In the woods without a gun

Green specks of paint splattered the tree beside me as I crouched low, waiting for a break in the latest paintball rounds being lodged in my general direction.

There was an orange handkerchief dangling from a loose tree limb over to the left side. I had seen a flash of movement 10 minutes earlier from my camouflaged brother before a nephew had called time so he could reload.

We were playing paintball in the woods on a nearly dry lake on a corner adjacent to Death Valley Stadium. A few miles away, South Carolina and Clemson fans were tailgating and talking smack about the rivalry game.

I was more concerned about the fact that I was unarmed and in the line of a steady stream coming from paintball guns held by my two nephews.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Time was called and globs of paintball immediately started to form on the tree I had adopted for protection. I peeked my head around the corner, searching for a moment when I could make a run for it.

My oldest nephew Jack shot me in the nose with a green paintball. I saw stars just like Charlie Brown must feel in the "Peanuts" cartoon when Lucy has once again pulled the football away.

I had visions of a broken or bloody nose as the shock was replaced by a sharp, numbing paint in the base of my skull. I wondered how I would explain this story when I returned to work and came in looking like I had been knocked out by a heavyweight boxer.

This is the second time I have experienced the stars drawn over an unfortunate cartoon character following a pratfall.

In 1990, I was skiing an expert Black Diamond run called "El Diablo" in Breckenridge, Colorado. The hill consisted entirely of large bumps called "moguls."

Thrill seeking skiers enjoy jumping and sliding from one mogul to the next.

Being the cautious sort, I preferred to glide across the moguls in hopes that I would reach a smoother slope before going fast.

I made a quick turn and then encountered three moguls in rapid succession.

I jumped the first two before realizing the ultimate destination was the large trees that bordered the "El Diablo." The slope was appropriately named because this Spanish phrase translates into English as the Devil.

I had two choices — jump the first mogul and run right into the tree or take the fall and hope I slowed down enough to avoid the tree.

I took the fall and ended up with a ski wrapped around both sides of the tree.

After a few moments of shock, I shook off the tree in much the same way I would soon go right back to playing paintball with my nephews.

All this drama turned out to be much about nothing. The only real evidence of the paintball wounds were the welts on both legs and a thin piece of skin that had been removed from my nose.

There was a nice little gash on the middle finger where a green paintball had skipped across a hand.

The reader is probably wondering why I did not fire back at my nephews.

There were only two paintball guns for the four players on the paintball field that my older brother and nephews had scouted out the previous afternoon. I was one of the two unarmed players in the game of "capture the flag."

I now know what it must feel like for an animal to be hunted. It's an experience similar to being in a water gun fight without having any water at your disposal.

A paintball hit is akin to a bee sting. I will take a win for one of my football teams any day over getting shot with a paintball.