scotty

It happens on a random Monday, coming back from an event, or late on a Sunday night right before you get on the plane and you're about to be frisked for the third time. You're driving, you're flying, you're sitting in an airport seat with boys from the team. You're drinking stale coffee trying to stay awake, and explaining the fat welt on the side of your neck to a confused stranger. You're running through the sidewalks of LA trying to catch a plane. You're coming back to the other life, the one without paintball, where no one understands why you do it. You're tired, working off little sleep, and the question creeps up; you try to ignore it. Why do I do this? Why the travel, the losses, the missed work and school? Why the hours of practice and the complaining girlfriend? Because the lure of living a paintball life is just too potent, and the products of the road and the travel are memories forever. At tournaments, it feels like, for once, you actually get to live as loud as you want. It's worth the sacrifices, it's worth all the bullshit. Because if you work hard enough a Sunday will roll around and you'll be in the huddle, screaming, with your hand in, one among ten, playing for the world title. And suddenly, all those clichs you ever heard make sense, and you are defined. The buzzer sounds, and this is your moment. You are defined. And you say it to yourself and it means everything. I am a paintball player, and this moment, right here, is my life.

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