I know him only as Ray. I doubt he even knows what my name is.

    But there we were, the two of us, sitting on a park bench about 10 yards behind the firing line at the Pennsylvania State Sportsmen's Association annual shoot, one of the largest trap shoot tournaments in the country.

    I had just shot at 25 clay pigeons in the annual "Media Day" event, and was now watching the second wave of media-shooters miss their orange targets. My technique, perfected over several years, has been to carefully aim then fire my shot somewhere south of Canada and hope the target does a loop and flies into my pattern. Several do every year; more don't.

    "Is that this year's insignia?" I asked Ray. On his cap was a one-inch metal insignia, with a liberty bell in the center. Every tournament gives shooters a metal memento.

    "I have a whole box of them at home."

    Ray has been shooting for more years than I've been alive. Every major tournament, and hundreds of minor ones. He has recorded dozens of perfect scores—100 hits for 100 targets—and literally hundreds in the mid- and upper-90s. But this year he's worried, upset really. His scores have dropped into the 80s, sometimes even lower.

    "You just have to enjoy what you're doing," I cheered. "I was once a competitive tennis player," I said, "but then I'd lose points I should have easily won. And then matches. It frustrated the heck out of me." He nodded. He knew. Sometimes the joy is just in competing.

    "I have cataracts," he said, not apologetically for his scores, but just a fact of life.

    "I had two laser surgeries," I told him. "Cleared my vision right up. Didn't do much to help my shooting, though." He smiled.

    "Doctor said they weren't ripe," he said. "I don't know what it means, but I guess they're not bad enough for the operation." We chatted a bit more.

    "I have gangrene in three of my toes." Now that's a conversation stopper. What do you say to a man who will probably lose his toes? I thought of a few comments, none appropriate. "What'd they say about them?" I asked.

    "Doctor said he wants to cut them off."

    I suggested a second opinion. Not because I know anything about medicine, but because I know that two opinions are always better than just one.

    "I asked him," Ray said, "if amputating the toes would stop the gangrene. He said he didn't know. " What Ray did know is that he could still walk, and if the surgeon had to amputate to the knee, he wouldn't be able to walk—at least not without a lot of rehabilitation. "They just cut parts of it off," he said. "They cut off the black areas."

    We talked a bit more, and he again mentioned how upset he was about his scores. "It's hard to score well when your feet hurt," he said, again not apologizing for anything, just telling a fact.

    "What'd you do before you retired?" I asked, not knowing what else to ask.

    "I was a butcher my whole life."

    "I guess you know a lot more about anatomy than most of the doctors do?" I light-heartedly mentioned.

    He told me about lifting 200 pound barrels of hides, something he also no longer can do. Just a matter of time. You build up strength, then life takes it away.

    Ray takes 29 pills for everything life has done to him. He has the bad vision, bad back, gangrene, and only 39 percent of his heart functioning. But there he is, ready to shoot at hundreds of inanimate objects, each one thrown into the air by the sound of "PULL!"

    There are shooters with canes and in wheelchairs. In their 70s and 80s. And all of them are enjoying the week's tournament, and enjoying their own lives, no matter what condition they're in.

    Ray is 75 years old. I expect to see him at next year's shoot.