Rolling Recon

I slipped past the front gate and marched two blocks down to the neighborhood park's empty tennis court. Let's do a quick vote: type 1 if navigating atop a giant neon-yellow tennis ball counts as motorized infantry training, type 2 if I'm just performing unauthorized circus stunts! I scaled the fuzzy felt curve, planted my boots firmly, and hoisted my blaster horizontal across my chest to keep my balance. Every deliberate step rolled the heavy sphere forward with a muted scrape against the acrylic pavement. Keeping my stance centered, I managed to steer it three full feet straight down the crisp white baseline without tumbling off.