Heck, several years back, I composed a poem about this very phenomena.
It’s Titled……”Bozo at the Bench”. (With apologies to “Casey at the Bat”.)
Enjoy.
The shooters plight, can be so heavy to bear,
as we strive for perfection as bullets fly through the air.
For that most aggravating occurrence is, without a doubt,
when four shots go in, and one shot goes out.
Now my rifle was clean, my load just right.
In goes the bolt, the first bullet takes flight.
There’s one, there’s two, there’s three, then four.
My god, that hole is no bigger than it was before
The clock is ticking, but there is plenty of time,
One more shot, and this match will be mine.
One more round, and all of these guys will see,
I‘ll be sitting in first, where I know I should be.
But what was that, in the corner of my eye?
Did those flags suddenly switch as my last shot went by?
I’ll look down range, I know I will be fine,
Because I know I let it go in just the nick of time.
But our best laid plans, can take such wayward turns,
As the primer is struck, and the powder Burns,
For there it is, such a big eye sore.
My itty bitty ”one” is now a GREAT BIG “FOUR”.