Paintball
My 15-year-old son is mad for the sport of paintball. Consumes him 24/7 and he can rattle off the specs of every marker/air tank/regulator value the way I used to be with motorcycles. We have a big paintball field 45 minutes from the house and yesterday there was a "Father's Day Special" where Dads get to play for $ 10, so he was like "Dad.....would you like to do that for your Father's Day present?"
Ahhhhh....sure.
My son is very excited as Pev's Paintball field in Aldie VA is a big deal. First time I've done it, because I've taken him out there many times and watched them play. I know what will happen when a six-foot-tall 54-year-old, fat man tries to run/jump/dive with 13-14-15 year-olds that are as fast and compact as rabbits.
Ever been shot with a paintball? They are .68 caliper and travel at course-limited 280 fps (yes they have a chronograph and check). They leave welts on your body, sometimes bloody if the shot was close on uncovered skin. There is definitely a tolerance level for getting shot and the pain.....why do I say that? Because today I am able to count each strike on my skin, evident as a nasty red bruise.
I was cannon fodder, ala the Soviet Defense of Stalingrad. I tried many different strategies on the fields, from stunning sweeping flanking attacks (I was lit up with fire), to prone stealthy sniper positions under good cover ('lil fast rabbits flanked me at speed, then gleefully shot me all up), to finally simply cowering in the further-est station under cover waiting for the inevitable hailstorm of orange balls to land upon my beaten body. Running down a field flinging myself into a muddy depression as orange balls zing by, I contemplated how unagile and unfast I have become as the years have stacked up. Now I see why real wars are fought by young men.
After five hours of this abuse, I was mostly orange from head to toe from the paint hits. But I had combat welt trophy marks, unlike all the other cowardly Dads who waited for their kids in the parent parking lot in their fresh white polos shirts and laptops. I was able to saunter back to the car, a paintball war veteran. I could talk the talk, and walk the walk. Vanquished, but not beaten, bloodied, but not defeated.. I looked at the other dads with disdain, they were not worthy.
On the way home I pulled into the 7-11 and instead of getting out, asked my son to go get the Gatorade. I felt paralysis setting in and didn't want to get out of the car. 50 minutes later we were at home and I was looking for a winch to get me out of the driver's seat. While my wife is laughing at me, I barely make it upstairs, have a shower and get all that paint/sweat/mud off, and collapse on the bed for a nap until dinnertime. Upon waking, I could barely move these old bones.
My son said "Dad, that was great! Didn't you have just the best time? Want to go next weekend?"
I mumbled something and headed off to the medicine chest for more Advil.
This morning, covered in bruises / red welts, stiff as a 2 x 4, my wife says to me as she laughs "So, are you ready to go again?"
I tell her "You know, I think they have the same special for Mother's Day, and that just 11 months from now. Get ready."
Duane Collie
Straight answers from thirty-six years in the business.
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