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Wednesday, October 10, 1984/The Battalion/Page 9
Survival game creates primal high
By Ed Cassavoy
Sports Editor
Only the eyes were clearly visible.
20 pairs, staring through their war
masks.
Their disguises were simple and
effective. Olive drab and khaki
green outfits made them all but invi
sible in the backdrop of the forest.
Faces streaked and smeared with
black and green paint, completed
the eery disguise.
We came as interlopers, one pho
tographer and a sports writer, to
cover the Survival Game. And we
were scared stiff.
We walked over to find John Wa
terhouse, the president of Survival
Games of Texas, more for protec
tion than anything else.
Waterhouse, wearing a “Don’t
shoot the judge” t-shirt explained
the rules of the game while handing
protective goggles and a release
from liability form to each of us. Not
very reassuring.
I had come to the 60 acre Survival
Game area because curiosity had
gotten the better of me.
We both were issued a belt,
holster, gun, a supply of yellow paint
pellets (water soluble paint) dnd ex
tra C02 cartridges.
The equipment was simple and ef
fective. The guns we were using
were the same type used by foresters
to mark trees. The paint pellets are
loaded into the gun propelled by
compressed air.
In the roped off pratice area, hu
man cutouts were tied to the trees to
serve as targets. They just made me
more unsettled as I fired a few test
rounds. The guns proved to be sur
prisingly accurate and powerful.
Power. That was the uncomfort
able part. I felt torn in my desire to
pit myself against man and nature,
and my distaste for all that these “ga
mes" symbolized. I figured I was
overreacting.
We were dumped on blue army.
Two hopeless civilians. As we moved
away from the house, crossing under
the red taped area that separated
safe from hostile territory, I couldn’t
help feeling a twinge of excitement.
“It feels like we’re in Vietnam,” a
photographer from Waller said in a
nush tone.
One of the players said the Survi
val Game gave him a chance to act
like a kid again, and I knew what he
meant.
The adrenalin was already pump
ing.
The survival game is a game of
capture the Hag. Each army starts at
their flhg station at opposite ends of
the field.
When I say field, I don’t mean a
meadow or large farm tract. I am
MSC
CEPHEID
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Thurs. Oct. 11
7:30 & 9:45
Rudder Theatre
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In the heat of battle, two blue army members try to clear a
jammed gun. The guns fire plastic pellets filled with water
Photo by CAMILLE BROWN
soluble paint. All players must wear protective goggles
when participating in a game.
talking about a densely forested
area. Brambles and thorns choke
many areas, and a shallow stream
snakes its way through the course.
We separate our blue team into
offense and defense. We begin the
first game (usually they last about an
hour) by defending our own flag.
Six of us break up into smaller cells
of two and fan out around the flag
station.
We wait.
I lie crouched under a tree, one
hand on a tree for support until I
discover fire ants swarming over my
hand. I shift position. I imagine that
the noise can be heard for miles. It is
that quiet. For the first five minutes I
can hear Scott, my partner settling
down about 10 yards away. Invisible.
I sit down on the carpet of pine
needles and concentrate on the huge
forest around me. I have selected my
spot carefully. I am on high ground,
within easy sight of the flag, but pro
tected on three sides by a tangled
mat of bushes and thorns.
The sun filters down through the
trees casting weird shadows, distort
ing my view of the one path I know
red army will use. My goggles fog
up, but I concentrate on swivelling
my head in every direction. I want
action.
But nothing happens. We hear
distant shots, shouts, and several
times we tighten the defensive ring
around the flag. Each time the ac
tion is around the next corner, or
over the next ridge. Once, I take a
bead on someone emerging from
around a tree, only to discover it is
my photographer yelling, “Blue
army, blue army!!!” The slimmest of
margins.
The second game blue army shifts
to the other flag station and we both
decide to be offensive players. As
soon as the horn sounds to begin the
game, the offensive players charge
toward the enemy as quickly as possi
ble, trying to penetrate deep into red
territory before we run into them.
As we hustle down the freshly cut
paths, the guy ahead of me stumbles
and catches himself several times be
fore falling. There is no time.
Cautiously we creep towards a
large ravine, a small creek trickling
through it, with steep sharp cliffs on
either side. I am to the right of my
squad. I crouch behind a tree and try
to figure out how to get across the
ravine without getting hit. This is a
perfect place for an ambush.
By chance I happen to see a famil
iar shape huddle behind a tree di
rectly across from me. I am mildly
surprised. Like in a dream, I’m not
sure who he is.
I aim my gun at him. I know he
can see me, so I try and identify him
as either red or blue. He just hud
dles down closer to the ground. I still
am not sure, but I can’t risk letting
my buddies get it, so I squeeze off
one shot. It slams into the grass in
front of the man. I figure I missed.
But he stands up, disgusted, and
says he is dead. He was just a vague
blur, a shadow, now he has ceased to
exist.
My first kill. Incredibly, I stand up
and whoop and yell in triumph. I
beat him. I survived. I beat the odds
this time. I feel invincible, and I slide
and roll to the creek bed and scale
the other side of the ravine. I can
feel the blood pumping in my ears.
Iwo Jima, D-Day, John Wayne, the
whole bit.
We sweep closer to the flag, now I
zig zag from tree to tree. But we over
shoot red army’s flag station. We re
trace our steps.
Confusion reigns as the flag is
brought out. A minute ago we had
nine players, now there are only
four, the others might as well have
been swallowed up by the earth.
Closer we dashed to our flag, the
terrain now much gentler, the going
much easier. We skirt two ambushes
and stumble into another. Two of
the enemy shadow us from behind
— it is my job to hold them up.
But then that uneasy feeling came
back into my gut. It was just so close
to hunting real human beings, with
real guns.
It was an exciting adventure, the
chance to hone the primal edge in
your character. For one time. But I
am afraid if I did again, I might like
it. And that is the most dangerous
thing of all.
As I walk into the newsroom, yel
low paint splattered on my jeans and
hands, Travis, the assistant sports
editor put it just right.
“Just imagine if all that yellow
paint was real blood.”
It is 1997. Manhattan is a
wailed-in prison—the
bleakest maximum securi
ty dungeon on earth,
populated by sewer
dwellers and brutal
criminals sentenced. . .
forever. The President
has just crash-landed into
this hell, carrying top
secret nuclear informa
tion. Only one man can
get him out.
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