It happens on a random Monday. Coming back from an event or a late Sunday night right before you get on a plane and you're about to be frisked for the third time. You're driving, you're flying, you're sitting with the guys from the team. You're drinking stale coffee trying to stay awake. You're explaining the fat welt on the side of your neck to a confused stranger or a best freind. You're coming back to the life, the one without paintball. Where no one understands why you do it. You're tired, you're working off little sleep. The question creeps up and you try to ignore it. "Why do I do this? Why the travel, why the losses and the missed work and the missed school, 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 travel are memories forever and trips to strange lands with stranger people. 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 amongst seven playing for the world title. And suddenly, all those cliches you've ever heard make sense, and you are defined. You say it to yourself and it means everything. "I am a paintball player, and this moment, right here, is my life...