Surprisingly, paintballs don't make the sound you think they would.
When it comes to my children, my life is governed by the laws of diametric opposition: one is a girl, the other a boy; one is olive-skinned, the other is fair; one lives in Northern California, the other in Southern California; one gets high marks in school, the other is . . . very witty. This year for the holidays, my daughter's big gift was a trip to a major musical production; my son, on the other hand, got a paintball gun and the supplies that go with it (much of it, of course, was protective wear). And so, just as I took her to the theater, I went with him to Camp Pendleton's paintball park. I, who have never fired a gun in my life that actually shoots anything (laser tag, apparently, doesn't prepare you for this), spent the day paintballing with teenagers and off-duty Marines.
Some observations: compressed air can shoot a little ball of paint pretty far; aim is irrelevant when you're using a rented paintball gun; shooting a twelve-year-old in the face was surprisingly therapeutic; it helps to have some sort of military mindset for group attack, but you lack the sophisticated communication devices so you're reduced to yelling; I have a renewed awe for combat soldiers, simply because it's harder than you'd think to reload a gun on a battlefield; paintballs aren't filled with latex paint, but with some watery, gooey paint that breaks down into a sticky mess; raising your hands in the air does mean that you're out, but it doesn't mean they'll stop shooting at you; paintballs are expensive, and you go through them pretty quickly; trendy protective gear can make any nerd look like a badass; and finally, I need to join a gym or something to get in better shape.
In the end, I walked away without serious injury. I was shot in the hand a few times, but I couldn't feel it because I had already scraped it up pretty badly (I tried to run--too fast, it turned out--to a bunker and ended up falling on my face, knee, and hand). I got shot once in the chest (no bruise), once in the back (a serious bruise), and once right between the eyes. Thank God for the goggles, although a piece of shattered paintball casing managed to fly in the air vent and scratch my nose. What I didn't count on was how out of shape I was: for three days now, my thighs have burned with a pain I haven't known in a long time. I was prepared to get shot, but it never occured to me that I would be running around all day long (I looked somewhat foolish on the stairs at home). I'm not old (my son will not allow me anymore to call myself "old"), but I'm clearly not 25 anymore.
No, "SPLAT!" isn't the sound a paintball makes. It makes the sound of sons and fathers laughing together; it sounds like friends and family experiencing new things together; it is the sound of memories being made.
Observations, rants, and plausible
deniability from a person who refuses
to be a prisoner of his own world.
deniability from a person who refuses
to be a prisoner of his own world.
The Village
I AM WRITING!
My Screenplay -- Draft Three
I'm currently reading:
On my Kindle 2
I'm listening to:
iTunes Radio
I'm driving:
The Honda FCX Clarity
Tuesday, January 15, 2008, posted by Q6 at 9:25 PM
