As soon as I hit the ground, I knew it was going to be bad. My shoulder cracked and a pain like nothing I’d ever felt before shot down my arm. Then I passed out and came round feeling horrific. Twenty minutes later I left the football field in an ambulance heading to the local hospital.
Only a few hours previously, I’d been standing in a field in Norfolk, watching partridges rocket overhead. I’d rushed home after a late lunch to get back in time for Monday night football. Lying in the ambulance, all I could think about was that I was going to miss all the January shooting I had in my diary. This injury had brought a very abrupt halt to my season and I was devastated.
As January rolled on, the inevitable smug photos arrived from friends out in the field, as I sat on the sofa unable to move my arm. A metal plate was inserted surgically, followed by a good few weeks of physio and vast amounts of painkillers. It wasn’t only the rest of the game season I missed; as the pheasant shooting stopped, the pigeon shooting started.
There were numerous reports of epic days out, with good winds and plenty of birds. The nearest I got to the action was plucking the brace left on my gate by the gamekeeper. While they were delicious, they’d have tasted a whole lot sweeter had I shot them myself.
Determined
I stuck rigorously to my physio regime and the pain gradually eased to the point where, by mid-March, I felt just about able to wield a shotgun. Even if it was a little sore, I was determined to shoot some pigeon.
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