Passion for Paintball

As if the danger of the mosh pit at the Slipknot concert wasn't exciting enough, I signed up for a paintball invitational. This was my first time playing, despite repeated attempts to convince my former co-workers to try it as a team bonding event. I was convinced shooting each other with water-soluble paint would bring us closer.
The evening started slowly, with the VCR freezing up repeatedly during the instructional video. But once my mask was in place and my weapon packed with multi-colored ammo, I was ready to hunt.
As I crouched behind a discolored pillar in a dingy warehouse basement, my heart stuttering in my chest, I scanned the darkness for my target. The corner of my eye caught movement. I popped my weapon around the edge. As I fired, an opponent's paintball smashed into my ring finger, jamming the steel band into the tender flesh beneath the second joint. I threw my hands up, shouted "I'm out", and then shouted a few more things. I broke the "no vulgarity" rule on the paintball game contract I signed.
Delirious with adrenaline, I didn't realize I was dripping blood until someone pointed it out. The paintball attendant helped me apply a band-aid. One of my teammates offered me a pair of gloves to wear, and I was back on the playing field.
There was one round of the night (out of about twenty) where I was the last person standing. Euphoria coursed through my veins as I pulled the protective sleeve over the barrel of my gun. At that moment, I realized paintball was the sport for me. The best, and most painful, game I've ever played. I also realized, if someone in the group has a $1400 paintball gun, I want him on my team. Maybe, just maybe, one of these days I'll be the guy with the $1400 paintball gun.