SORRY, GRANDPA
Think back to when you were a kid, and ponder what would’ve happened had you told Grandpa that you were consistently hitting a dinner-plate-sized target at 500 yards with those tiny little 40-grain bullets your .22 LR spits out. I don’t think mine would’ve cracked me alongside the head for lying, but he definitely would’ve sent me home with my tail between my legs … for lying. But, oh, if Grandpa could see me now. In his defense, however, he wouldn’t have been wrong: There was no way I could ring steel that those ranges with my wispy little pump-action Model 61 he used to watch me shoot. Hell, to hit anything with that gun, I had to learn how to adjust my sight picture to accommodate for the front post that was…