The next car that pulls up is Debs daughter, one of today's refs. While being older then her by a few years, we all respect her, because she could easily mop the field with us if she brings her game face. The teams are decided and Bob, Mike and I are placed on the same team. The guy sharing my table, Steve is his name, and the father and sons trio make up the other side. The other two players at the field decide to sit it out. The one guy's marker isn't working and Chuck is playing with it. Deb, who has decided the teams, gives us 'the look' that says she expects us to play 'nice'.
Going back to the table I collect my marker and mask. I am perspiring, and not because of the heat. The adrenalin is starting to pump already and I have yet to step on the field. Deb leads the way to the field with the smallest boy, gun-less and wearing the big blazing yellow "SHOOT ME AND DEB WILL KILL YOU" jersey, in tow. Our first game will be on a speedball field. The multicolored plastic road barriers and 50-gallon plastic barrels look somewhat out of place in the clearing surrounded by woods, but these are today's battlements. Placed in various arrangement it is hard to impossible to see the opposing players. Walking to our gate we wait for Deb to explain the idea of the game and rules to the other team. Steve and the father know the rules, but pay attention so the kids know what's being said is important. "If you get hit anywhere: the leg, arm, or even your gun. You are out for the rest of the game." Watching Deb finish we take notice that at least the father had the better sense to dress the kids in jeans. We were reminiscing about the days of old while waiting on the other group. I can remember when we came out the first time I wore shorts, that was kinda painful by the end of the day. Walking to the side of the field Deb motions to her daughter, the other ref on the other side of the field, to the other team, then to us. As a team we cock our markers, turn on our hoppers and fire a shot or two into the ground. We are ready.
A yellow flag hangs from a faded blue post in the middle of the field. There is our goal. Get the golden fleece back to our base and win. A more pressing matter is also flashing in my mind. Cover, must find good cover! A decent spot behind a blue upright bunker is decent enough. I tell my team where I am going. Bob is going left. Mike is going Far left. This leaves me the middle and right side to cover. "3! 2! 1! GO GO GO!" The daughter yells. Game on! Coming out shooting, my marker lays down a hail of paint on my foes. Bob is having a field day, his new gun is electric and can fire many times faster then normal pneumatic markers like mine. Of course this doesn't help him much because he has yet to learn how to aim with it. Running to the left, he shoots like an epileptic monkey on crack. I don�t have time to make fun of him because I am running the other way and under heavy fire. The yards between the starting gate and cover disappear quickly. There is something about gelatin-coated paint flying by one's head makes one's heart beat faster, and legs move quicker. Finally! Behind the bunker, and safe� sort of. At least I survived the initial bombardment.
The ref yells, "Let him out!" Good! I got somebody! Watching from behind cover I see the smallest little kid walk off the field, a nice big splatter on his chest, he is going to feel that later. Of course I don't mean to hurt anyone, it is just the physics of shooting a paintball. All the force needed to shoot it suddenly is transferred into a players skin and a welt usually results. It happens to everyone, mostly to me. Some how I can't help but feel guilty though. Deb's stare doesn't make things better.
"Ok, only three to go." I am mumbling to myself. Looking out the left of my bunker, I was expected. I duck behind cover again to the rhythmic pounding of the plastic in front me. So much paint hitting my bunker can only mean the other team is focusing on me, and not my team. Mike takes advantage of this and shoots Steve from across the field. Only two to go. Bob thinks this is great. We are winning numerically, he has a new gun, things are going great, and he is invincible! He sticks his head out of his bunker to take a shot and immediately catches two in the goggles. Only two left. Two on two, the field is even again. I can't see Bob's face through the paint� but I can tell he isn't happy. Yelling to Mike, I tell him to give me some cover fire. I run and do a Pete Rose into the bunker in front of me. Safe again, I crouch up against the bunker. I have to stand on my knees because it is much shorter then the one I just left. Now Mike's bunker is being pounded, turning a nice shade of pink instead of its original white. This time I take advantage of the situation and start shooting at the kid's dad. Dad sees me and quickly ducks behind cover. I post up, waiting for him to show himself. He is so mine if he pops out on either side. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Mike dueling it out with the kid. Letting my eyes focus on Dad's bunker I forget about Mike for a second.
"Let him out!" Wow� Mike got the kid that fast? Turning slightly I notice it is Mike who is walking off the field. Oh great. Two on one. I am the one. 'Where is that kid.' I mumble to my self. I am looking around now and not entirely focused on the dad. About this time Dad decides to make a break for the bunker to the left of his. Leaning out of my bunker I have to expose my self just a little more to get a better shot� Splat, splat, splat! my back stings a little. "I'm out!" I have to scream to make the kid stop lighting me up. Out of the five balls that hit me, I am sure at least one broke, and all will leave a welt.
"Let him out!" One judge yells. The game is effectively over, but Dad decides to go to the flag post, and hang the flag from their gate to make it official. "Game over!" I am starting to get the distinct feeling the ref is rubbing it in. She is. Deb is laughing too. The littlest kid, the yellow jersey hanging past his knees, runs to his dad. We put our barrel plugs in. I cannot wait to go at it again, the day is young, and the father son team must pay.
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