Kevin Ecker is trying to organize a Splatball (or Paintball) Battle Royale pitting the local lefty and righty MOBsters against each other on the field of valor and latex projectiles. So far the righties have shown more interest in getting all Pulp Fiction with it, while the other side appears to have its head tucked under its collective left wing.

If it’s an outdoor event I don’t know if I’ll be able to participate since running around on uneven terrain dodging sniper fire isn’t something on the approved activities list for my knee. I can’t, however, be called a “chickenhawk” because I actually have played splatball before. A few years ago an evening of splatball was the featured attraction of a bachelor party for a friend of mine. It was wintertime so we rented an indoor splatball arena, in this case a warehouse-sized building with an urban warfare motif inside featuring false building fronts, windows, doors, alleys and a no-man’s-land in the middle that also had some cover.

Former governor Jesse Ventura once said, “You haven’t hunted until you’ve hunted man,” and that was one of the few things he said that I could agree with. I’d never played splatball before that night and when the whistle blew to start the first game I got a rush of adrenaline unlike any I’d ever experienced playing football or basketball or even from getting into fights; the thought that someone I might not even be able to see might be drawing a bead on me at that very moment definitely got my heart pumping. I didn’t like the idea of standing still on defense so I decided to join a couple of guys who were going to try and get around the other team’s flank. To do so, however, I’d have to cross an open space about 10 feet wide. I took the first two steps of my dash…and took a paintball pellet on the forehead part of my visor. Actually it hit the air vent of the visor, and the paint dripped through the vent and into my eyes. Thirty seconds into the game and I was baptized, literally, by fire — and I hadn’t even fired a shot yet! The good, they die young.

Fortunately there were several more games to go and many more chances to get my licks in. One problem we were having, however, was that the temperature outside was about 20 below, and the warehouse was minimally heated. With all the energy we were expending the temperature wasn’t uncomfortable for us, but the plastic skin of the pellets we were shooting grew brittle and would rupture easily, squibbing your shot and jamming your gun when it happened. One time I had laboriously worked my way around and behind a guy on the other team; leaping out from cover I shouted, “Die, scum!” or something similar, triggering my gun as my opponent turned. Instead of hearing a satisfying, “pssshh-THWACK!” I heard a muffled blub and purple paint seeped out of my barrel while my would-be victim dove over a box and tried to return fire as I did my own disappearing act.

In another game, each side was allowed a “medic”; if you were hit you could get back in the game if your team’s medic could get over and touch you. Right off the bat this friend of mine took off on a banzai charge right at the middle of the other team’s defensive wall. He was shot down directly under the guns of the other team, and began calling for the medic. Our medic decided, however, that this was a terminal case and not worth picking up a few more welts in the attempt.

Another variation in the rules called for a player on each side, previously and secretly designated by the referee, to turncoat on his teammates. Unfortunately for me, the “spy” on our team was sharing a bunker with me as we tried to pick off any heads that popped up in the sector in front of us. In the middle of the battle I heard,

“Hey, John.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m the spy. Surrender?”

He held his gun on me, the barrel about a foot from my wide target, close enough to raise a welt the size of a popsicle. I considered.

“Ah, oui, mon ami,” I said.

All in all it was a very fun time and it took a couple of hours for my heart rate to return to normal afterwards, and another day or two for the various bumps and bruises on my body to fade. The memories haven’t faded yet, and I have warm thoughts of my night on the front lines. If I do it again, however, I’m going to be sure my ammo is warm, too.

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