Five Years Gone, Remembering Tim Montressor

It’s been five years since Tim Montressor died. I still don’t know how to talk about it without my throat tightening up a little bit. Five years since the phone calls and text threads went quiet; since the field lost one of its loudest voices and kindest hearts. 

Some days it still feels like he is just running late; he’ll come sliding into the staging area with a clipboard in one hand and three conversations already going. He’ll grab a radio, tighten a field boundary, and still find time to check in on the guys he played with twenty years ago. But sadly, he isn’t coming. 

This isn’t some polished tribute or curated highlight story. It’s just the truth; I miss him. We all do. And not in that vague, “he was a great guy” way people say when someone passes. I mean it in the real way. You walk into a field and expect to see him, you check the pro rosters and instinctively look for his name, you scroll past old ICC clips and feel your gut twist.

He saw this sport for what it could be when most of us only dreamed about and reminisced on what it used to be. He dragged 10-man back from the grave with his bare hands. No money, no ego, no promises, just this deep belief that the old game still meant something. That the woods, the pipes, and the mounds still mattered.

And he was right.

The Iron City Classic wasn’t just a tournament, it was a spark. It woke something up in all of us; the grit, the chaos, and the joy of playing the game like we all did as kids. Not the polished version we stream on Sunday, but the version where you bleed a little. Where you lose your voice screaming with your head buried in the weeds. Where you look around at your teammates, old, young, broken, legendary and realize you’re part of something way bigger than yourself.

That’s what Tim gave us. And I’m angry he’s not here to see how far it’s come. He should be at every ten man and NXL event. He should be on the mic, in the dirt, fixing bunkers, and giving hell to teams for not chrono’ing. He should be walking the fields before dawn with a dream and a mission. But instead, only his shadow remains in those trees. 

I remember the way he talked about the game. Not like a marketer, not like a veteran pro with an impressive resume, but like a kid who still loved it. Every format. Every player. Every story. 

He saw value in people, especially the ones who didn’t think they mattered. And when he brought them into ICC, into his world, they felt seen. Whether you were a long time friend of Tim or meeting him for the first time, he made you feel like the most important person at the event, even if just for a moment. 

You can’t fake that.

But the game goes on; it always does. Ten man events get bigger, the woods get louder, new names step up. But if you were there, if you knew Tim, or even just played one event under his watch, you know; it’s different now. Not broken, just missing something.

Five years and I still catch myself looking for him when I pull into Urban Assault. Wondering what he changed about the layout to make the games better, about what the best beer at the event was. Wondering what crazy thing he’d try next to make us all fall in love with paintball again.

There are a hundred things we can say about who he was. Smart. Tough. Loyal. Ethereal. But the one I keep coming back to is this: he cared, deeply. More than most. And this sport is better because of him.

People talk about legacy like it’s this untouchable, mythical thing. But with Tim , you can see it. You can stand in the staging area and feel it. You can still hear Tim’s voice carrying across the fields at Urban Assault. He is in every quiet pit after a finals loss, in every drop of champagne on the winners podium, and every smile shared amongst friends. I miss him.

And all of paintball still misses you, Tim.