I climbed out of the ravine, which was home to a slowly flowing creek that was a mere two inches deep. The murky water seeped into the small cuts on my ankles given to me by overgrown blackberry bushes. My swollen feet pulsed in sync with the beat of my heart. My mom's makeup coated my pre-pubescent face acting as camouflage, and my pistol lined my hip. I was invincible.

My two best friends and I moved silently through the wooded terrain, staying low, and avoiding any dead leaves - for those were our equivalent of landmines. Alex, my next door neighbor, held a Steyr Aug with a large scope. The Austrian assault rifle glistened in the evening sun that flowed through the trees, truly a gorgeous gun. Chris, who was Alex’s older brother gripped an MP40, an assault rifle hailing from Nazi Germany, which was intended for infantrymen and German platoon leaders fighting on the Eastern and Western fronts. But today, the MP40 would have to settle for an 11-year old in a small forest in the middle of Beaverton, Oregon. My weapon of choice was a Glock 19, one of Austria's finest pieces of engineering. Thankfully for everyone, these guns held 2mm plastic BB’s, and luckily for our enemies, my buddies and I couldn't hit the broadside of a barn.

After a five-minute walk, which seemed like twenty minutes, we had reached the flag post. A small red bandana sat motionless on the ground. To a passerby, this flag indicated a homeless man’s abandoned camp site or the necklace of some old golden retriever. But to us, the flag was much more than that. It was a symbol of victory, a symbol of domination.

“Grab that flag, and that’s an order” Chris demanded.

Without hesitation, I bent over and reached for the flag in hopes of taking it back to our home base. My sweaty hand snatched the flag from the dirt and clenched it like a Pit Bull's jaws.

“Man, that was easy.” I whispered to myself. No, too easy.

  I stood back up and grinned excitedly at my best friends, but the excitement was short-lived. Bang!...Bang, Bang!!! A white BB smacked the tree right in front of me, sending shards of bark tumbling to the dirt below. My mind switched into battle mode. Say hello to my little friend! My hand reached for my trusty weapon. I had pulled the gun from my waistband so many times that I  was fast enough to beat Billy the Kid in a quick draw. I put the gun in front of my face. Focus Garrett, Focus. My hands were shaking now as the adrenaline began to kick in. Whoosh! Right past my neck. Am I hit? No. Thank God.   My head was pounding, and my heart was thumping louder than a bass drum, my stomach jumped into my throat. It was uncomfortable, but I loved it.  I squeezed the trigger, sending BB’s spitting out of my gun. The flag! I couldn't forget about the flag. I quickly stuffed the red bandana into my pocket and recocked my weapon. It was my life or theirs. Am I going to die? HELL NO, I'M NOT READY TO DIE!  I squeezed again sending a sharp crack echoing through the trees as the little white pellet sprang out of the barrel. Each squeeze of the trigger was accompanied by a small recoil which snapped my wrist back. The General, Chris, blurted out a command that I could barely make out through all the gunshots.

“RETREAT! RETREAT!” He roared with a tone of authority that didn't match his thin and awkward-looking frame.
In simple terms, I was the grunt of the group. Grunts followed the orders they were given, so my legs began to move as fast as my 9-year old brain would let them. I felt like I was in an Apocalypse Now scene. I couldn’t help but smile - this was awesome. We finally made it back to our home base, my vision was blurry, and my breaths were short and fast. Victory was ours, and we did it together. But we could only celebrate victory for so long, for we had more battles to win. So we put that red flag exactly where it was before and did it all over again.

Our group of three simply worked. We understood our roles and executed them with pinpoint precision. As long as I continued to receive that rush of victory, I didn’t care what my role was. I'm not sure if we even intended to work with such cohesiveness, but our chemistry as friends spilled over onto the battlefield, and it was a beautiful thing to watch. For years, the memory of our impeccable teamwork acted as a reminder to accept my role in society and make the best of it.

Did I love being the grunt of the three-man platoon? No. Was I proud of the title that my enemies gave me which was “9-year-old tag-a-long?” No. But I made the most of it and put my pride to the side for the sake of the team. This is a skill that I have been working on subconsciously since I was a kid.

Understanding and maximizing my role on a team, whether it be a on the football field, the battlefield, or my career field, is a crucial life skill because if each team member does it correctly, the result is success for the whole group.