Clouds hovered ominously over San Diego on Sunday morning, spraying a mist of rain that soon turned into rapid drops fired down from heaven. A long day of battle lay ahead. How could we possibly fight effectively with such conditions adding to the struggle? Fortunately, the fickle weather only gave us rain for a short while, and the sunlight eventually found its way out from the hazy sky. Suddenly, we thought, the day may actually turn in our favor. And it did.
What was the battle like, you ask. It was a tough one, I have to say, resulting in injuries of all types; welts, bruises and lacerations – what’s a bonafide battle without such things? And what did I learn this weekend? That paintballing is no joke! The guy in charge at Weekend Warriors was adamant about the rules of the engagement upon hitting the field. His little 15 minute speech before we put on our masks (which are to be worn on the field AT ALL TIMES WITH NO EXCEPTIONS!) made all of us a little sick in the stomach. Getting shot in the eye (or ANYWHERE on the body) didn’t sound like something anyone wanted to experience, but there we were, geared up in our team colors (Fernand and Ate, in particular, goin' Sadies), ready to shoot at anyone shooting back at us. The term “trigger-happy” is not a qualified enough description of what happened to all of us after the ref yelled the countdown before each face-off.
We were real soldiers out there, crouching behind tree branches, hiding behind slabs of metal planted on the ground (one which Matt alias Duck & Cover, knocked over during one game, causing him to freeze from the shock of suddenly realizing he was completely exposed to open fire before he ran to Pat’s side), lying beneath oversized wooden spools of metal cables (Bev and Gwennie could’ve been mistaken for Aeon Flux and Sydney Bristow the way they maneuvered around those things); anything that provided any kind of shield between us and the onslaught of 1 cm balls of yellow paint flying at 200 mi/hour. Some of us chose to guard the fort, providing cover fire for those who risked their lives to capture the flag or approach enemy territory (James, Gwennie, Bev, Ja, Joe, Matt, Riann, Leia, Tin, Cahlo – bravehearts!). Then there are those who were fearless, running across open fields firing like Rambo (PAT AND KAY! YOU CRAZIES!).
The battlefields were vast (okay maybe not but there was a lot of ground to cover for 20 people), but the intention to annihilate the enemy was even more boundless. We would fight no matter what the circumstances; no matter the accidental step on a land mine in the form of cow dung (therefore my call sign), no matter the bodily injury (Joe, Ro and Pat were bleeding and by the third game, everyone had welts and bruises. Leia and Pat had it worst!), no matter the faulty equipment (Ro and Cile had their guns checked, cleaned and replaced a number of times), even friendly fire became an issue (poor Rach. How’s your booty, girlfriend?). We didn’t care!
It was a team effort from both sides of the fence line, but Team Baby Blizzoo prevailed in the end. Good game guys!
More weekend antics to record but it's getting late. So until then, let the battlecry remain in all our bruised-up, banged-up heads...BAAAAAAAAANZAI!!!!!!!!!!!!!