My first was back in 1990, during gun season, and I was 14 years old. I was hunting with my uncle on the land of a cabin my family used to own in Fairfield County (I'm originally from Columbus). It was snowing....HARD. The day before, I had developed a case of Buck Fever, and completely missed a roughly 10 foot shot at a nice 8 pt that wandered just behind me, on the other side of a tree that I was sitting at the base of. Suitably embarassed, I set myself up the next day on the tree line on the other side of the field from that failure. I had been sitting at the base of another tree for probably 5-6 hours, and was surrounded by about a foot worth of drifted snow, when I heard movement on the other side of a slight mound in front of me. I watched a little spike buck work it's way toward me, and stop dead about 20 yards directly in front of me. It stood there, facing me, staring at me for what seemed like forever, but was most likely more like 10-20 seconds. I was hoping he would turn broadside, but I got antsy, lined up dead on the white of his chest, and let my 16g Winchester rip. The little spike turned and ran. At first, I thought I missed again, but as he tried to jump a fallen limb, he missed and crumbled, not 10 yards from where I hit him. I vividly remember saying "well, son of a ..." We quickly recovered him, an I was properly instructed on how to field dress a deer. Strangely, or maybe not so much, I still, to this day, think more about that 8 pt that I missed than the spike I hit. Sure, I've killed bigger bucks since, but I WANTED that 8 pt.