This hurts way worse than any spanking I ever got from dad, I thought. And that was before the second swat even landed.
It was the fall of 1981. I was a freshman at a well-known private university in the Midwest, and I had pledged a major national fraternity. I won't reveal the name of the fraternity or the name of the college. My brothers would not appreciate any publicity about hazing rituals, even those that occurred many years ago.
My fraternity was perhaps the most prestigious one on campus, certainly one of the most selective. It was not easy to get a bid, and there was no guarantee of surviving the pledge period. Many did not. I, however, considered it a major honor to be admitted into that fraternity, and I was willing to endure whatever hazing was necessary to be accepted as a brother.
Unfortunately for me and the 22 other guys who started out in the pledge class of 1981, one of the hazing rituals to be endured was the Sunday night "Battle of the Paddle." Every Sunday night beginning at 8 p. m. we were made to engage in a competition to see who could take the most swats with a paddle from our Pledgemaster, Tom. The "winner" would not to have to take part in the "competition" the following week. For everyone else, it was same time, same place next Sunday night.
The actives treated this Battle of the Paddle as sport, gambling on which of us pledges would be able to take the most swats in any given week. And it was a sport perfectly designed to bring out the macho competitiveness in each one of us pledges. Not only was there the intense desire to win so that you did not have to get paddled the next Sunday night, but the "winner," especially those in the early rounds, gained immense respect among us all as someone who was really tough. By the same token, each week that you did not emerge victorious, your sense of your own manhood compared to the other guys in the pledge class began to suffer. That, and you were forced to make another painful attempt to prove yourself the next week.
It was impossible to know how many swats you needed to take to outlast the other guys. We were called into the den to take our swats individually, so there was no way of knowing how the other guys were doing, or how many swats you should try to take. You didn't want to take more than you needed to win, obviously, but how many was that? The incentive was there to endure as many swats as you could, for fear of coming up just one short. Discussion among the pledge class as to how many swats one took on any Sunday was strictly forbidden, although it didn't need to be. No one wanted to reveal any information that could give an edge to his "opponents."
The first Battle of the Paddle pitted the 23 of us in the pledge class against each other. We were assured that Tom, the Pledgemaster, played no favorites, and that no one would be paddled harder than another. All paddling was to be on the buttocks only. Everyone was allowed to wear cotton briefs, but nothing more to cushion the sting. We all gathered in the living room, in our underwear, waiting to be summoned to the den.
I was hoping I could hang in there long enough to win right there in Round 1, never to have to go through the experience again. A lot of the other guys, I'm sure, were feeling the same way. Some had sworn to go to any lengths to win. Tanking the competition, in case anyone was considering that route, was not an option. The person who took the fewest swats every week was promised a special Wednesday night session with the paddle.
When it came my turn to go to the den, I was told to stand with my feet inside two circles drawn with chalk on the floor. Tom was holding a sizeable frat paddle, and the chapter president, Rick, held a long stick. I was told to keep my hands on my ankles or shins and my feet inside the circles at all times. If I moved out of position or my hands left my shins, my turn was over. When I bent over into position, Rick held the stick level about 6 inches away from my back. If I rose up and my back touched the stick at any time, my turn was over.
Any thoughts I had of winning the competition that week were quickly dispelled after I took my first swat. I was expecting it to sting, but not that bad. Fortunately it was several seconds before the second blow landed, during which time I was able to steel myself. I remembered the time my dad paddled me when I was 10 years old, but I couldn't remember it stinging like that first swat from Tom. When I took the second swat, I jerked up a little bit, and I was afraid I was going to get disqualified. That fear kept me focused for another three swats, but by this time I had had almost enough. My target had been to take 20 swats, but I knew now that was wildly optimistic. I tried to imagine how many swats I could possibly hold on for. Rick and Tom were completely silent throughout the ordeal. I let out a little yell after the sixth swat, and I could tell the end for me was near. The seventh swat caught me low, a little bit on the back of the legs. It was an unexpected jolt, and my involuntary reflex was to jump, enough to touch the stick. My turn was over at 7 swats.
The results of each Sunday night's competition were announced Monday night. I spent the day on Monday with a butt that still felt sore, alternately worrying that 7 was the low number of swats anyone had taken, and hoping it might have been the highest. Everyone was anxious to see who had taken the most swats, and somewhat fearful of a tie, which meant there would be no winner. The first announcement was that Glen, a small guy about 5'8 and 140 pounds, had won the competition. There was thunderous applause and a lot of admiration directed his way. The rest of us were still worrying that we might be low man on the swat count. Fortunately for me it was announced that this guy named Jerry "lost." He depledged the next day, before anyone found out what would happen to the loser Wednesday night.
All I knew is that it was probably going to take more than 7 swats to win the competition, and I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to take any more than that. Glen reported that one of the pledges had asked him to reveal how many swats he took, and the guy who asked was dismissed from the fraternity. That left 21 of us. I was hoping more would drop out and lessen the number of weeks this competition could go on.
I changed my strategy for the second Battle of the Paddle, vowing to take at least 10 swats no matter what. I just barely made it to 10, although I couldn't take any more. I was sore on Monday, but very confident of my chances of winning. It was devastating to learn that I hadn't won. At least I hadn't lost though. The guy who did, Keith, was given ten licks in front of everyone at the Wednesday night house meeting.
I tried not to give up for the third week, but it was difficult. Ten swats were now not enough, and despair was starting to set in. I began to plan for the long haul, looking around me in the living room at everyone in his underwear, figuring who I could outlast, and how many weeks it would take. When my foot slid out of the circle after the fifth swat that night, I was sure I was going to be low man. I sweated out the announcements Monday night, and was actually given hope by the fact that I was not the unlucky recipient of the Wednesday night paddling.
As the weeks went by and I still could not win a Battle of the Paddle, I grew increasingly frustrated and ashamed. The low point was the week I hung in there for 13 swats, sure that I would win. When Frank was announced as the winner, I wanted to kill him. That left just 10 of us. I looked at my pledge brothers who had won and who did not have to go through the competitions anymore with envy, and a feeling of inadequacy. Smaller and skinnier guys than I had won week after week. Every Sunday night I was determined to take as many swats as Tom could lay on me, but around the fifth swat it became a matter of trying not to jerk up and hit the stick, or keeping my hands and feet in place. With fewer and fewer of us remaining in the competition, I was also more worried about being low man one week.
How could I take more than 13 swats? I put on my lucky underwear for the next competition, but it didn't work. I was out after 8 swats. Again I escaped Wednesday night swats, which was a small consolation. The week after that I took 12 swats, and it still wasn't enough.
There were just eight of us left the next Sunday night. I sat there in the living room, waiting to be summoned to the den, looking at everyone in his underwear. I was seized by determination. This was going to be my week, no matter what. I assumed the position in the den, and let out loud groans after each smack. My jaw was locked tight and tears were streaming down my cheeks, but I wasn't going to move an inch until I got to 20. I did it, and took two more for good measure before falling over in complete agony. I could barely walk out of the room, but I had taken 22!
The announcement came Monday night. I had finally won. Tom and Rick told me later that I had finally done that week what every winner had done-shown a real willingness to hang in there for the extra swats. It was a good thing I won when I did, too. When it got down to the final six, underwear was no longer allowed. Starting at five, everyone who lost was given ten swats on Wednesday night. When it got down to the final four, the three losers got ten swats on Tuesday and ten more on Thursday. The two losers in the final three had to go into the final competition having received an additional 10 swats on Saturday morning. The last man left that year, it was decided, would be given 10 swats every night of the following week, and would be made to go through the competition again next year as an active. Man I felt sorry for that guy. It was Larry, who was actually a really nice guy and very dedicated to the frat. He won the very first Battle of the Paddle the next year. The Pledgemaster went easy on him.