Gunner Quinn
I am a second-generation gun-related outdoor enthusiast now close to 50 years old. Still, to this day, shooting skeet takes me back to the musty smell of dad’s shop when I was a kid. There was the chemical smell of Hoppe’s No. 9, the canisters of gunpowder and bags of shot, the soft pop of the primer we poked out of the shotgun shells and the jingle as the primer then rolled down into the tray after pumping the magic lever of the green RCBS reloader.
Shotgunning sports were a prevalent family event conducive to group participation and gratifying when seeing the puff of black as a clay pigeon was powdered by a well-placed shot. Many years ago, I was shooting skeet with my dad, and he let me use his Fox Model B side-by-side. I was not familiar with Fox shotguns but fell in love immediately with their buttery smooth triggers, the shouldering as if it was tailored for me and the silky-smooth break-action. I outshot my dad that day—a rare occurrence—as he didn’t like to miss when shooting. Missing a shot was a “waste of bullets” in his eyes.
Christmas that year, a gun case was under the tree with my name on it from Santa. As I withdrew the contents of the gun case, slowly (like how they do in the movies with a samurai sword), this beautiful Fox side-by-side appeared. It was the same one I had outshot my dad with earlier in the year. He said I had earned it with that skeet shoot.
I have proudly sported that Fox B for years and happily re-tell the story of “winning it” off my dad. He passed away four years ago, and as I was going through his safe, I found a Fox Model A—the “big older brother” to my Fox B. Now I have two Foxes, and each one has a special place in my safe and a special place in my heart.
—Nathan Wooten
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