Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: WEDNESDAY, May 12, 1993 TAG: 9305120021
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: C1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Ed Shamy
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
It's a good hiding place, which is why I'm crouched low in the midst of a swarm of gnats.
Panting heavily, my heart pounding against my camouflage coveralls, I grip the barrel of my gun and raise my head over the top of the bank.
I might as well be a groundhog popping out of a hole in the middle of a gun show. My cameo appearance draws a barrage.
Branches snap and leaves shred. From out there in the sunlight, beyond the tangle of locust and honeysuckle, Richard Leftwich is firing at me.
I have nothing against Leftwich, a man I barely know nor, at this moment, see. But he's aiming at me and squeezing a trigger and is coming frighteningly close to zinging my frail body.
Groundhog-like, I dash out into the open to squat behind a wooden pallet, which offers me a good view of my nemesis.
Leftwich's days as a wily sniper are coming to an end.
I raise my gun, aim and - ZIP! - am hit from behind in the kidney. It stings for a moment and when I reach back to rub the spot, my fingers come away with something moist, gooey and orange.
Neil Horn, a teammate with Leftwich, has drilled me and I'm oozing orange from my kidney.
My brief stint as a guerrilla warrior is ended.
By the end of two 15-minute paintball wars, I'll be hit three or four times with gumball-sized paintballs. They sting a bit when they hit and burst into pink, yellow, blue or orange splotches. The paint washes off with water, the bursted balls dissolve in the rain.
John Grace and Jerry Westling are opening this paintball battlefield to the public this weekend. To show off the new battleground, they let me get dusted privately.
For about $20 an hour, aspiring guerrillas will rent the 1 1/2-acre battleground, an air gun and a protective visor for an hour, and buy 100 paintballs. They'll also get insurance and a referee.
Grace - who last year fired a paintball into his palm at point-blank range to convince the Salem City Council the game is safe - doesn't like paintball portrayed as a war game. He and Westling see it as an adult game of "tag."
Scariest damn game of tag I ever played, what with the air rifles and all.
The men have built an observation area, protected from errant paintballs, so that others may watch. They dream of luring management groups who want to hone their teamwork. They like the idea of Girl Scouts stalking Girl Scouts. Church groups gleefully exchanging fire.
Surely, paintball will appeal to a different crowd - the wanna-be soldiers of fortune.
Westling, my teammate, bellies up next to me as we hole up behind a stack of old railroad ties.
"Cover me," he whispers, and he bolts from the brush. I open fire, spraying the woods with paintballs. Westling finds haven behind a brush pile.
Minutes later, I take a yellow ball in the shoulder - just a groundhog among marksmen.
Westling wastes no time grieving; sniping from the weeds, he fires at - and hits - both of our foes.
by CNB