The girl was a good girl. For Christmas she had asked for a BB gun, a football and a Bible. When she awoke on Christmas morning all three were there under the tree. On this particular spring evening the girl sat with her BB gun on the concrete steps at the side of her house. She was shooting at the spikey little balls that hung from the tree in the lot across the street.
The BB gun that the girl was shooting was a Daisy Model 111. It had a wooden stock and a shiny blue barrel and lever. She had learned to aim slightly above her target to compensate for the arc of the BB’s flight and had quickly mastered hitting the bullseye on the paper targets that came with the gun. Shooting at tin cans was no challenge and shooting at birds was out of the question. So she began shooting at the spikey balls that hung from the trees in the lot across the street.
As she was shooting, her Daddy came out from his garage down the hill. He was wearing his coveralls. He worked the night shift for the phone company. During the day he worked on Volkswagens in his garage. “Hey, girl,” he said as he walked up the hill. “Whatcha shootin’ at?” “Those little hangy down spikey balls on the trees across the street,” the girl replied. “I promised myself I was going to learn to hit them and I have.” She lined up another hangy down spikey ball in the BB gun’s sight and pulled the trigger. The spikey ball spun, swung around and dropped to the earth. “Nice shot,” said her Daddy. “They’re called sycamore balls. Those are sycamore trees.” The girl squeezed off a shot. Another sycamore ball plummeted to the earth. “Dang, girl! You’re a regular Annie Oakley!” exclaimed her Daddy.
“Who’s Annie Oakley?”
“She was a famous woman sharpshooter in the Old West. There was a TV show about her. Hey, wanna have a shootin’ contest?”
“Sure.”
“The one who hits the most sycamore balls wins a dollar. First one to ten wins.”
“Okay.”
“Ladies first.”
“Okay.”
The girl promised herself that she would beat her Daddy in the shooting contest. She zeroed in on a spot on a limb above a sycamore ball and shot. The ball spun and dropped. “Not bad,” he said. “Now let the old sportsman show you how it’s done.” The girl’s Daddy was an avid hunter and fisherman. He took aim and fired. The BB struck the sycamore ball straight on and knocked it to the ground. He handed the gun back to the girl. She took aim and shot. A spikey ball fell and she handed the gun back to her Daddy. His shot was true and they were tied at two apiece.
They matched each other shot for shot. When they were tied at five each the girl’s Daddy pointed across the street. “Look at that squirrel over there,” he said. A squirrel was on a limb about halfway up one of the trees. He had his back to them and was working on an acorn. His tail was in the air. His rear end was facing them and was as broad as a baseball. “That’s just too tempting,” her Daddy said. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a dollar if you can hit that squirrel in the butt.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
“You’ve got to hit him. Not the tree or the leaves and scare him off. You’ve got to pop him.
“Yes, sir.”
The girl took a deep breath and exhaled. She aimed the rifle at the top of the squirrel’s tail and pulled the trigger. The BB hit him square on the backside with a sharp thud. The squirrel jumped straight up in the air, flew from the branch and hit the ground running. He ran about ten yards and then stopped. He turned around and began chattering obscenities in their general direction. Her Daddy roared with laughter and the girl giggled and snorted. He reached into his coveralls and pulled out a roll of bills and peeled off a crisp new dollar. He handed it to her and said, “Here you go, girl. It was worth a buck just to see that little sucker fly through the air and then start cussin’ at us like that.” She put the dollar in her pocket. “Now, where were we?” he asked. “It’s my shot, Daddy,” said the girl. She aimed and shot. Another sycamore ball fell from the tree. “Oh boy, am I in trouble,” said her Daddy.
After they had hit nine sycamore balls apiece the girl’s Daddy handed her the rifle. “Well, this is it,” he said. “If one of us misses we lose. Your shot.” He was trying to mess with her. She knew it and was having none of it. She aimed at a sycamore ball and shot. It popped, shuddered and fell. The girl handed the gun to her Daddy and grinned. “Dang, girl, ten in a row!” he said. “Oh well, no pressure.” He took a deep breath, aimed and squeezed off the shot. The BB sailed just over the top of the sycamore ball, which remained hanging on the tree defiantly. “Well,” said her Daddy, pulling down the rifle. “Well,” he repeated and then said, “I guess that’s that.” He pulled the roll out of the pocket of his coveralls again, peeled off another dollar and handed it to the girl. “Good shootin’,” he said.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“What’s your Momma fixed for supper tonight?”
“Chicken and dumplings.”
“All right. Well, we’d better go on in and get washed up. It’s probably ready by now.”
“Yes, sir.”
The girl stood up and opened the screen door. She turned around and said, “Daddy?”
“Yeah, girl?”
“I promised myself I was going to beat you and I did.”
“Yeah, girl, you did.”
She opened the door and went inside. He sat on the porch and stared at the sycamore balls hanging from the trees in the lot across the street. “Yeah, you did,” he said.
Years later a young man called the girl’s Daddy to ask him for her hand in marriage. “I’m going to give you two pieces of advice,” he told the young man. “If she ever tells you that she’s promised herself something you might as well go ahead and do it because she’s going to do it anyway. And don’t ever get into a shootin’ contest with her.”