It was a normal Monday morning--except that the Tigers had lost the biggest football meeting of the year the previous Friday night. A good team, the Tigers weren't used to being shut-out 38 to 0, especially by the worst team in their district.

Adam Richmond was the quarterback of the Tigers, and, as he arrived at John M. Smith High School ("Home Of The Fitin' Tigers), all he could think about was the loss. As a senior, he had been on the varsity team since he was a freshman, and the Tigers had never been beaten this bad.

It probably would not have been as bad had he actually been able to complete a single pass Friday night. Instead, he missed 12 completions. And, knowing that failure to complete even one pass resulted in an afternoon of "fall-down drills," he doubly dreaded seventh period.

As the day wore on, all Adam could think about was athletics class. He could just see himself out on the practice field, having balls thrown just out of his reach so that he had to dive for the balls, ending up laying spread eagle on the grass with the ball wedged tightly in his arms. (hence the name, 'fall-down drills'). Since each missed pass meant five 'fall-downs,' he had sixty coming--a living hell that would leave him sore for a week.

When he got to the locker room 7th period, he stripped down and into his athletic shorts, high-top cleats, and practice jersey, tossed over a tee-shirt.

After twenty minutes of brutal calisthenics, the team gathered around to watch Adam and Josh--the back-up quarterback--eat grass. Josh, who had missed only one pass, went first, diving with gusto trying to show up his superior. After his five falls, it was Adam's turn.

Adam went through the ritual. Going deep; running left; coach threw a pass; Adam sailed for it; Adam fell to the grass over the ball.

After twenty or so drills, the rest of the boys were taken by an assistant coach to scrimmage. Adam finished his grueling ordeal with Coach Jackson about five minutes after the other boys had already headed for the showers.

As he was heading in, Coach Jackson told Adam that he wanted to see him in his office after class, which was also the close of the school day. Dirty, sweaty, covered in grass and aching, Adam replied with a simple 'yes sir.'

Having no idea what lie in store for him, Adam took his time showering. After showering, Adam dressed. Faded blue Silver tabs, low-top black Nikes with gray lining an the white 'swoosh' on the side, and an Abercrombie & Fitch tee.

Adam finally had decided that he was being summoned to either talk about pepping the team up--he was, after all, team captain--or to talk about his college choices, as he was one of the state's top QB picks.

"Come in. Have a seat," coach Jackson said after Adam knocked.

"Shut the door," he continued.

Coach Jackson preceded to tell Adam about the problems of the previous game and discussed how college recruiters would view his poor performance of late. Finally, Coach Jackson suggested that something more would have to be done.

"I don't usually lick my seniors," coach Jackson said. "But this time I feel I have no choice. Since it's pretty much on your shoulders that we lost Friday, I think it's time for you to anty up and kick in," he continued.

Adam swallowed hard. Licks! He hadn't been busted since junior year, when the assistant principal popped him twice for horseplay during a baseball pep rally.

"Since I need to do this in front of a witness, stay put while I track someone down," coach Jackson said as he placed the long, menacing paddle known as "quicksilver" on his desk.. Coach Jackson then left the room.

'_d_a_m_n_,' Adam thought as he remembered the horror stories of Coach Jackson's paddlings. He was instantly, almost stupidly, afraid he'd cry. He started to pep himself up.

"Ok," he thought. "I got a lick freshman year for forgetting my grade sheet in basketball from Coach Thompson. I took that ok. I got three later that month for the thing in biology class from Mr. Richards; I took them ok except for the last one. I got a couple last year for missing left-handed lay-ups in basketball practice, and in shorts, so this should be ok," he thought as he tried in vain to reassure himself. "Who am I kidding,' he thought. 'Less than twenty licks in my high school career--this will be hell.'

When coach Jackson came back without a witness, Adam though himself off the hook.

Oh, but no.

Coach Jackson said that, since he knew Adam was a good sport, he'd be willing to take his licks without a witness. Adam, scared of his mind, was too frightened to do anything but oblige.

"Stand Up," coach Jackson said. "Turn around." he said.

"Take the stuff out of your back pockets," coach said.

Adam removed his wallet and a comb from his pockets.

"Stand over here," the coach said, pointing to a spot in the middle of the office.

Slightly shaking, Adam moved.

"Bend over and grab your ankles," coach Jackson said.

Doing as he was told, Adam took a deep breath, bent over, and smoothed down his jeans, and grabbed his ankles.

"You better hold on tight, boy," Jackson said, as he tapped the paddle against the palm of his hand.

"You ready," the coach asked.

"Yes sir," Adam said as he tightened his grip on his ankles. He was starting to sweat and his hands started to feel numb from grabbing so tightly.

"I figure three licks ought to do it," said Jackson. You move or let out one yelp, you get more."

Jackson walked around to Adam's left. Since Adam's tee-shirt was slightly obscuring his butt, the coach lifted it and laid it to rest in the waistcollar of Adam's jeans. He then waited for what seemed an eternity to Adam.

SMACK. Almost without warning the first lick cracked down on Adam's ass with a fury. It was the hardest, most painful lick Adam had ever received.

"Aggggghhh!" Adam yelped, jumping slightly forward and up.

"Get back here and get back down, boy," coach Jackson said.

Adam, breathing heavily, and thanking God he wasn't crying, obliged.

SMACK. The second lick came harder than the first. "Mummmmph," Adam groaned, biting the inside of his cheek until he could taste blood. His eyes started to water, but he still wasn't crying. A single bead of sweat ran down the side of his face as he grabbed his ankles tighter.

SMACK. The third lick crashed so hard Adam involuntarily rose to his toes. After his feet settled back to earth, Adam started to get up, thinking this was the third and final lick.

"Not so fast, boy," coach Jackson said as he pushed Adam back into position with his hand tightly gripping his neck. "You've got one more coming for the little show you put on when you took your first pop."

Jackson removed his hand from Adam's neck. He took his index finger and middle finger and put them through the center belt loop of Adam's jeans and tugged upward lightly.

"You better get ready, boy, 'cause this one is going to hurt like hell," Jackson said. He rose the paddle back, and gently moved it in the motion of giving a lick to check his aim.

With a tight, quick tug upward on Adam's jeans, Jackson slammed down the last lick. SSSSSMACK.

Adam groaned, as a single tear followed the drop of sweat falling down his cheek.

"You can get up now, boy," Coach Jackson said.

Adam rose up and realized for the first time that his hair and shirt were soaked in sweat. He was breathing like he'd run a marathon.

"I'll need you to sign this," Jackson said pointing to a yellow discipline slip.

Adam signed.

As he put his wallet and comb in his pocket, he noticed that the very touching of his ass made him cringe. It even hurt to walk.

As Adam turned to leave, Jackson said, "You screw-up next week, and you'll take it in front of the whole team, in your practice shorts. Right after they each get a little dose of what you had."

Adam left hurriedly, praying they won on Friday.