Some guys from my fraternity came into town for a paintball tournament, and I joined their team. From the moment the whistle blew, I realized that all the gym work I had been doing was useless. In the dirt, my too-loose mask fogging up, machine-trained muscles clumsy on damp grass, I felt strength expended with each narrow miss.
I wish I could post a war hero story here. How many times have I dreamed of being the commando, the invincible, untouchable hero that slides gracefully around the battlefield, dispatching opponents with ease? Well, that dream hasn't been realized yet. During the semifinal match, as the other four members of my team were eliminated, a growing sense of dread and hopelessness set in. I broke cover and ran laterally to try to flank what felt like a full opposing team. Took a paintball on the ankle for my efforts.
Tripped and landed hard. Looked up and saw my ammo had detached from my weapon. Tried to reach out and gather when I felt pain. I also saw that my left hand had not moved. Aw shucks.
With my right hand I gathered up as much as I could to make a dignified exit from the arena, but collapsed on the bench as soon as I exited. Breaths were coming in shallow, as my left shoulder felt like it was in the wrong place, but I couldn't move it anywhere else without retaliation. My teammates, having seen me fall, rushed over to help me get out of my jacket. As they pulled the left sleeve off, there was a noticeable shift of something, and with it, relief. Cool! With their poor caretaking skills (partly my fault, I didn't want my shirt cut off), I think my team set my shoulder back in place.
What an experience. First, pain that punished the very thought of movement. Then, the rush of peace that arrived immediately as mobility was restored.
Yes folks, it really is just like the movies. I'm walking around today feeling like I just had a good, pleasantly sore, workout.
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