Crouched in the thick tangled underbrush, I wiped away the sweat that trickled down my cheek. I contemplated shifting my weight, since sitting on my heels had all but cut off the circulation to my legs. I decided better of it, and chose to remain still. I had been squatting next to a tangled clump of yaupon bushes and thorny vines for near a half hour now, trying to locate my opponents. Grit and grime mixed with my sweat seemed to permeate my being. The foul mixture had not made the last hour and a half of stalking, shooting, and running any more pleasant.
Conducted on our 26 acres of thickly wooded back country property, the paintball game had started with 24 people in all. Both teens and adults, boys and girls, had been divided among the two teams that had then headed to opposing ends of the property. I had not been in the game at the beginning, due to a shortage of paintball guns. However, nearly ten minutes after the game began, a paintball gun, which had formerly been undergoing maintenance, became available and I entered the game. Unable to inform either team that I was their ally without getting myself shot by a trigger happy team member, I chose to go it alone. My objective would be to take out as many of the other players as possible. During the hour and a half of slow, hard, arduous game play, using the tactical advantage of knowing the wood's layout, I had shot out all but four of the 24 players. My problem now was that two players were still in the game, the others having shot each other out.
I was now crouched back on my heels next to a clump of brush. 20 feet ahead of me was a 15 foot drop off to the bottom of a naturally formed canyon. Directly behind me were nearly 20 acres of empty wooded land. I knew my two remaining opponents, both teammates who were undoubtedly together, were either in the canyon or between the canyon and our property's fenced boundary. The teammates were father and son. The son was a seven year old kid barely old enough to be playing and the father was a 30 year old paintball enthusiast.
I carefully looked about, preparing to stand up, when I saw it – a movement at the lip of the canyon. At first it appeared to be a small animal, but I quickly identified it as a masked head. I decided it was the son who was climbing out of the canyon. He had cautiously poked his head over the muddy edge to check for enemies; failing to see me, he ducked back down to get his rifle. While he was down, I raised my rifle to my shoulder and placed my finger on the cold metal trigger. His head slowly rose again. Taking a deep breath, I squeezed off a shot. The C02 powered gun barked as the paintball shot forth, the sound quickly fading into the green trees. The paintball traveled in a slight arc ending in a splatter of red paint square in the middle of the youngster's mask. He dropped, sliding below the canyon edge, leaving his rifle and calling in a panic stricken voice “Hit! I'm out! I'm hit!”
Conducted on our 26 acres of thickly wooded back country property, the paintball game had started with 24 people in all. Both teens and adults, boys and girls, had been divided among the two teams that had then headed to opposing ends of the property. I had not been in the game at the beginning, due to a shortage of paintball guns. However, nearly ten minutes after the game began, a paintball gun, which had formerly been undergoing maintenance, became available and I entered the game. Unable to inform either team that I was their ally without getting myself shot by a trigger happy team member, I chose to go it alone. My objective would be to take out as many of the other players as possible. During the hour and a half of slow, hard, arduous game play, using the tactical advantage of knowing the wood's layout, I had shot out all but four of the 24 players. My problem now was that two players were still in the game, the others having shot each other out.
I was now crouched back on my heels next to a clump of brush. 20 feet ahead of me was a 15 foot drop off to the bottom of a naturally formed canyon. Directly behind me were nearly 20 acres of empty wooded land. I knew my two remaining opponents, both teammates who were undoubtedly together, were either in the canyon or between the canyon and our property's fenced boundary. The teammates were father and son. The son was a seven year old kid barely old enough to be playing and the father was a 30 year old paintball enthusiast.
I carefully looked about, preparing to stand up, when I saw it – a movement at the lip of the canyon. At first it appeared to be a small animal, but I quickly identified it as a masked head. I decided it was the son who was climbing out of the canyon. He had cautiously poked his head over the muddy edge to check for enemies; failing to see me, he ducked back down to get his rifle. While he was down, I raised my rifle to my shoulder and placed my finger on the cold metal trigger. His head slowly rose again. Taking a deep breath, I squeezed off a shot. The C02 powered gun barked as the paintball shot forth, the sound quickly fading into the green trees. The paintball traveled in a slight arc ending in a splatter of red paint square in the middle of the youngster's mask. He dropped, sliding below the canyon edge, leaving his rifle and calling in a panic stricken voice “Hit! I'm out! I'm hit!”
I waited again, listening for sounds that would betray the boy's father. I was confident, due to the family dynamic, that the father would be near the son. I was equally confident that the father would be looking to the well being of his son who had just been shot in the mask. Getting shot in the mask is a disturbing experience no matter how many times you've been hit. The zip and smack of the round before and as it hits you, the paint dribbling down your mask impairing your vision, and the jarring affect of having just been shot, all disorient the player. Knowing all these things would be affecting the youngster, and knowing the father was likely to be tending to him, I took advantage of the situation and moved forward towards the canyon edge. Sure enough I could hear hushed voices of the father and his son as I crept closer. Holding my rifle to my shoulder and sighting down the barrel similar to many SWAT movies I had seen, I moved forward and peered down into the little canyon. What I saw momentarily froze me, leaving me in a place of indecision. It is well known and universally accepted that a player never removes his or her mask once on the field. I had seen what a paintball could do to someone's face, and had no interest in replicating the effect on someone today.
As I peered down into the canyon I could see the back of the father's head, his face turned away from me, his brown hair slick with sweat. His head was partly blocking out his son's face, which I could see bore no protective mask. The angle was all wrong for a safe shot. From my position I was aiming at the back of the father's head, and right beyond his head was his son's unprotected face. Chancing a shot could easily result in the son's unprotected face getting hit. It took half of a second for me to realize that I could not take the shot, so I shifted my weight to back up. It was then that the father looked back over his shoulder and saw me standing there, rifle raised, finger on the trigger. Instead of covering his son's face, he lifted his rifle and turned towards me, trying to get his rifle to bear. In a failed attempt to avoid getting shot, I stumbled back from the canyon edge, getting only two steps away when the first bark came from the rifle. It was loud at such close range and for some reason, which I cannot account for, I did not turn away. The first round took me right where the head strap connected to the mask, bursting into orange paint and shattering the plastic connection. My mask fell from my sweaty face as the second round caught my cheek, bursting on impact and leaving a black and blue bruise. I barely felt the pain as I opened my mouth to call 'out'. The third round hit me. This time it caught me on my unprotected cheek bone, the round not bursting but deflecting off leaving my cheek open and bleeding. I tripped, falling to the ground, yelling 'out' as blood and paint flowed mingled down from my face. After laying there for a few moments, I rolled to my feet and saw the father had gone back to his shaken son, undoubtedly unaware of the injury he had just inflicted. I looked about slightly stunned and felt my cheek tenderly. Bleeding and bruised I knew it would take sometime to heal, possibly leaving a scar. I began walking back to the main camp, and found myself both disappointed and content at the same time. I was disappointed that at the end of the hour and a half game, I had been cheated of my victory by a bad decision from another player. However, I was content that I had made the right decision myself. With my head held high, I walked back to camp, proud of my wound, and content in my knowledge that at the end of the game, it was I who had won the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment