I’ve taken a lot of shots over my lifetime. Some good. Others bad.
Just the other day, I attended a barbeque and people at the grill were celebrating this ethnic tradition. For every new arrival to their midst, they would drink a shot of vodka.
Not realizing the custom, I barged in to check on the burgers when suddenly, I got hooked. They poured me a shot of vodka and down the hatch it went. Cheers!
During my days inside a distillery, at an Armenian Catholic monastery no less in Vienna, I volunteered to assist the cognac master. Like the proverbial pastry chef who samples his work, I’d often indulge with a shot or two. Powerful stuff, that Armenian cognac.
Growing up, my dad used to criticize my cool habits in high school, especially when I went around with pegged pants, white bucks, and my hair parted in back with a DA.
“What you trying to be, some kind of a big shot,” he’d lash out. “I didn’t raise no hippie son.”
Dad figured I should dress like him, but in America you do what your American peers do or else be reduced to humility.
Other shots have come my way. In the army, I wasn’t exactly the best shot. My first day on the rifle range, I peeked into the nozzle when my drill sergeant went spastic.
“Hey, stud,” he hollered, loud enough for the entire camp to hear. “You want to blow your brains out, that’s your business. Point that gun the other way.”
The targets before me had little to worry about. More often than not, I would miss them completely.
I tried my hand at darts and it was just as futile. The others stayed behind me and even then, they were taking a chance. A carnival vendor once gave me a booby prize for missing all three balloons.
Even the pot shots I’d take on people I didn’t like would often get back to me in reverse. They only brought me further irritation.
I admire athletes who take that shot of a lifetime. I watched incredulously as Michael Jordan swished a basket near half-court to win a title game. And those last-second baskets others have hit only make me envious.
Truth be told, I once made a memorable shot. It was during my days in prep school when I tried out for the basketball team. Being short, the coach didn’t give me much consideration but carried me anyway. He needed someone to manage.
We had a decent team that year in 1959—big, Goliath-type players and lightning-fast guards. No way could I crack that lineup. I was so low on the depth chart, you’d never find me. But just being part of the team was a privilege.
Well, as fate would have it, we kept winning and winning. I would make the spot appearances every time our team led by 20 or 30 points. Onto the court I would run with a minute or two left in the game with the other subs, but seldom shot the ball.
We won the title that year as the shots were falling. Then came the play-offs and we were pumped. I spent hours in the gym shooting foul shots and distant shots. All I wanted was that one shot. A shot at a shot.
Well, my day in infamy finally arrived. It happened to be a championship game against a formidable Worcester Academy team. The stands were filled with fans that had come to see Huntington Preparatory win the title. You could cut the tension with a knife.
As the title game wore on, one by one, our players were getting sidelined. Two went down with injuries, four others with fouls. I looked on the bench and was the only one left wearing a uniform. Suddenly, I heard my name being sounded. It came from the stands, not the coach.
“We want Vartabedian!” the chorus echoed.
After all appeared lost, the coach turned to me. “Okay, Tom, now’s your shot. Go ahead and take it. Bring us some notice.”
Quicker than a Michael Jordan laser, I was on the court. The fans cheered. It’s that way with us little guys, you know. We tend to gain some sympathy from the crowd.
I ran around in circles and never saw the ball. During a skirmish in rival territory, the ball bounced off the rim and into my hands. Instead of going the opposite way toward my own basket, I lost all perspective. Up went the ball and into the net, giving the opposition two points.
Much to my chagrin, I had scored a hoop for the rival team.
Tom Vartabedian
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