It was a brisk autumn morning and the hunters were preparing to go out for the day. The smell of fresh coffee wafted throughout the chilly cabin, causing stomachs to growl with anticipation of the breakfast that would accompany it. The talk over breakfast was to select the locations for the blinds, install them and then hunker down for a day of duck hunting.
"Where's Trevor?", asked Joe, the owner of the cabin and leader of the group.
"He's in town buying some shells and more hand warmers."
"Too bad for him," replied Joe. "He's not here to choose which hunting blind he gets, so I guess we'll put him at the furthest one, or third base."
"Yeah, but third base is the furthest from the decoys", noted Bill, "will Trevor's gun have the range to reach the ducks?"
"Trevor should be OK at third base", Joe said. "Anybody else want third base?"
A chorus of NO's filled the cabin.
Trevor returned with the supplies. The guys were pawing through the bag of stuff when Ron shouted out, "Trevor, you got the wrong size of shot! We're duck hunting not quail hunting. You got shells with size 8 shot and we need size 4! This will set us back another 45 minutes while you run back to the store and get the right stuff."
Head hanging, Trevor gathered up the useless shells and let out a long sigh as he left the cabin, the door banging shut behind him like an exclamation point on his incompetence.
"I sure hope Trevor can handle third base," Ron said, "because he sure doesn't know how to handle sport shot."