TAKE ME HOME, TAKE ME BACK
Driving down the patchwork of asphalt and cement the county calls a road, I slow to a stop as I see my turn. If I did not know it was there I would miss it entirely. All week my thoughts have strayed and wandered to this place. A mile north of Sprague, a small village about ten miles south of Lincoln, is CJ's. Through exams, classes, dreams and daydreams my mind has gravitated toward this field. Hidden in the trees beside the lazy county road the cattle fence and bent gate is somehow fitting. A creek runs through the property thus making it unfarmable. The same creek was fast enough to cut deep into the ground, making it useless as a cattle pasture, but perfect for paintball. As I turn into the drive the truck lurches forward. The parking lot, or the white rocked area that passes for a parking lot, is about a yard lower than the road making the grade of the drive evident.
Beneath the tires the snow-white rock pops and scrapes against its self, as if to cry out under the weight of my truck. Pulling up to the trailer/ field house I notice some familiar faces. The owner and his wife are already here. The door creaks as I get out. Stepping onto the shifting rock I nod to one of the players who noticed my arrival. The trailer doors are open and behind the folding table that acts as a counter sits Deb, the owners wife. Exchanging greetings and pleasantries I turn and notice the beauty of the morning. Agreeing with her assessment and seeing business mode switch on I ask for a case of paint and an air fill. Noticing my lack of an air tank see asks if I could go and get it while she gets the paint.
Walking back to my truck I pass the side doors and head straight to the bay doors in back. There is something to be said about Surburbans, while being big and clunky� they have a crap load of cargo room. Finding my gear bag, I throw the sling over my shoulder and close the doors. Deb is messing with the fill station and helping another player. Bypassing them I choose a spot to sit down and spread out my gear. The first thing I pull out is the air tank. Sitting in its protective foam covering, the bottle is one thing not to take lightly or play too rough with. More then one has had a tank crack and leak or even exploded. Taking it to Deb she moves to the fill station and begins the task of filling. Noticing the box sitting on the counter I ask the owner, Chuck, who has just decided to appear out of nowhere, if it was for me. Looking at the case of paintballs and seeing no one else around he assumes it is.
Time to pay up. Taking out the checkbook brings Deb over to the counter with my full air bottle. Lets see� paint is fifty, the fill is three, and the field fee is ten. Ouch! Sixty-three dollars. The check is reluctantly written and signed and more than eagerly accepted. Being somewhat regular here I could wait to pay until later, but I figure I might as well get it over with, and end the day on a high note.
Forcing a smile, I close the checkbook and shove it in my pocket. Paying sooner also gives me is a greater appreciation of the paint just bought. 2000 shots will go slower and more wisely when a value is attached to them at the start of the day. Two and a half cents a pop. Not much in and of its self, but when thinking about a paintball� it can seem pricey.
Back at the table the process begins of prepping for battle. The next thing appearing from the bag of goodies is my marker. Gun, is too coarse a word to describe it. After saving for what seems like forever, I have my own marker. No longer must I rent a cheap gun from the field. Now I have the freedom to personalize my weapon to fit my own style. The word Autococker, haveing no meaning to some, has a sweet awe-inspiring sound on the field. Before gingerly taking it from its case, a moment is taken to admire this handsome piece of blue aluminum. The next thing out is the barrel case.
There was a time when I though all barrels were created equal. The truth shattered this concept; paintballs have a bad habit of not being uniform. What sense does it make to have one barrel for something that changes? Even within the same bag, one ball might be a slightly different size then the one sitting next to it. The weather also affects the gelatin cover of the paint. Not noticeable to the eye, the barrel will tell all. Selecting the medium sized barrel, I look around mentally gauging the air, humidity, and temperature. The air is not cool, nor is it as hot as it will be later. The length of the barrel its self is the same as the others in the case, but this one, like the others, have a slightly different bore size. The chosen barrel is .689 or sixty-eight point nine caliber. This passes for standard size in the industry. The box the gun came in and the case of paint says 68 caliber, but I know the nature of paintballs better now. Looking around again, a slight breeze moves through the trees. The coolness it brings is quickly replaced by the warming morning air. Hummmm� Well, I might have to switch to the larger bore later. The day will only get hotter, and the paint is sure to swell. The paint, at least the seven balls pulled out of the bag, all fit through the barrel as they should, not falling through, only giving enough friction to straighten its path.
As I screw the barrel on another player joins the table. More greetings and pleasantries. I don't know this guy personally, but I have seen him around. As he goes to get paint, I finish setting up. The last step is the loader. A large black plastic bubble at the bottom of the bag is the only piece of equipment I have I don't entirely like. Perched on top of the marker it seems out of place. Even my huge air bottle, the largest I could find, looks acceptable compared to it. Nevertheless, it is a necessary evil. How else will I get paint into my beautiful marker? Removing the battery cover, I load the two nine-volt batteries into their place, and replace the cover. Flipping the small switch, it responds with an acceptable mechanical growl as the agitating propeller inside spins freely. This also means the infrared eye, acting as an internal switch, is clean and will work right on the field.
Pushing the loader into place on the top of the marker, my table mate returns with paint. He bought the 'expensive' kind. Good, no reason to worry about mixing up who's paint is who's later in the day. Popping open the loader lid I fill it to just below the lid. This will allow the agitator to work properly during the game. I am set! The air bottle was the first thing screwed on, it sits just below the trigger frame at the bottom rear of the gun. The loader is set, but not turned on yet. All that's needed now is for teams to be decided.
Looking up from my work, I notice a few friendly figures approaching. One thing about paintball, or any sport for that matter, friends and comrades make it all worthwhile. Shaking hands and exchanging stories about the week, we are interrupted as a blue jay makes its presents known to all. Some might be slightly peeved at the self-centered and proud antics of the bird, but this group takes it all in. The field and the weather are perfect, it is almost time. Bob had an interesting week. Telling us about it he pulls out his new marker, with a grin, to accent his excitement about buying it. It is nothing special. The Black Dragun is a moderately standard gun seen a lot these days. But to Bob, it might as well be an Angel. Mike seems excited for Bob. Mike bought about the same set up a while back. Now we can all say we don't rent.
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