Life Experience: Paintballing, part deux

The tension and anticipation built. It had been seven-plus years since the last undertaking. The sun blazed with an unforgiving heat. The attire only exacerbated the warmth.

Yet, the anxiousness and eagerness grew with each passing minute.

And then it happened.

"The game will start in five seconds!," exclaimed the referee.

My heart was pounding. My mask was fogging up from excessive heavy breathing. Sweat poured down my face like a waterfall because of the heat and intensity of the situation.

And then it happened.

"Go! Go! Go!," the referee yelled.

Each round is comprised of two teams. The number of players on each side is determined by how many souls are brave enough to participate in the skirmish -- usually 10 players on each side.

The assault was predetermined: Push up the right side of the dirt-laden field while solid, round, red and blue projectiles traveled at 285 feet per second, splattering on the surroundings. With only mounds of dirt, old tires and wooden electrical spools to hide behind in hopes of avoiding the round game-ending shots; the anxiety was at an all-time high.

By this time, the afore mentioned strategy for success had long-since been abandoned, which was not totally unexpected. It was time to improvise.

As the other participants held their own, the situation called for skulking up the left in hopes of flanking the opposing team. After surviving the initial onslaught and making it to the position of choice unmolested, things were falling into place.

I looked down the barrel of the gun and had an unsuspecting player in my sight.

And then it happened.

BAM! Like Emeril Lagasse bombarding a gumbo dish with garlic, a plethora of paint balls hailed upon on my left elbow.

The shock of the shots, mixed with the sting was perplexing.

I had just been tagged by a teenage girl.

Despite the elimination, the anxiety quickly turned to excitement and eagerness to start the next round, as revenge was definitely the on the menu for the next round. Needless to say, the revenge was oh so sweet -- sweet like a cream cheese frosting on a fresh carrot cake, which, incidentally was the birthday cake.

Still, I will forever have to live with the fact that I was eliminated by a teenager. But, that wouldn't hamper the rest of the day. That would be foolish.

The day was to celebrate a friend's birthday. A friend who had been through a lot of family issues recently. It was a nice escape for him and a great time for the rest of us.

Paintball is a physical activity. However, it isn't the best activity for those who are, shall we say, "less-than physically fit," such as myself.

The aches and pains were prevalent from the afternoon of intense, brute toil. The next morning, on the other hand, is when the soreness made its presence known.

Getting out of bed was a chore in itself. The bruises throbbed from the multiple impacts. The all-day struggle to move after the fun, yet strenuous day, was expected. Yet, it actually felt good, in a weird way. It felt like something had been accomplished -- a good time with family and friends while doing something out of the norm.

Monday reared its ugly head everything returned to normal. Maybe it'll be another seven years before paintballing is the outing of choice.

And then it happened.

"Paintball next weekend. You in?," a text from a friend read.

In the words of the robot cop from Futurama:











Ahh yeah!