My dad won a Sportsman in some sort of program at work, it was back in the 50's. I remember it being a beautiful deep luster blue, wrapped in oil paper and a nice brown and gold box. He gave it to my mother for home defense, she believed in that sort of thing being raised in the hills of Idaho.
I was packing a .22 rifle for years and always wanted to mess around with the pistol. Mom didn't want me to fool around with the pistol explaining that I had a nice .22 rifle, be happy.
I started "borrowing" it from mom and taking it afield to shoot, it was a real good pistol and capable of shooting as well as anybody I knew could. I shot sparrows, pigeons, rock chucks, and the occaisonal chukar. Mom never caught on until one day I was trying out my hand at fanning the hammer and something broke internally, probably the single action sear of something because it would only fire double action, it still functioned fine but was nevertheless broken. I fessed up to mom, who said she knew all along I was messing around with it because the box was getting worn from me taking it out of the closet, etc. I paid the local gunsmith to fix it and that was about the time I graduated to larger caliber pistols of my own.