Silver Switch (Nizhny Tagil): A series of humorous stories about the shooting of clay pigeons. All these stories happened in real life; there is no fiction here.
This story should not be read to athletes. Their souls are thin, vulnerable. The main thing in their life is the result. There seems to be no delight if it is not present. And they do not understand at all how it is: when there is pleasure, but no result.
Seryoga, an Athlete
a master of sports in sports (imagine: a master of swimming in swimming or a master of rowing in rowing – “butter oil”). However, it was written in his certificate: “Master of Sports. Discipline: sporting ”. And the signature: “Minister of Sports V. Fetisov.” Well, since the minister signed it, then the athlete Seryoga! Sporting, on the other hand, is shooting at plates flying along complex, unpredictable trajectories—hunting imitation.
Seryoga shot well, sometimes he won tournaments, but mostly he did it for fun. Therefore, he rarely followed the sports regimen, did not do exercises in the morning. But what is there to hide: Seryoga often drank. At the same time, the result suffered, but there was a lot of pleasure.
They flew to Nizhniy Tagil separately, although they were one team. Kirill and Oleg flew away on Tuesday, and Seryoga could only on Thursday because of work. On Friday, training targeting was planned. There was no way to miss it; the tournament was supposed to be serious – the Cup of Russia. They’ve been training for it for about six months with one of the top specialists in the world, who has trained national teams from a variety of countries.
All three were in great shape. Oleg, one of the leading shooters in Russia, has been both a winner and a prize-winner of championships of any level many times. Cyril, a young and fast-growing athlete, showed incredible results and went to Tagil to fulfill the master’s standard. Seryoga was a grated fighter, he didn’t have enough stars from the sky, but unexpectedly he could “do” anyone. The team was great! We drove with confidence in victory. “I ’m not going to drink, ” decided Seryoga before the trip.
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The Main Thing Is the Result
The plane took off at 23:40, and at half-past five in the morning, arrived in Yekaterinburg. The road from there to Tagil by car took an hour and a half. Friends from the Tagil stand promised to meet.
Serega forked out and took a business class ticket. He decided that he would sleep on the plane, then sleep for three hours at the hotel and go to zeroing in. But a person assumes, and someone disposes of.
Landing began. From the drunk glass of cognac, the voice of the girl-announcer seemed gentle and familiar. The people moved to the drive.
- Seryoga! Is that you? A huge and heavy hand rested on his shoulder. Behind him stood Sanya Letov, an old friend of Seryoga, one of the directors of a large St. Petersburg bank. We hugged each other.
- To Yekaterinburg? – Asked Letov – Me too. With inspection at the branch. Nice to meet you! Now let’s note.
Serega still hoped that they were sitting apart, but it turned out that they were nearby, in business class, which made Sanya incredibly happy.
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These are two chairs (sometimes four) at a distance of half a meter from each other, separated from the rest by a curtain. Thus, the atmosphere of home cooking is created. It’s impossible to dodge drinking with a buddy. “ Another one hundred and fifty grams maximum. There will be two hundred and fifty in total. I will have time to sleep, ”thought Seryoga. These thoughts are familiar to all alcoholics. So this is all bullshit, my friends! Either drink it properly or not drink at all.
Our plane has begun to descend and will soon land at Koltsovo airport. Temperature … – The voice of the stewardess brought Seryoga out of his stupor. A hundred and twenty-kilogram Letov dozed on the next chair, snoring. My head was buzzing. “ How much is there in me? Five hundred or seven hundred? “- Serega’s internal” calculator “was slowing down, but it was obvious that it was too much.
At the airport, our hero received a weapon, meeting with the suspicious gaze of a policeman. In the car of his Ural friends on the way to Tagil, Serega listened sluggishly to jokes; sometimes, he told stories himself but thought only about the bed. There were three hours of sleep left before the shooting began. The hope of an opportunity to come to oneself still glimmered in the misty head of the “rowing” master.
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In the Nizhny Tagil Hotel, Metallurg
where they brought Serega, he was unexpectedly met by a stout woman of about forty in an apron (most likely an administrator). In her hands was a silver tray, on which stood a plate of pickled cucumber and a misted, faceted glass of vodka.
- Welcome to the Urals, to the land of metallurgists! – Auntie made a ceremonial bow, fearing to spill the contents of the glass. ” Oleg and Kirill thought I would come sober, ” – flashed through Seryoga’s head at the moment when he emptied the glass and crunched with cucumber. This crunch was the last distinct sound in his memory, like the flick of a switch, after which Seregin’s consciousness faded.
They knocked on the room. Sergei got up, trying not to twist his head, and opened the door.
- Nine in the morning – it’s time to zero in! – Oleg smiled, was disgustingly fresh, and radiated readiness for battle.
Oddly enough, Sergei did a good job of zeroing in: the plates seemed to beat, and the gaze was focused. But by lunchtime, my hands began to tremble. Oleg and Kirill Seryoga did not condemn and felt guilty for the silver tray.
In the evening, he got drunk again. Passenger “Gazelle” did not have time to stop near the hotel when Seryoga pulled the door handle. The flight was short-lived but beautiful: the poor fellow turned over in the air, miraculously grouped himself up, and rolled head over heels on the grass. For some reason, the word “Metallurg” was written on the cloud, and the dirty facade of the factory hotel merged with the cloudy sky.
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When He Silver Switch Went Off
Serega became bad already in the foyer. Unsuccessfully trying to control nausea, he climbed on all fours up the wide Stalinist staircase, covered with a red carpet. The head rested on a pedestal with someone’s figure. Oscar?! No, Lenin! The speed had to be increased – an indignant cry of a cleaning lady was heard from behind. What a detective can do without a chase! Drunkards can be very inventive: when he got to his room, Seryoga secured the door from the inside with a case from a gun while the cleaning lady was already breaking into it. Friends then cleaned up after our unlucky athlete. His conscience was silent.
In the morning, when the competition was to begin, Seryoga realized that his strength had run out already at the stage of assembling the gun. His body went limp so that it seemed as if the spine in the body was completely absent. My head didn’t hurt, but I didn’t know in what language, my knees were trembling, my hair stood on end, my hands seemed to have changed places.
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An Appropriate Result
Sergei broke sixty-seven plates, and on the second day, seventy-one. The juniors had seventy-two cymbals, the worst. I will note that in training, Seryoga did not fall below the result of 90. The men fought like lions. Kirill became a master of sports, exceeding the standard by six “cups.” Oleg won the cup with one goal. If Seryoga had shot at least as the youngest of the juniors, their team would have won.
Athletes, don’t read this story! And if you’ve read it, forget it! It happens, but you can’t!
After a while, Sergei stopped drinking. Now he has no breakdowns. Victories and outstanding results – too.