Father’s an archer. He’d aim for a cloud in the sky from across a football field.
He’d destroy the center of the target, lodging arrows deep into the spine.
So he’d sharpie a new bullseye, where the arrows could land clean.
I remember once someone watching him shoot and chiding him for being far from the mark.
A proverb might say:
It's not for the spectator to know where the mark has been set. Nor for the archer to claim—after—they were aiming where it hit.