage beast awakening from slumber.
“Get him Daniels!” someone shouted.
“Raise the white flag!” another fan yelled.
The mob divided into two unequal factions. Most roared for blood, while others urged the officials to stop the mismatch. The majority soon prevailed:
Get him Daniels! Shoot em up! Shoot em up!
Frank Kough felt the world slipping away from him. He tumbled forward and would have fallen out of his seat had the barrier not stopped him. His face squashed against the Plexiglas.
Please, son ... please, God!
It was Bobber’s turn now. A hush came over the crowd; Frank Kough forced himself to open his eyes and watch.
Daniels made a feinting move toward one obstacle before hurtling back to a different one. He was a big man, a big target . . .
Bob, the damaged rifle stock pressed firmly to his shoulder, wasn’t fooled and never varied his aim from the spot he knew to be the correct one. His bullet passed cleanly through both of Daniels’ temples. Spectators observing with binoculars saw Daniels fly wildly in the air and crash back down.
Silence greeted this incredible victory. Many seconds passed before cheers and thundering applause erupted. Frank was crying freely and unable to participate.