I decide to acquaint my son with the local public firing range, which seems like a fine excuse to bring along the C9 and get revenge on some of those pesky paper targets as well as try out a fresh set of earplugs. Son decides he is going to do some target shooting as well and brings along his Daisy Air Rifle. We arrive at the range and find only a single vehicle there. A loud shot rings out which encourages Little Boy to put on his ear protection. He leaps excitedly out of the car and runs for the range shelter while I am still getting my things out of the car. I call after him, not realizing the futility of this considering his now firmly in place ear protection. Thankfully I am gratified to hear him speaking with, what is presumably the only occupant of the range, who has now ceased firing. The fellow is an older one, or at least older than me, which is becoming disturbingly less common these days. He seems nice enough and smiles as I approach and continues to talk to my son. I look at the public sign-in sheet and notice some names I recognize. Apparently half of my church, including the Pastor, comes here. I make a mental note to go to Church more often. The older fellow speaks up and letâ€™s us know that the name on the bottom of the list is, in fact, not his and goes on to tell my son that the list is only used to establish how much the range is being used and that itâ€™s a bad idea to actually put your real name on it. I raise a questioning eyebrow at this seeing as I am trying to instill honesty in my son. The fellow finally explains that, should a bad guy need a gun, one look at the list could tell him your name and subsequently where you live. This sounds plausible enough. I encourage Little Boy to make up a name and put it on there. He pencils in â€œBoba Fettâ€ and finds no small amount of humor in his clever deception. We take a moment to place targets and the older fellow resumes firing his rifle. This immediately opens the boyâ€™s eyes wide as, even with ear protection, is fairly loud and discernibly changes the local air pressure. We continue shooting, with the boy watching the older fellow carefully, so he knows when he is about to fire. The fellow informs us he is shooting his own 270 Magnum loads which are hotter than you can buy in a store. I consider moving a couple of stalls further away. My C9 seems happy with its steady diet of Remington hollow-points after having an earlier fit with the fabled white box of Winchester. After much reading about the experience of others, I make a resolution to try polishing the feed ramp since the first round still occasionally shows some reluctance to be chambered as well. The paper targets have little to fear from my boy and his Daisy rifle however. The older fellow speaks up again after a time, inquiring if â€œyou would like to fire my gun?â€ I eagerly turn around, realizing this is a rare opportunity. He is not looking at me however, but instead at my little boy, who suddenly sits up very straight. â€œUmm.. Papa?â€ he asks nervously. I manage to curb my jealousy, and nod my head. â€œIf you want to, Little Boy.â€ Son mulls this over and changes his mind five or six times in the next sixty seconds, tentatively ending on â€œyesâ€. The older fellow explains that he has set his scope on infinity and that he will need to time his shot between the beats of his heart since heâ€™ll be able to see the scope dip down when it does. This suitably impresses both nine and thirty-nine year old alike. I so need to get a scope that can go to infinity. The older fellow goes on to instruct my son in a proper standing firing stance however, considering my sonâ€™s far from hefty 75 pounds, questionable attention span, the presumed cost of the firearm and the general safety of all those involved, I quickly insist that it would be far better if he were sitting. I reiterate to my son, the importance of keeping the butt firmly against his shoulder and in the interest of not having to call his Mom and explain a dislocated or broken shoulder, decide it best to simply stand behind him and hold the butt against it. Little boy takes not so careful aim, clearly uneasy about the attention, the rifle and the fact that it shoots cartridges almost as long as his hand. Finally he squeezes the trigger and the recoil rocks him back against me. The older fellow reaches in and takes the gun as my son turns and looks at me with an ear to ear smile, all the while rubbing his shoulder. We wander down to take a look at the targets, taking a bit longer to get to the rifle target since itâ€™s out at the 100 yard mark. The older fellow points out the ever-closer-to-center holes in his target as his rifle slowly got sighted in. One hole is clearly off target and almost off paper. Little Boy claims this is his. The older fellow and I exchange knowing smiles but let the boy have his day.