If there were ever a war in which I was forced to fight, my family, and my country would be in serious trouble.  I always had a hunch that I was not was not much of a warrior, but after this weekend, I have confirmed that I would likely be the first man dead in any conflict, at least any conflict involving projectiles and heat.

I played paintball for the first time in about 15 years this weekend as part of a friend's bachelor party.  Fourteen of us headed an hour East of LA after a night of heavy drinking and no sleeping, to a place that looked like a combination of a weapons testing facility and Tucson, minus anything attractive, and/or alive. 

The paintball establishment consisted of three porta-potties, something that looked like a little league concession stand, and a parking lot large enough to comfortably fit approximately everyone in Los Angeles but which was presently populated by four cars.  I have since determined that the lack of attendance was either a result of the 106 degree heat, or the fact that paintball is stupid, or some combination of the two.

Our group was a private group, which meant we did not have to compete with people who, for example, go to play paintball by themselves and wear camouflage.  We were given a lengthy introduction by a kid named Alex who explained that communication was the key to paintball and then explained the rules, which were basically not to dry fire your weapon, and not to take off your goggles once you get into the playing area, and not to take off your goggles until you were out of the playing area. Any player seen removing his goggles would be given three warnings by Alex before being asked to leave, but would definitely have already been shot in the eyes. 

We divided into two teams and began the first game. About four seconds later I felt a sting in my right thigh and noticed that I had, in fact, been hit.  I was disappointed because I hadn't yet fired my weapon.  When the game ended, four minutes later and all of my teammates had been destroyed, we concluded that our main problem, aside from our general lack of a plan, or any interested in the activity, was that three of our team members had been unable to get their guns to function, two for technical reasons such as not pushing the red button that said “push to fire” and the last for the technical reason that he had not removed the rubber bag that was placed over the barrel and secured by bungy cords.

Our team fared similarly in the subsequent six contests, owing mostly to our strategy, which consisted of discussing how we needed a strategy, throwing out three or four possible strategies which involved some combination of standing still or running around, and immediately abandoning the strategy just as the game began in favor of a strategy which consisted of standing alone behind various implements, waiting to get hit by people we couldn't see and occasionally shooting at our own teammates when they appeared in our line of sight, even if we knew they were our teammates.

After more than three hours I was among the first killed in each round and had amassed only four kills.  The first came when I shot my friend Adam in the back as I was walking off the course.  I had already been shot and was out of the game, so “technically” I was breaking the rules, but since he didn't realize it was me who shot him, I feel it was still in a gray area. I shot Adam again toward the end of the day too, this time in the head, when I was still in the game and he was out of the game. Again, gray area, though this time, since I shot him from 70 feet, I feel I was definitely in the right.

My two only legitimate kills took place in the last game, where my strategy consisted of running frantically back and forth between a burned-out RV and some tall grass, basically in plain view.  Several members of the other team believed I had already been shot so that when they made their way all the way to the back of our area, I was crouched, and waiting for them.  First, I shot my friend Kurt square in the shoulder, and when he shrieked and put up his hands in surrender, I continued to shoot him.  Even though this was technically against Alex' rules, I found that the bullets still worked.

On the way back down the hill to the base, we wasted the rest of our paint by shooting wildly in all directions and then dry fired approximately 4,000 rounds.  Even though this was against the rules, Alex was sorry to see us leave. It's been slow, he said, and he doesn’t know why. He swears the parking lot used to be overflowing, but I suspect it's just the heat talking.