Alumni
Portland Magazine
June 24, 2019
When the media started featuring her as a new talent to watch, she had to step back and decide if the story the writers were telling was true.
by Katherine Gamble '19
To be honest, I didn’t think the real story was all that interesting, so I let the reporters write the other one for me. The real story: I was fourteen years old and an avid ballet dancer who could hold my own in a game of tennis. The other story: I was a markswoman with dead aim, a shooting champion, a talent to be watched. In the eyes of the media, the coaches, fellow competitors, my father— my coach and I were the textbook definition of “good winners”; gracious, humble thank yous came easily to us as they praised me for my accomplishment with a rifle. But here’s the truth: I wasn’t the breakout talent they all believed me to be. I wasn’t my coach’s gifted new protégé. I was just lucky. I had taken aim at a bull’s eye ten times and made ten perfect shots. Everyone saw it happen. Well, everyone but me.
First Sargeant Andrews. There wasn’t a name that commanded more respect in our small military community, nestled in the Bavarian countryside. He was a Vietnam veteran, a beloved JROTC teacher at the high school, and an award-winning rifle coach. The first thing I noticed about him was his uncanny resemblance to the Keebler Elf. Our paths rarely crossed. Twice a week I sat in the back of the JROTC classroom at the end of the school day, impatiently waiting for my brother to finish practice. When First Sergeant started asking me questions one day, I didn’t listen much to what he was saying, and honestly, I couldn’t tell you what I said back to him. My young mind was distracted by the lasagna waiting for me at home, the color of the lipstick I was thinking of buying, the guy I had a crush on.
One evening toward the end of the school year, my father called me into his home office. I took my time walking downstairs, wracking my brain for the reason why I was in trouble. First Sergeant had called about the conversation we’d had earlier that day, my father said. Before I could recall any details or generate an excuse for whatever trouble I must have caused, my father interrupted me. Apparently First Sergeant and I had had a delightful conversation, and he had called my parents to tell them he must teach me how to shoot. I was female, left-handed, and mathematical, he said, all the qualities he needed to make a great markswoman out of me.
I wasn’t particularly interested in shooting, and it wasn’t something I had ever considered. The entire scenario, quite frankly, seemed bizarre. I couldn’t grasp why, out of all the potential marksmen in my school, he had decided I would be his next protégé. Nonetheless, my father always told me to take advantage of every opportunity because you never know where it may take you. So, there I was a few days later behind the firing line, a rifle in my hand.
Summer break had just started, and my parents, along with a few curious spectators, sat in the back while I learned the fundamentals of shooting. I hung on to every piece of First Sergeant’s advice, repeating his staccato instructions again and again in my head: Squeeze—never pull—the trigger. Breathe.
An hour later, after I had learned the basic mechanics, it was finally time for me to take my first shot. With the onlookers eagerly watching—all of them convinced I was going to be a natural talent—I lined up my sights. With the most elementary understanding of what I was doing, I tried my best to get the outline of the circle in my sights perfectly around the target, which seemed to get smaller the longer I looked at it. After what felt like an eternity of watching the target sway back and forth, I was still unsure of what to do, and I was quickly running out of breath. To end this sorry spectacle, I pulled the trigger.
Everyone, myself included, turned to First Sergeant, who was watching through his scope. He couldn’t find the shot on the target. I had shot the floor.
My first season shooting can generously be described as unremarkable. I was happy to take my place in an end lane and stay under the radar. I was merely a participant and was content with that being the extent of my dubious reputation. I learned later that my spot in the 2012 European Championships later that year was a favor the organizer had done for my coach. I was a rookie fourteen-year-old who was there for the experience, I was told, and so I expected nothing more. On the first day of the championship, I quietly took my place (per usual) in the end lane. The only trace of my presence would be 10 bullet holes scattered haphazardly on my target. Well, I hoped they would be on my target—and not the floor.
I saw no purpose in trying to control my nerves. Fully aware that I was out of my league, I walked up to the firing line, rifle in hand, with calm disinterest. My one goal: to go unnoticed. I meticulously set up my gear, checked my rifle, lined up my scope, and went to check my sights. Opening the case, I noticed that my sights had somehow broken during travel. Without them, I wouldn’t have the standard magnification; I wouldn’t have a precise view of my target ten meters away. There was nothing I could do. Broken sights would require major repairs, and I had only minutes until I had to begin shooting.
Straining my eyes, I could just barely make out the blur that was my target. I put my sights down and closed my eyes. I couldn’t control anything anymore. Unencumbered by unrealistic expectations and the stress that went with fierce competition, I did what I had been taught my first day. I searched my brain for every bit of First Sergeant’s instructions. Breathe. Just breathe.
I was in no rush. I wedged my eye in between my broken sights and cheek plate, breathed in, and exhaled. I waited for the perfect moment. Right at the end of my breath, just before I felt the need to gasp for air and just after I felt my heart slow, I took my first shot. Later I was told no one could detect when I had actually pulled the trigger. The only indication I had taken a shot was the bobble of my head, my lifting up from the rifle. I would pull the trigger back until the tension was perfect, and then it would release itself, almost as if I hadn’t been the one taking the shot. Now, I could breathe again. Replicating the process, down to the thu-THUMP of that heartbeat, I shot again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.
Shots in the dark, all ten of them. It took me the full twentyminute time limit, about double the time it took every other shooter. It never occurred to me to ask what my score was. I was in all ways very below average. I picked up my rifle, eager to depart the range unnoticed (as planned). As I turned to leave, I was embarrassed by the number of spectators, coaches, and even some competitors standing behind my lane with scopes glued to their eye sockets, entertained, I was sure, by my series of blunders. Then First Sergeant blocked my plan for a quick exit. He brought me over to his scope and, without saying a word, motioned for me to look through it. I moved the scope, searching for the target placed at the end of my lane. There was no way I was seeing this right.
Ten perfect shots. Bull’s eyes, all of them.
I couldn’t believe it. Someone else must have shot at my target. Then the clapping started. Later that day, to my and First Sergeant’s utter disbelief, I was presented a large shiny cup. The plaque on it read: “European Precision Champion.” First Sergeant and I received the award gracefully. I had unwittingly caused a major upset in the world of European Marksmanship. We were, by far, the most dumbfounded people in the room. To everyone else, ours was an epic story waiting to be told: he was a great coach, and I was his newest protégé, blessed with an abundance of natural talent. Reporters started writing articles about us, and spectators and coaches whispered about us, their eyes glinting with awe and envy. Their narrative: a piece of fiction far more intriguing than reality. And I quickly became their favorite character.
I was heralded as a breakthrough, compelling talent. But I was also a curiosity. How had I, a 14-year-old rookie—small, blonde, dainty—become the European Marksmanship Champion? As they tried to piece together how I had “mastered” the sport having only taken my first shot a few months ago, I remained carefully quiet. I was the golden girl of the sport, my newly minted reputation “earned” through undeniable natural talent and dedication. But underneath the swarm of subsequent reports, interviews, magazine articles, praise, and accolades, my coach and I knew the truth they didn’t. I was just the luckiest person in the room.
After my extreme display of luck, I was determined to live up to the expectations that day had set for me. It wasn’t just my reputation at stake but, more importantly, my coach’s. Before the next season began, I managed to develop my actual skill level to match that of my accidental reputation. I became a staple at competitions and a reliable victor.
Slowly, my gear went from standard issue black to custom monogrammed hot pink. I played into the persona that had been created for me: I wore Revlon, 280 Bubbly nail polish (my favorite shade of pink), pearl earrings, and a full mask of makeup, complete with a steel grin to hide my nerves. I loved my character, and I leaned into it at every opportunity. Being an anomaly in the sport, reporters often highlighted these details, along with my blonde hair. Shooting near perfect scores became habit and was no longer newsworthy. My appearance and my nail polish got more ink than my scores.
When I was contacted by the United States Military Academy at West Point, I was sure they had the wrong person. That Katherine Gamble with dead aim? That was only a character. I wasn’t that serious shooter; I was just having fun. A few weeks later, bewildered and flattered, I was flown to New York to meet with the West Point marksmanship coaches. A couple of months after that, I was at the National Championships training with who we all believed would be my future coach at West Point.
At the first mention of “Rio 2016” a few years later, I decided the charade needed to end. My good luck, disguised as something I had earned, had carried me too far. My passion, dedication, and commitment were not to the sport but to a character: the blonde girl with bubblegum pink nails and pearl earrings, who happened to be a sharpshooter. In a sense, I had checked my sights. I could see that shooting was my favorite game. I could also see that I didn’t want my skills in shooting to be more than a game. Breathe.
Days later, without consulting anyone, I withdrew my commitment to West Point and accepted admission to University of Portland to study finance.
KATHERINE GAMBLE graduated in May 2019. Immediate post-graduation plans include a little vacation and her first half-ironman.
ILLUSTRATIONS: Tess Rubinstein
University of Portland
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