 his
prickly bush gives me cover on two sides. And a
chance to take a
breather. Never mind the muddy knees. Thanks
to last week's
rainstorm, that bunker over there is quicksand.
Must be the seventh
battle today, but who's counting? Muffled voices
beyond those trees,
hoarse and defiant. I hear shots, too. The
fire-fight, which
started far up-field, has moved this way. Our side
is retreating.
Doesn't matter, really. I'm bone weary and
wheezing like an old man.
Which is what I am.
Movement in the clearing! Closer now. I've been spotted. Lock and load. Wait. Orange day-glow vest. Hah, it's just Evan, my 10-year-old grandson, goggled and grinning. and giving me a cheery wave. Evan averts his glance, not to disclose my location to the enemy, and strolls across the clearing toward the east boundary to watch the action. Won't be long now, for I can hear
furtive commotion near
the perimeter of the village. My guess is, a
phalanx from the other
side has broken through and will make a creeping dash
for the flag.
Crouch and wait. There's the first guy, half
crawling, squinting
left then right. You bum! You were looking
straight at me.
Keep coming. Camouflage really works. Aim,
squeeze. Not
too soon. The first shot will give away my
position. Can't
even guess how many there are. Patience.
That may be the only
advantage of age. No way can I get 'em all.
Parenthesis. There comes a time just beyond middle years when one becomes preoccupied by one's accomplishments. Or lack of them. Be forewarned. The subject can result in melancholy and a struggle for self-esteem. Not for me. For I have outstanding sons-in-law. You have daughters? Sons-in-law, then, should be your first priority. Nobody ever told me that. Now you know all I know. Thus, however bereft of other achievements, my life's inventory is full enough. You might say my daughters had something to do with the selections. You might say that.  So
it was Mark and Jason who introduced me to
paintball. Accordingly,
I should not have been surprised to meet on the
paintball field clear-eyed,
good-humored, hardworking men -- devoted husbands and
caring fathers.
Young people mostly, but not exclusively. Not many
women, by the
way. How curious! Typical of California only, some
say. In
New England, as many as one in five paintball players
are women.
Judging from the slick ads in paintball monthlies, their
proportions are
ample indeed.
Second surprise has to do with the atmospherics of the games, which are characterized by neither self-consciousness nor mockery. Take that enthusiast over there, with grease-painted face, the all-over camo outfit, radio-equipped headgear, combat boots, crisscrossed ammo-belts, padded gloves, paintbladder grenades, "constant-air" assault rifle -- why, he's standing by the "PX" sipping a Gatorade and chatting with a fellow in a ragged sweatshirt and jeans, hefting a mere 12-gram rented pistol. They seem to be debating the merits of Mac-II's latest spread-sheet software.
As for paintball sports being childish, get real! Ever watch grownups frolicking in their underwear playing 'bouncy-ball'? Or wearing knickerbockers and running base-paths in a high-paid version of 'stick-ball'? Can you believe the shoulder pads guys wear for 'kick-ball'? And what's with all that romping and snuggling in the grass? Then, too, there's the 'dimple-ball' game, a regimented stroll punctuated by solemnity and self-flagellation. All are sensible adult behaviors, I suppose. The whole idea in paintball, quite plainly, is to run around outdoors and have fun. Sure, there's the part about shooting. Something like plinking at tin cans, except the tin cans plink back. You're gunning down rabbits, except the rabbits have guns, too. Rules are few. They and the red-shirted referees on the field have one objective: safety. The only complaint I've heard came from an obvious first-timer. "See that guy over there wearing the yellow ribbon?"Weekends, happily, are mostly "walk-on" games. Nonchalance prevails. Outside of tournament play, hierarchy does not exist. "Thirty seconds!" announces the referee, walkie-talkie pressed to his ear. "Goggles on."One mistake I made was mentioning to Son-in-law Mark that the I was going to puke if somebody says "Listen up!" After the whistle, a couple of "squads" may form spontaneously, one sprinting out to guard a flank, the other attacking up the middle. "You coming with me?" someone might ask. So much for organization. Of course, Mark periodically hollers for my benefit, "Listen up!" The referees meander all over the field performing "paint checks" as requested and watching the clock. Games are typically 30 minutes in duration. By the way, spectators are safe enough. Paint costs more than four cents a ball. Third surprise for me was -- now listen up: Nobody seems to care about winning! To be sure, you don't want to get shot, for then you have to put your hand on top of your head and shout, "Dead man, coming out!" while marching ignominously off the field. "Nice shot," you might tell the scoundrel who plugged you. The main problem is that for you the game is over. You have to go back to the registration area and hang around for the next game. That's not so bad, though. Sometimes you strike up a conversation with other dead men -- or women. "That settles it, I'm not going to blow dry my hair before coming out here next time."There was this fellow, not much younger than I, unmistakably Japanese, sitting on a bench cleaning his airgun, beaming with his whole face. "Come out here often?" I asked.To win, your team must capture the flag, and sometimes your team does. Mark and I backed up Jason on a lightning strike. We shot our way into the opposing village and grabbed the flag, somebody's torn tablecloth. After a whispered whoop, we ran through the bushes, jumping logs, taking fire all the way back to our own village. The feeling was exhilarating. We swaggered around gasping, giving each other high fives. "All riiight!"A tincture of disappointment, though. For us, the game was over ten minutes early. "Hey, that was great. Where we playing next?"  ne
step closer and you've had it, buddy. I hope Evan
is watching.
Squeeze. Blam. Splat!
Next thing you know, there are colored-water-balls, pummeling in from all directions. I'm shooting back as fast as I can, with my WGP Sniper pump-gun. Blam, blam, blam. But I'm not hitting anything. A voice calls out from behind a tree. "Cease fire!" An interval of calm. Orange and yellow fluid is dripping from the bush onto my goggles. The voice snarls with condescension. "You want to surrender?" The moment I've waited for all my life -- or at least since I saw a certain John Wayne movie. "Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!" Blam, blam, blam. Splat! "Dead -- um, grandfather, coming out." |
or
me, there were three surprises. First,
I expected that "action pursuit games," "tactical
commando sports," whatever
they're called -- I expected they would be populated
entirely by radicals
and rednecks, gung-ho types and grungies, frustrated
4Fs, mindless mercenaries
and martinets, wackos and weirdos of every
stripe. Press coverage
of paintball may have been partially responsible for
those images.
Military implications of "war-games," naturally, is
what most people think
of. However, I should have known better.
It was two of my sons-in-law
who introduced me to the sport.
