Like a lot of phases in family life, the paintball years didn’t announce themselves when they started—and they certainly didn’t come with any warning when they were about to end. They just sort of appeared, grew into something bigger than expected, and then quietly faded into memory. But looking back now, those years stand out as some of the most unexpectedly joyful, ridiculous, and bonding times we had.

It all started, as so many good things do, with Jake.

Jake had reached that age where curiosity meets independence. He was old enough to start exploring interests that were his own, and one of those interests happened to be paintball. At first, it was just equipment—masks, guns, CO₂ tanks, bags of brightly colored paintballs. I remember thinking, Well, this is new. Then came the stories: playing with friends, running through the woods, strategizing, laughing, coming home with paint splattered on jackets and the unmistakable look of a kid who had just spent a few hours completely alive.

Naturally, I had to see what all the fuss was about.

Paintball is one of those things that sounds mildly concerning on paper—guns, pellets, protective gear—but in reality, it’s surprisingly harmless when done right. Safety was always paramount. Masks were non-negotiable. Eyes and faces were protected. And yes, if a paintball found bare skin, it left a sting and sometimes a colorful bruise—but that was part of the badge of honor. No real harm. Just stories to tell later.

Before long, it wasn’t just Jake and his friends. It was us.

At the time, we lived in Ham Lake, Minnesota, on a couple of acres that might as well have been custom-designed for paintball. Trees provided cover. Open fields allowed for long shots and daring runs. There was even a drainage ditch—filled with water—that became part of the terrain, whether we intended it to or not. That property became our own private paintball arena.

Games popped up whenever the weather cooperated. Fair-weather months were obvious favorites, but winter brought its own kind of magic. Bundled up in layers, paintballs stung less, and the contrast of bright splashes against snow made every hit unmistakable. There was something uniquely Minnesota about sprinting through snowbanks with a paintball gun, laughing like kids while our breath hung in the air.

And it wasn’t just kids playing.

Somewhere along the way, my brother’s Chuck and Tom got involved too. Grown men—late forties, pushing into their fifties—running through fields, crouching behind trees, plotting ambushes like teenagers. It was ridiculous in the best possible way. For a few hours at a time, responsibilities disappeared. No work deadlines. No worries. Just movement, strategy, adrenaline, and laughter.

Paintball has a funny rhythm to it. The guns don’t fire with surgical precision. The paintballs are round, the barrels aren’t rifled, and the pellets pick up unpredictable spin as they leave the gun. Shots curve. They drop. They drift. You don’t aim so much as you feel your way toward the target, adjusting with rapid-fire bursts until you dial it in. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a paintball arc through the air and land exactly where you hoped it would.

That satisfaction reached legendary status during Alex’s bachelor party.

One of the planned events that day was playing paintball on a real course—structured, intentional, and full of obstacles. It was faster-paced than our backyard games, tighter quarters, inflatable bunkers instead of trees. Fun in a different way. At one point, my brother Tom took cover behind a rock. I could see the top of his head just barely peeking up. I remember looping shot after shot, slowly adjusting, “painting” my way closer until—finally—success. The top of his head took the hit. A perfect, ridiculous moment that still makes me laugh.

Then there was the ditch.

During one of our Ham Lake games, Alex made a critical miscalculation. He assumed the drainage ditch was maybe a foot deep. Turns out, it was closer to five feet. Watching him disappear into that water—only to reemerge with his gun held high above his head, water up to his neck—was comedy gold. I laughed harder than I probably should have, but if you can’t laugh at moments like that, what’s the point?

Another memory that’s burned into my brain came from a smaller game—just four of us. Jake and I found ourselves sidelined, watching two others duel it out. Jake got bored and started taking his gun apart. Maybe cleaning it. Maybe fixing something. All I knew was this: his gun was in pieces.

Opportunity.

The field stretched out ahead of me—thirty, maybe forty yards. I took off running the moment I realized what was happening. Jake looked up, saw me charging, and scrambled to reassemble his gun. Panic set in on both sides. Halfway across the field, I hit a muddy patch and lost a shoe. One shoe. One sock. No time to stop. I kept going, one stocking foot slapping against the ground, adrenaline carrying me forward.

That window was closing.

I reached him just before he could get the gun back together. Tagged. Game over. Victory. I stood there laughing, breathless, muddy, one shoe missing, knowing full well that this moment would be remembered far longer than the game itself. And that’s really what those years were about.

Not the equipment.

Not the games.

Not even the wins.

They were about time—shared time. About doing something physical and silly and just a little reckless with people you love. About watching your kids grow while still finding ways to meet them where they are. About laughing until it hurts and creating stories that resurface years later at holidays and gatherings.

We played in Minnesota with Jake’s friends and his cousins, Alex and Andrew and their dad, Eric. We played in Wisconsin with Alex and Dan’s friends. Sometimes Chuck was there. Sometimes Tom. Sometimes it was a big group. Sometimes just a few of us. The phase lasted maybe two or three years. Then life moved on. Interests shifted. Seasons changed.

But the memories stayed.

And every once in a while, when I see a paintball mask or hear that familiar pop of a marker firing, I’m right back there—running across a field in Ham Lake, one shoe on, one shoe off, laughing like a kid, chasing a moment that didn’t know it was already becoming a memory.