Here's a S&W K38 that belonged to Rick Crawford. Number 1822XX. Anyone got a clue as to what year it was made?
Been a very scenic summer though I haven't been posting much. The TSRA National Match Rifle Team is made but back in June they weren't. I had to step into a coaching slot to try and get us through the coaching changes made since last year. I'm in the worst slot possible- coaching the out-of-competition team. There isn't anything we can win. I can't make the National Rifle Team and won't be shooting on a team that might win the Soldier of Marathon Trophy. Limbo. Which is not to say that the job doesn't need to be done. It does. I'm doing it. Bitch off.
I get to shoot the Presidents 100 and the LEG match, then Alan Long and I are going to shoot the Vintage Sniper Match. After that I help drive two out-of-comp teams and then the Springfield, Garand and Vintage Military matches will be fired. Still a lot of shooting.
Part of the lost summer comes from having a kidney stone attack on the way home after a long weekend coaching at Camp Swift. I actually didn't make it home, with Katie coming to rescue me about 15 miles out. Pretty sporty experience. Ended up in ER a couple of days later. I thought it was food poisoning. Instead, it was a stone on the right side. Lotta walking and applejuice. This experience is NOT recommended for children or other living things.
During the stone transit week, I often walked just around the corner on a nice empty no-traffic street. An attack had started about 4:00AM on a Sunday night and I was out in a bathrobe and dog-walking shoes. Carrying a glass of ice water. I came in testy peace to all mankind.
That time of morning pretty quiet. It wasn't hot. Some kids were sitting out smoking dope and talking about a half block up. I could smell pot and hear them murmuring. After several circuits the pain began to back off and I decided to head home. Cutting across the neighbors driveway I heard MORE talking. I squinted down their drive and could just make out someone standing against their white garage. At first I thought they were out walking their little dog. Ted.
This shape started walking my way and out of the darkness I heard it say, "Er-Ah, have you got a light?"
This is what police call "the interview," where a criminal engages you in conversation to access your threat level. This fellow comes strolling out of the darkness intending to walk up to me at 4:30AM in my neighbors driveway and ask me for a light. Oh yeah. And for some reason, (perhaps from my general testiness over being in pain for several days), this got all over me. I instantly went all apples. Flaming red ones.
I held up my hand like a traffic cop and yelled "STOP!" He kept approaching. I backed up a bit and yelled "DON'T APPROACH ME!" I started moving left. He finally stalled. Six feet. Red T shirt, shorts, shoes. Close cropped hair. Black. For a moment I thought we were going from the interview stage to the knockout game stage. I'm sure he was beginning to sense that I had a "bad vibe."
He mumbled something about a light for his cigarette and I began to challenge, with max profanity, everything he said. He shifted to the old "car broken down" approach. I challenged, with even more profanity, that meme. I added that anyone wandering the yards would be "SHOT GRAVEYARD DEAD" with enough fresh profanity to scorch paint, He said he was just cutting through the neighbors back yard to get through the corner and I challenged that with newer, more pointed profanity and mentioned again that I would happily SHOOT HIM IN THE FACE in an instant.
I didn't use any racial references, but I did call him every insulting and demeaning term while frequently adding references to my zestful desire SHOOT HIM TO DEATH until he finally took the open lane and walked off mumbling about what a racist I was.
I made a beeline for the house, retrieved a light, phone and Sig 220 full of handloads and started egging on the police. At 4:30 you have the young guys and the bored guys and I woke up the dispatcher and had them on site in about 1:30. They are young and fit and would love to catch a burglar. We missed him.
It was my tactical error. I should have been charming and stalled him long enough to get a Garand in his face, with the promise of a light and/or 20 bucks so he could gas up his car. It's a rare thing to actually be able to capture a burglar and they radiate so much misery that they are worth extraordinary efforts. I should have tricked the satchel-assed son-of-a-bitch. But I didn't. I got mad instead.