Using a familiar trail I made a fast flanking maneuver to position myself between my estimate of where the other teams assault force would be and their flag station.  The plan was to move up on them from behind, hitting them when they began their attack on our flag station.  Once behind the opposing team I move fast to catch up and keep out of sight until the assault began. It would be difficult for them to identify me as an enemy once they had begun firing at my teammates.  It usually worked quite
well, after all the only people you expect directly behind you are your friends.

    As I neared what I termed the 'Reversal Point' I made sure that I hadn't arrived too soon.  Satisfied I turned back on my direction and began tracking their team.  I moved cautiously, but conscious not to loose pace, and kept my eyes peeled for the
first signs of the other team.

    This part of the field has a lot of dense brush and barricades set up all about.  Trails criss-crossed it in all directions.  It was my favorite area.  Stealth and mobility were the key here, a player could move about quietly and quickly, unseen by his opponents.  Nearly all of my favorite 'exploits and misadventures' as the team called them, had occurred on this part of the field.  I bored them to tears with the re-telling, it was my nature I guess.  The team was here today to brush up before an upcoming tournament, we had picked a winner because it was walk-on day at the field, new players paid only for their paint and CO².  A group fifteen farm-league baseball players had made it out today.  The field manager made a big deal about announcing us as local Top Guns, he really had those new guys shaking.  I had a new paintgun that I wanted to shake down; And as it would turn out I missed the first game of the day when the chronograph found me floating balls along at just over one hundred feet per second.  With the problem corrected I was starting to grow accustomed to the new semi now, it was heavier but more accurate than my previous gun had been and the rate of fire would rattle your teeth.  I knew that I would soon be singing it's praises.
 
    The time of year was mid-summer and it was plenty hot, my cammies were plastered to my skin like wallpaper.  There wasn't a hint of a breeze.  I slid along though the clusters of brush, mindful of the many ambush points and keeping an eye out for any new ones.  I put extra effort into sweeping the gun in order to get used to it's weight and balance.  I'm a firm believer in the familiarity principle of marksmanship, that being it's not how accurate the gun is, but how accustomed the shooter is to the gun.  For close-in, point-shooting paintball you had to know your paintgun.  I had just two short weekends to replace years of conditioning to another gun.  It had me worried.  That strange sort of paintball sixth-sense caused me to begin to slow my pace a little, even though that same sense told me that the opponents I sought were far ahead.  Knowing this was 'Newbie Day' I had expected the assault force to be moving a little slower than usual, I had thus dropped back further than normal.  This was a mistake.  A miscalculation as to how much slower they would be and the extra time it took to travel this distance had left me with a lot of ground to make up.
 
    I was still in 'Turbo Stealth Mode' trading a little silence for a lot of speed, when I met the first one of them.  I stopped, careful not to make any noise that would alert him.  He was crouched down behind a large tree barricade looking down-field, still far out of sight of our flag station.  He hadn't seen me so I slid up for an easy shot and bent to the sights.  Then I paused, noticing now what had first drawn my attention to
this lone defender, his white sneakers.  White sneakers, blue jeans, field-gun and goggles, one of the newbies.  Probably his first game ever.  Then I knew why he was there.  My thoughts went back to my first game.
 
    There I was crouching beneath a rock outcrop waiting for someone to come along,  It was almost eight years ago but I would swear that all the sensations I felt then were still clear in my head to this day.  The weight of the pistol, the sound of the breeze, and the scent of grass and the Deep-Woods Off I wore. The overwhelming tension.  In my mind I can still see every pebble, every blade of grass that grew around my rock.  I had convinced myself that this was the perfect ambush point.  Truth of the matter was that I had lost my nerve.  I had taken my eyes off of my partner for just a minute and he disappeared.  I waited a few minutes to see if I could spot him but he was gone.  Being alone in the woods for the first time, and knowing that I was being hunted had robbed me of my nerve.
 
    But I had gotten lucky that day, one of the field's better players had stumbled into my little ambush, close enough that a nervous kid with a cheap paintgun could score a one shot hit. Suddenly the woods and the experienced players weren't so scary.  That one incident had turned me into a paintball player.  Through all the hard lessons of those early games I had that victory to hold onto.  It was the spark of hope that encouraged me to keep giving it one more try.  And I kept trying for another taste of victory until I gained the skill to readily achieve it.
 
    I thought my situation over for a moment and came to a curious decision.  Quietly I twisted the on\off valve of my guns air tank into its off position, by my guess that would cut me down to a couple of shots.  The nervous newbie was still looking where he thought I should be.  Searching the ground at my feet my eyes found a stick, I placed my foot on it and pressed.  The stick broke with a resounding "snap".  The newbie was startled at first then turned, he seemed to have forgotten his pistol.  I raised the semi and instinctively drew a bead on the center of his chest.  As I picked up the slack in the trigger I recalled my original intention and swung the barrel to point at the barricade
next to him.  I got out three rapid shots before the gas pressure fell too low to re-cock the guns mechanism.  Out of reflex my eyes fell on the gun, seeking the problem that I myself had engineered.  The newbie was still thrashing around, looking for someplace to hide.  Then he remembered his gun.  It's funny how life seems to go into slow motion when you know it's about to deliver you a swift kick in the butt.  The newbie, half sprawled over backwards suddenly looked at the paintgun he held limply in
his hand.  My hand found the on\off valve, cracked it.  I heard, or think I heard, the rush of CO² into my air-gun, and saw the barrel of his gun swinging my way.  I had been playing paintball a few years by this time, I did certain things without conscious
thought.  I tucked my right shoulder in and began to twist out of the line of fire, I was too close, too late.
 
    Distantly I heard the report, watched out of the corner of my eye as the yellow ball arched in slow motion to strike me on the shoulder.  "Hit!"  I yelled praying he'd stop shooting.

    I checked myself, a smear of yellow paint marked the impact.  "I'm Out," I replied, as my perception of time suddenly returned to normal.  As an afterthought I added "Nice shot."  The kid was grinning ear to ear.  I pulled my barrel plug out of my pocket, rolled it in my fingers and inserted it in my gun barrel, then disarmed the gun without meeting his eyes.  "Rest of the actions gonna be on the other side of the field" I said in my best thoughtful voice, hoping he'd get the idea without noticing my prodding.  I nodded in the direction that both teams lay.
 
    The kid looked over his shoulder then back at me, still grinning.  "Geez I can't believe I got you."
 
    It was childish, but for one moment I regretted what I had done.  I had visions of being ridiculed and pointed at in the staging area.  I had let down my teammates, and myself, by failing to just shoot the kid and moving on.  I intensely wanted to be alone for a moment.  A lot of guys could have justified just blasting him as the best way to teach him to watch his back. I had heard that said many times, and somehow I didn't believe it anymore.  The kid just stood there.  I could see now, he was maybe sixteen, not really a lot younger than I, but the years that separated us were long ones.  "You're gonna miss the game. . ."
 

    He head checked again, paintguns could be heard in the distance now.  Turning back he smiled again then ran off towards the distant fight.
 
    I watched him go running after his teammates, and suddenly I didn't feel so bad, as though part of me had grown up.  Looking at the barricade I saw the tight circle of lime green paint I had fired.  My aim had been true, that was all the protection my ego
needed.  I had lost because I had chosen to loose, there was no shame in that.  As for letting my team down, well, it was only a game, they'd get over it.  I could have shot the kid a dozen times over, I hadn't.  I had traded a personal victory to give a stranger a victory of his own.  But no good deed goes unpunished they say, and the guys would surely razz me about being out-gunned by a newbie, but it was something I could live with.  I'd just blame the new gun.  As for my day in the sun, I drove by that old field some years ago, sadly it's a housing development now, the rock ledge replaced by a swimming pool, it's pebbles and blades of grass forever gone.  Knowing that I could never go back there has always left me feeling a little empty.  But I will always have my memory, and perhaps next week if the kid comes back, I'd have a new audience for that story.