The Night Writer http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/ Illuminating fun, faith, family and foolishness. en-us 2008-06-10T13:06+00:00 The violence inherent in our systems http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1213064289.shtml Tonight my thoughts are turning to violence.... The Night Writer 2008-06-10T02:06+00:00
No, not that I desire to wreak any such thing on anyone, it's just that there seems to be so much of it in the air. I mean, you've got Ben talking about being in tune with his Spidey-senses and calculating the most destructive way out of the scenario if the Girl Scouts in front of him on the street turn out to be a ninja hit squad in disguise (must be the weight-lifting and all the red meat he's eating); you've got Gino talking about he and his sister standing back to back to teach some rowdies a lesson; and you've got KingDavid in turn reminiscing over getting his own adolescent male ya-yas out and ending up in the principal's office.

I'm not dismayed or appalled. In fact, it all reminds me of a lesson my father taught me when he said, "You don't have to win, but you do have to fight."

And then I laugh as I remember the time somebody, and I can't remember who, thought it was a good idea to give my brother and I boxing gloves for Christmas when I was in my early teens. These weren't the big, pillowy 16-oz. gloves, either, where you had a better chance of suffocating from a punch in the face as being knocked out. No, these were 8-oz. demolition specials of bright red leather, packing a little padding and quite a wallop over the knuckles. I'm sure they were probably banned from toy stores about the same time as Jarts.

In those days we lived in a neighborhood full of boys and we marked the passing seasons by the games we played. Football in the fall, basketball all winter long (shoveling the snow off the asphalt driveways and turning our hands black in the dribbling), baseball or some mischief in the summer. One summer day of boredom and too many boys we remembered the gloves. Tired of whacking one another around, my brother and I brought them out for the group. It was actually pretty structured. We marked out the corners of the "ring" with lawn chairs in our back yard and matched opponents up by age and weight class. I was far from being the most graceful or athletic but I had a simple yet effective style: absorb the incoming shots as I waded into range and then, Whammo! The matches usually didn't last very long.

One of the younger boys, a wiry and athletic sort who was one of the fastest runners in the neighborhood, and also the biggest trash talker, was offended by my pugilistic style, or lack thereof. His name was Albert. He may have preferred just "Al" or "Bert" but he was the type where we just had to hang the full name on him. Anyway, his own matches in his "weight class" were marked by fancy footwork and flashy flurries, and he'd roll his eyes at me from the sidelines and talk about the "sweet science" as I'd stagger another opponent. He kept talking about how useless I'd be against someone who knew what they were doing. I suggested that, perhaps, he was thinking of himself? He said that, well, as a matter of fact, yes.

"Oh, come off it, Albert. I've got two years and 25 pounds on you."

"But you're slow. You'd never touch me."

And so it was on. Albert laced up and started circling, jumping in and out, throwing leather into my shoulders, or glancing off the top of my head. I turned as well, tracking him like the turret of a battleship surrounded by torpedo planes. A couple of my left jabs came back empty, touching only his laughter. He came in again, and this time I timed it and decided to see how the right hand might fare. Fairly well, actually, as my straight overhand going out met his forehead square as it was coming in. I could almost hear for myself the pinball bells that started ringing inside his head. His forward progress immediately reversed and he was flat on his back, somewhere in the middle of next week. And he wasn't moving.

Ho. Ly. Crap.

Nothing to do for it in that case but to invoke the Diety, or in this case, my mom. Actually, both of my parents were home at the time and my brother ran in and brought them out, no doubt trying to gasp out the hyperventilated words, "boxing", "Albert", "dead", and "It wasn't my fault." They came out briskly and with concern as Albert started to regain what little sense he had before he challenged me. I thought we were all going to get yelled at, but instead my parents were very concerned and solicitous of young Albert, touching his head, patting his shoulders, asking if he was all right, even bringing him a cold glass of lemonade. I'm sure they were thinking thoughts like, "We are going to be so sued," and "I'm going to bury those boxing gloves, preferably with my kid still in them."

Albert revived, and the last thing he wanted to do was let his parents know what happened. Actually, as far as he was concerned, the fewer people who learned what had happened the better. I like to think that it somehow made him a bit wiser, though he continued to be pretty much the same obnoxious kid as our sports seasons continued to turn. Maybe, just maybe though, it was a lesson that took a little time to reach the surface.

It was a valuable part of my education, I know that. Those scrambling episodes in boyhood gave me some useful and — in the grand scheme — not too painful lessons. I learned that life sometimes comes at you pretty fast, and that you're going to have to take some shots, but if you keep your feet and keep moving in you're eventually going to get your chance.

And when you do — Whammo!
]]> Good group(ing) http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1209853273.shtml A group of us from church got together this morning for something we consider pretty sacred: target shooting. There were about a dozen of us that showed up over the... The Night Writer 2008-05-03T22:05+00:00 target shooting. There were about a dozen of us that showed up over the course of the morning and early afternoon and we rented 3 lanes. I got to shoot my pastor's semi-automatic, my brother-in-law's target pistol and a couple of .22 bolt-actions, one with a scope. I didn't bring my rifle because I was dropping my truck off at Tires Plus for an oil change on the way and I didn't want to wait around in their parking lot holding a gun while waiting for my ride in these oh-so-sensitive days.

I hadn't been shooting for a couple of years so I was looking forward to it. When I first got into a lane today I opened the rifle case and started to load the magazine with longs. I'm always pretty careful and intent when I'm handling live ammunition, especially with a gun I'm not familiar with. I'd carefully thumbed about three shells into the clip when the guy in the lane next to me, unseen behind the partition, suddenly opened up with a Desert Eagle, with about the same feel and effect on me as if I'd had defibulator paddles placed on my chest. After double-checking the status of my peewadding and that I hadn't just blown my hand off, I took a cleansing breath and finished my task, ready to make a little noise of my own. Sure, the little snapping sound of the .22 following the Desert Eagle was like a chihuahua yipping after the mastiff had walked well down the street, but it was still fun.

My first grouping was fairly close together but high and left; after a few adjustments I started working my way into the black. One of the young men in our group had the same rifle, but with a scope on it. "A scope?" I asked. "I suppose you take cream in your coffee, too." Nevertheless, I had to give it a try. I ran the target out to 50 feet and the guy told me I needed to aim just a little left of the bullseye. I did a few of these and saw that the gun actually was shooting true, so I adjusted. After reeling the target back in I was told that the young man was shooting from 25 feet, not 50. Since the pre-printed targets on that sheet were already pretty perforated, we stuck a black dot on the lower part of the sheet between two previous targets. This dot had a yellow film inside that would show up when it was hit. I ran the target out to 25 feet, looked through the scope fired another 10 shots, working the bolt between each. Here's the result:



Their are nine holes in the dot and one down below. (The larger target directly above is the one I shot at from 50 feet). Okay, so it was only 25 feet and with a scope. If someone were to break into my home with malicious intent and stood still 25 feet in front of me, he'd be in trouble.

I moved down to the pistol lanes, and that was a lot of fun. That darn bullseye can be pretty elusive with a handgun, but one of the fathers there and I had a pretty good competition going. I was kind of handicapped while going through one magazine, though. There was a guy in the lane next to me with a 9mm semi-automatic who was practicing for his Conceal and Carry permit, and I kept getting hit in the head with his spent cartridges as they ejected out of his gun. Call it battle conditions, I guess.

It was amazing at how quickly we disposed of about 1000 rounds of ammunition (I bought 200 rounds myself for the people who's guns I used). It was, literally, a blast. I can't wait to get out again. Maybe we'll even challenge another church to a little contest!]]> Ah, Spring http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1209439334.shtml It so happens that I have recently become a VIP to The Wilds Golf Club, earning me and a guest an invitation to play in their special VIP outing. Now... The Night Writer 2008-04-29T03:04+00:00 The Wilds Golf Club, earning me and a guest an invitation to play in their special VIP outing. Now it gets your attention to be told that you are a VIP, but what really perked my interest was that the golf would be free, and that they were going to feed me as well.

In addition, the invitation came a few weeks ago when Minnesota was still clutched in the icy grip of a relentless winter, so the thought of spring and the opportunity to play free golf at a very nice club on April 28 was impossible to decline.

Then April 28 dawned this morning with Minnesota still clutched in the icy grip of a relentless winter.

"High today of 42 degrees, with winds 10 to 15 mph out of the north, present temperature 32," said the guy on the radio this morning. I can't even begin to spell the sound I made when I heard that, but FREE GOLF is FREE GOLF, no matter what it costs so I layered up, eschewed my typical broad-brimmed straw hat in favor of a woolen cabby, grabbed my clubs and a handful of Heat-Pak pocket warmers and set off for Prior Lake.

Arriving at The Wilds I changed into my golf shoes, first shaking the sand out of them from the three days of golf I endured in Arizona back in March. (I was striking the ball well for the most part those days, but had trouble getting the ball to stop in the green places where I wanted it to stop. After rolling into about my 90th sandtrap my partner commiserated, saying, "It's target golf." I muttered something about having a WalMart game.)

Arizona was literally and metaphorically miles away as I leaned into the wind walking toward the driving range to "warm up" — all the while hoping that I wouldn't have the opportunity to accidentally touch my tongue to the steel shafts of my irons. I had on thick socks (inside my golf shoes), long pants, a golf shirt, a long-sleeved, high-collared golf sweater, a mid-weight jacket, a golf glove and my leather winter gloves. I distributed heat-paks to the rest of my foursome and put one pak in my right coat pocket. That felt so good. In these conditions it's also important to keep your balls warm, so I considered unzipping my golf bag and putting a pak in the golf ball pocket. One good thing, I realized, about playing in weather like today is that I wouldn't have to expose my fingers unnecessarily to pluck grass and toss it into the air to determine wind direction; today I merely needed to look up and make note of which direction the snow flurries were heading.

With such extra protection and unexpected advantages we actually weren't too uncomfortable, though as we stood on one tee-box exposed to the wind whipping across Mystic Lake I suddenly heard Gordon Lightfoot in my head singing about the gales of November. Given the conditions, we actually played better than I would have expected even if the weather had been ideal. We were playing a Scramble and our group managed a very respectable 3-under for the 18 with only one bogey. We also finished in a very brisk 4 hours, mainly because we certainly weren't spending a lot of time lining up putts. Not bad at all.

I wish I could say it was due to superior ball striking, but the reality was that while the weather may have been against us, fortune was with us for the most part. The shot of the day came when we faced a 140 yard shot, to a green below our feet, from a downhill lie in the short rough. My usual playing partner led off and skulled an 8-iron that skidded down the slope, disappeared into a gully between us and the green...and then reappeared a few moments later climbing up out of the gully and onto the green before staggering, exhausted, to a stop six feet from the flag. It was a canny shot that expertly took the wind out of play. We happily converted for another birdie.

Now that I'm back safe at home and feeling has returned to my fingertips as I type, I am eager to play again and I can't wait for summer. I hear it's going to be on a Thursday this year!
]]> 47 out of 50! http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1209097243.shtml Ben, the Mall Diva and I doubled up with two victories at Keegan's tonight, scoring an amazing 47 out of 50 points in the two games including a perfect 25 for... The Night Writer 2008-04-25T04:04+00:00
In the first game our team name was, appropriately, Victory Pants. The second game we went with one of the Diva's off-the-wall concoctions: Belgian Underwinks. We more appropriately could have been called Deja Vu All Over Again, and not just because we won for the second time that night. We aced it because Terry Keegan read the exact same quiz as he did in game 2 back on April 3. We won with 22 points that time; this time it was merely a matter of remembering the answers to the three questions we missed the first time around. (Hey, it's still trivia knowledge - there's no rule about how you learned that trivia in the first place!)


]]> Fore! I mean, "Four!" http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1207799843.shtml ... The Night Writer 2008-04-10T03:04+00:00 I may seem a bit distracted the next few days. You see, I've got a large LCD TV. I've got HD. I've got DirectTV. And I've got an itchy trigger-thumb on my remote.

DirectTV is featuring four full-time channels devoted to the Masters the next four days. One channel is dedicated to the main broadcast feed of the tournament; a second channel to the day's highlights. A third channel is devoted exclusively to "Amen Corner" while the fourth focuses solely on Holes 15 and 16. In case I can't decide which one to watch, I can WATCH ALL FOUR AT THE SAME TIME on one screen, plus have access to several interactive features that will let me pull up additional information!

Let it snow all weekend, I don't care.]]> The sporting chance http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1205722968.shtml This weekend was the first one since the Super Bowl where I had the opportunity or inclination to park my butt in front of the TV to watch some sports. My... The Night Writer 2008-03-17T03:03+00:00
Friday night, for example, I didn't turn the set on until pretty late in the evening. I did some quick channel-surfing and came across the Big Ten channel with six minutes left in the Gophers-Indiana game in the Big Ten Men's Tournament. I hadn't watched much of the Gophs this season, but I knew the names of the players and that senior center Spencer Tollackson was out of the game with a sprained ankle. Given the team's history in recent years and the fact they were missing their big man, I was surprised to see that the Gophers were leading. Not-so-surprisingly, they went into epileptic chicken mode, letting the Hoosiers hang around and eventually take the lead with 1.5 seconds left. The way they put Indiana at the foul-line twice with less than five seconds left was shocking only if you hadn't once watched the football team mishandle a punt snap a couple of years ago to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in the closing seconds of a conference game.

Friday night, anyway, I had noticed that freshman shooting specialist and ESPY-winner (for famously hitting a last-second, game-winning shot from the seat of his pants in high school) Blake Hoffarber wasn't in the game. Not having followed the team closely I didn't know if it was because of other deficiencies in his game, but when Tubby Smith called timeout and sent Hoffarber in with less than two seconds left I figured there was no way you could ask the kid to come off the bench cold and take a shot to win the game. Absurd. So there I was, sprawled on the couch as the long throw-in crossed mid-court and went into a tangle of arms and bodies, only to deflect into Hoffarber's hands with just enough time for him to turn and shot-put a left-handed shot at the rim — where it disappeared along with the breath of every Hoosier fan in the Fieldhouse. As for myself, I found myself totally and automatically levitated from the couch while a loud "D'oh!" was yanked uncontrollably from my lips. It was a magical and exciting moment and I had witnessed it with my own eyes!

Then this afternoon I turned on Arnold Palmer's Bay Hill Invitational shortly after Tiger Woods had separated himself from the other leaders on the front nine. I stuck with the event through the afternoon as Tiger looked as if he was going to run away with it until he inexplicably took a page from my game and three-putted from six feet on number 10. The rest of the tournament was tense as several people stayed in contention until finally a relatively unknown pro forged a tie with the Great One and headed for the scorer's tent as Tiger prepared to assault Bay Hill's challenging finishing hole, ultimately leaving himself with a 25-foot downhill slider of a putt to win the tournament. This time I was on the edge of the couch, both feet on the floor, elbows on knees, leaning forward toward the set as the putt started on its long, slow, curving patch before dropping into the cup in much the same way my briefcase hits the floor when I come home from a long day's work.

Rather than levitating, however, I flopped backwards, hands on my forehead at what I'd just seen, nearly unnerved by the fact that someone like Tiger Woods now strides the earth.

For all the excesses and scandals in pro and "amateur" sports these days that can leave you jaded, it's great to not only remember but experience the sheer drama and unscripted displays of skill and will that ultimately make our games so compelling. ]]> Going out in a blaze of luck http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1198774577.shtml As I noted last week, I was playing in the championship game for my fantasy football league, and that following the game I would be retiring from this pastime.... The Night Writer 2007-12-27T16:12+00:00 week, I was playing in the championship game for my fantasy football league, and that following the game I would be retiring from this pastime.

My toughest lineup decision going into the game was whether to start LenDale White or Brandon Jacobs to complement Ryan Grant (and who would ever have imagined that sentence back on draft night in August?). The fact that I was in the championship game itself could almost qualify for "News of the Weird" since my first three draft picks (picking 9th in a 10-man league) had been Travis Henry, Steve Smith and Jacobs; people who follow the fantasy game will know that this was not an auspicious beginning considering the way season played out. I felt a certain sentimentality toward Jacobs because I had predicted such great things for him at the beginning of the year, but I thought I detected a true death stink over the Giants team and feared he might go down the tubes with his squad, so I started White. And then Jacobs scored 18 points in our scoring format, sitting on my bench. This type of thing is one of the interesting agonies of playing this game and, perhaps, one of the quandaries I will not miss.

I thought it would be an ironic farewell to the game if I lost, but it turned out that my opponents (a two-owner team) were "enjoying" those interesting agonies in spades, as nearly every lineup move they made — based on solid reason and intuition (and pretty much the same moves I would have made)— blew up in their faces. My seven starters, even without Jacobs, scored 59 points. Their six "bench" players totaled 61, while their starters managed just 29.

I could say, "I love it when a plan comes together," but it's more of a sense of relief than sweet victory. I retire now with back-to-back championships under my belt, some satisfaction, and a healthy curiousity as to what comes next.
]]> The end of an era http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1198209901.shtml I started playing Fantasy Football in 1984, back when Cliff Charpentier's fantasy season preview was the Bible of preparation, even though it was little more than a compilation of players ranked... The Night Writer 2007-12-21T22:12+00:00
Things have changed a lot since then. Fantasy Football is a billion dollar business and every channel with a football game but Fox runs continuous individual player stat lines across the bottom of the screen to help you keep track. Not that it's necessary, because there are multiple services and websites that keep score in real time and I merely have to look over my shoulder at my computer screen to check the score of my fantasy game while I'm watching a real game. Oh, and for the third time in the last four years, my team is playing in my league's Fantasy Bowl this weekend (as I write this I'm already down 12-0 since my opponent had Ben Roethlisberger playing Thursday night).

Win or lose, this is also going to be my last game.

It's not that I've grown bored with my success or with the game. For the last 23 years I've been in at least one league every year, and often as the Commissioner. To some extent it's been a year-round hobby as I've tried to stay on top of off-season moves and their implications and overall it's been an interesting and often passionate pastime. I've always enjoyed the combination of luck and skill required to build a winning record: the pre-draft preparation and hunches on who were going to be the best players in the coming year, the way the best-laid plans could be thrown out the window by capricious injuries, and how you had to hustle to come up with alternate plans and players as a result. This year, however, it has all been more of a chore for me than entertainment.

To some extent it may be due to those nagging distractions called "life" getting in the way. My personal life has had a fair amount of tumult since last spring that left me with relatively little free time to dwell on football, and little inclination to do so when I could have. I think the biggest issue, however, has become the carnage on the field.

As I said, luck and injuries were a wild card in every season and something you simply expected (hoping that it wouldn't happen to your team) and accepted as part of the randomness that made the game entertaining. Somewhere along the line, however, it started to work on me that these injuries weren't just an inconvenience I had to work around, but something tangible, painful and even devastating to the real person involved. Not that the existence of fantasy football contributed to these injuries in any way, but it started to bother me that this was my "entertainment."

Strangely enough, the turning point wasn't a football injury. Last summer when pro wrestler Chris Benoit killed his family and himself there was a lot written about the wrestling culture and steroids and about how many wrestlers had died young or had serious personal problems. There was a lot of media hand-wringing about who was to blame — the promoters, the personality types drawn to being wrestlers, the lifestyle, etc. No one seemed to touch on what seemed to me to be the obvious: if people weren't paying out big money to watch the shows, go to the events and buy the merchandise then there wouldn't be the incentive for the performers to try to make a name and physique for themselves, travel 300 days a year and resort to drugs to buid themselves up and to ease or mask the pain and debilitations that came from being a human torpedo. As I self-righteously scoffed at wrestling fans for being enablers I had a chilling revelation of my own fandom.

No, it isn't fantasy football that's driving young men to seek fame and fortune in exchange for their bodies in the NFL (speaking as one who gave up a knee playing the game for free), but my attitude has shifted and I don't know if will ever go back. I still enjoy watching the game and the big hits, but I can feel myself pulling back.

I made my "retirement" announcement to my league at the end of our regular season, before our play-offs, so the rest of the owners can start thinking about finding a replacement Commissioner now, when the season is at it's peak, and not in the dog days of summer. I received a very gratifying email from one of the owners thanking me for the entertainment value I brought to the league (via weekly game summaries) and asking me to reconsider. In the message he said my passion and commitment would be missed and couldn't be duplicated. I told him that I thought the passion and commitment may very well be duplicated by someone else — I just knew that I couldn't duplicate it any longer, and that was the surest sign that it was time to hang it up.

It's been a bit odd going through these final weeks as I've advanced through the play-offs. I've caught myself filing away mental notes about players for next year out of habit before realizing, wryly, there won't be a next year. Oh well, wish me luck this weekend! I've got a 12-point deficit to make up and a decision to make of which two players to start between Ryan Grant, LenDale White and Brandon Jacobs, all while praying for good weather in New England so Randy Moss can catch three touchdown passes.

Other than that, it's back to reality.
]]> Of hot stoves and warm good-byes http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1196472142.shtml Torii Hunter is gone and Johan Santana's bags, while they aren't packed, have been brought up from the basement. As a Twins fan I should be sad but, while I'll miss... The Night Writer 2007-12-01T21:12+00:00
This is not a case of large market vs. small market. At least, not in any way that implies there's a kind of balance between the number of teams on each side of that equation. This is huge market vs. everyone else and there are only a couple of teams that can handle the kind of dollars we're talking about. Without going to Forbes magazine, or looking up TV contracts, I'd hazard that less than a handful of teams have the revenue to pay top dollar and beyond that has been established for the elite players.

Think of it, before last season the Red Sox paid some $52 million to Dice-K's Japanese League team just to get the young man out of his contract; after that they still had to pay him another $50 mil or so. There were teams last year who's entire payroll didn't approach $50 million. I'd like to think someone in Massachusetts rubbed his neck pretty hard before writing those checks, but the Red Sox did win the World Series. Ask their accountants, not me, if it was worth it.

And ask the Yankees front office now if they'd wished they'd gone a little higher in the bidding.


]]> Bring the pain(t) http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1188240716.shtml "If you haven't hunted man, you haven't hunted."... The Night Writer 2007-08-28T03:08+00:00 "If you haven't hunted man, you haven't hunted."
— Jesse Ventura

I breathed in deeply, imagining I could catch the invigorating smell of napalm in the morning. All I got was dank musk of the forest floor, the scent of plastic and the stench of someone else's sweat from the borrowed helmet. And besides, it was late afternoon. My very own sweat was running into my eyes while swatches of sunlight and shadow cut across my vision as I scanned slowly through the leaves and branches that masked my position. Moving only my head, the light glared off of the pits and scratches in my visor and made the shadows seem even deeper as my eyes probed, alert for any sign of danger or opportunity, for any movement of branch or leaf not consistent with the slight breeze tickling through the oppressive valley. I cradled the gun in my arms and flexed my firing hand to keep it from cramping. I knew someone was out there. Someone who wanted to hurt me.

"But not if I see you first," I thought.

Earlier in the day I had set out on a recon mission, moving along the trail in unfamiliar territory as my footfalls competed with my heart beat to see which could pound louder in my ears. The trail was clear. The trail was easy. "The trail is death," I thought to myself. "The trail is the way the fat, stupid animals go and the strong, clever animals wait out of sight beside it and take the easy pickings."

Picking your way through the branches and brambles, with the cockleburs clotting on your clothing, is hard. Life is hard. Learn to move through the forest and you might live. It's a game really, like a snipe hunt. Except it's not snipe, it's snipers, and they really are out there. Is that sweat trickling along my spine or is it the prickly sensation of an unseen gun barrel drawing down on my back?

The first time I was shot wasn't so bad, really. Everything was fine until the moment of sudden impact. "What? Me? Now? So soon?" flashed across my mind, but there was no denying the thick, viscous liquid that came dripping down my visor. I had reached up with my hand, brought it away wet and slick, the goo the consistency of a bird dropping. And it was yellow. Dammit, it must have been Ben who got me, and I was dead — at least until that round of Paintball was finished, anyway. Then I could seek my revenge. That opportunity had come about an hour later when I had Ben pinned down behind a curved metal barrier. I was to his left at an extreme angle that barely allowed me to see him, but enough so I could pump round after round past the edge of the barricade, so close to him that a deep breath on his part would have ended it, yet he held his breath and his unlikely position, unable to return fire. I fired three more quick shots to keep him still and then rose slightly to move to my right to get a finishing angle. Then came the all too familiar whack on my skull as the ball exploded on my scalp, a jet of orange paint shooting through my hair, dispensed by a shooter from across the field. Another important lesson learned: use your head, or someone else will...for target practice!


The Orange Badge of Courage. The paintball struck just above the curve of the hairline.


This time, however, I can make no mistakes. I am the left flank of the line, the end. I am Joshua Chamberlain and the 20th Maine at Little Round Top. If I fall, if they get by me, the bad guys roll into our rear, capture the flag and it's over. My eyes continue to scan the area in front of me. About 30 yards away is a wooden barricade, set between some trees, surrounded by brush. I have already swept it several times. This time a black paint hopper and barrel are sticking up above the edge of the barrier. That wasn't there before! I bring up my gun, let out my breath slightly and wait. As the head inevitably comes up over the wall I pour about half a gallon of paint into the area; had I the time and the inclination I could have tattooed my initials into the wood. Instead I focus on keeping the unknown head down so he can't get an aimed shot off at me. More paintballs are coming at me from my right now, but the angle isn't good and the brush around me too thick to permit a serious threat. I fire some suppressing rounds in that general direction while keeping my eye on the original target, hoping he will take the opportunity to show himself. He does; I add another coat to the primer already laid down. I'm aware of activity to my right, but from my side of the lines, then some shooting moving away from me and then the cry — "The game is over!"

While things had heated up by me, Kevin had grabbed the flag and gone forward, sweeping up the right flank and planting it in the enemy base while my two shooters focused on me. One of these was the Mall Diva. A third sniper, Tiger Lilly, meanwhile, had been waiting on the edge of the action, also focusing on me. "Ooh, Dad, if you had only come forward three more feet I would have had you," she said. "Yeah," I thought to myself, "and if fish had feet they'd be mice."

Maybe next time, kid. ]]>