So, this ‘shot ball’ thing. Sounds grand, doesn’t it? Well, it wasn’t. Just me, in the shed, trying to feel like I was doing something useful for a change. Call it practice, if you want. Practice for what, I couldn’t tell ya.
I decided I was going to make a little contraption to, well, shoot a ball. Not a cannon, mind you. Just a little thing. Started rummaging around. Found an old plastic bottle, the kind water comes in. Perfect. Or so I thought. Then I needed something for the ball to shoot out of. An old bit of pipe? Nah, too much effort to cut. Just the bottle neck, maybe.
The grand plan begins… or something like it.
First, I tried to cut the bottom off the bottle. Grabbed my utility knife. Turns out, it’s about as sharp as a spoon these days. Hacked at it for a bit, plastic squealing. Finally got it off, jagged edge and all. Looked a mess already. This was quality practice, let me tell you.
Then, the ‘shooting’ mechanism. Rubber bands! Genius, I thought. I scrounged up a few from that drawer where things go to die. Stretched one across the opening I’d made. Tried to rig it so I could pull it back and launch a small pebble I found. The first rubber band snapped. Nearly took my eye out. Okay, maybe not my eye, but it stung my finger pretty good. Muttered a few choice words. The dog just looked at me. He’s seen this show before.
I eventually got a couple of thicker bands to hold. Found a crumpled up piece of paper to use as a ball. Didn’t have any actual small balls handy, surprisingly. You’d think with all the junk I have, there’d be a stray marble or something. Nope.
And then the memories started kicking in.
This whole fiddly, frustrating process, it reminded me of my first job. Not the job itself, but the feeling. I worked for this guy, old Mr. Abernathy. He had me ‘organizing’ his stockroom. It was chaos. Boxes piled to the ceiling, no system, nothing. He’d just say, “Make it make sense, son.” And then he’d disappear for hours. I’d spend all day shifting stuff, making lists, trying to create order from his mess. Then he’d come back, glance at it, grunt, and say, “Hmm. Needs more work.” Never any actual guidance. Just “practice,” I guess he thought. Practice in patience, mostly.
It’s funny, the things you find yourself doing. Here I am, years later, still messing about with things that don’t quite work, trying to make sense of something. Maybe that’s all life is, a series of ‘shot ball’ projects. Some shoot further than others. Most just sort of fizzle out.
I remember trying to build a kite once with my kid. We got all the stuff – dowel rods, fancy paper, string. Spent a whole Saturday on it. Looked amazing. Took it to the park. First gust of wind, the thing just crumpled and nosedived. Snapped a rod. Kid was gutted. I felt like a right idiot. All that effort, for nothing. More “practice,” eh?
- Tried to reinforce the bottle with some duct tape. That always helps.
- Adjusted the rubber bands about ten times.
- Found a slightly heavier paper ball.
So, the grand finale?
I pulled back the paper ball on the rubber band, aimed at an old paint can, and let fly. The paper ball sort of… plopped out. Traveled maybe two feet. Not exactly a ballistic missile. I tried again. Same thing. A sad little arc, then a gentle landing. Pathetic, really.
But you know what? I did it. I set out to make a ‘shot ball’ contraption, and I made one. It was rubbish, sure. The practice was more in the fumbling than the succeeding. But it was something to do with my hands. Kept the rust away, maybe. Or maybe just added to the pile of half-baked projects in the shed. Who knows. Anyway, that was my shot ball practice. Now I just gotta hide the evidence before anyone asks what I was “achieving” out there.
