Funny you say that: When I was 13, my first real job was at a trap shooting club and it was considered “farm work”. For less than minimum wage, I sat in a tin

Funny you say that: When I was 13, my first real job was at a trap shooting club and it was considered “farm work”. For less than minimum wage, I sat in a tiny concrete building down range from 5 shooters and reloaded a mechanical arm with another clay pigeon every time the other kid (sitting behind the shooters) pressed the button. You never knew when the mechanical arm would go off and sometimes the kid outside would accidentally hit it twice so it would go off when you were reloading it, basically grazing your fingertips. You had to keep your legs straight out for hours because lifting your knees up would mean the mechanical arm would get it. Every once in a while, you’d hear the shot hit the trap house, which only served to remind you to wave your little red flag before you exited the house. This was especially true during the beef and beer shoots.