Steve Green walked onto the familiar television set and sat down in his customary recliner-type chair to open his twice-a-week show. At 25, and out of college for more than 4 years, he hosted a twice-a-week, live, half-hour, television talk-show, called "Red Hot Sports Talk," where he interviewed coaches and athletes in collegiate sports, from the college town where he had gone to school, graduated, and now lived, as well as other colleges and universities.
At college, Steve had walked onto the football team, although he didnt see much play; and he had managed the college basketball team after trying, unsuccessfully, to walk onto it. He was a bright, handsome, athletic young man, with light brown hair and blue eyes, 6', 170 lbs, in toned, tight condition. With access to many colleges sports programs, athletic directors, coaches, and teams, he regularly invited players and or coaches onto his show, where they reviewed game films, replays, and highlights, and then strategies for upcoming games.
His show aired Monday and Thursday nights. The first was always replays, game films, and highlights of the previous athletic contests featured; the second focused on game films, strategy, and objectives for upcoming games. He was savvy about the fundamentals of most sports, and a quick study, with an even quicker wit and tongue. It was hard not to like Steve Green, but with the blunt, acerbic, skewering talk to players and coaches about their own, and their teams, performances for which he was all-too-well known, he made it easier for people to take offense and resent him.
On a mid-November, Monday evening, Steve was hosting a wide receiver, a running back, and the coach, from the colleges football team. The two players had arrived and entered first. They sat together on the big, long sofa on the set, while Steve sat in his recliner-type, interview chair with footrest. He was at his typical best that evening, talking first with the players about their football careers at the college so far, after showing films from the previous weekends game. The wide receiver was 6'3, 200 lbs, and the running back was 6'4" 220 lbs. Each with 18 ½" necks, they were monster-size players. That didnt deter Steve, however.
"It was a tense, tough-fought drama, wasnt it guys?" he asked.
"It was tough, man, yeah," Marcus, the receiver answered.
"The warriors got away with a lot of dirty stuff – illegal stuff – cause nobody caughtem," the running back, Terry, added.
"Well speaking of nobody catching, that sure described you Saturday, didnt it?"
Marcus stared back at the young interviewer with narrowing eyes. "We caught some passes, Steve."
"Yeah, but you dropped a lot more," Steve retorted. "Kind of like wearing wooden gloves on your hands out there, huh?"
Marcus face became deeply crimson as his irritation with the accusatory remarks of his host became obvious. "There was interference, Steve. Thats what I was talking about. The refs either didnt see it, or didnt care. But it was a problem all night long."
"Well, one thing for sure, your not catching the passes thrown to you was a big problem all night long." Steve shot back.
"Look, Steve, before you go saying something like that, anytime you want to come out and try breaking for some passes, under pressure and coverage, well be waiting for you." Marcus challenged.
"As bad as its looked lately, I might just take some grad classes and do that," Steve immodestly and unwarily replied.
"Well be waiting – but not holding our breath," Marcus replied.
"You looked like youd held your breath so long you ran out of it on Saturday, Marcus," Steve kept on.
"Hey, Steve, cut that stuff out," Terry the running back interrupted. Marcus played a strong game under terrible refing conditions, and some of the worst actions by the Bears all game long."
"Okay, since youre on the spot, Terry, tell us, when did you break an ankle?"
"Break an ankle? What are you talking about, Steve?"
"What I mean is, it looked like you were trying to run the ball on one leg most of the night. Slow, awkward, little yardage gained. Not your best game, again, eh."
This time it was Terrys turn to evidence his pique with Steves manner and words. "Steve, we gained 137 yards against a strong defense, and a defense that frequently got away with some of the dirtiest, sneakiest play ever."
"137 yards, yes. But thats not talking about how many times you were brought down behind the line of scrimmage."
"Uh, Steve, we had some broken plays. But you got to look at the 3rd down conversions, where I got the ball and got us a first down. Those are real big, real important."
"And we saw the two times you fumbled and turned the ball over on runs, too. Those were gifts to the other team, Terry."
"Look, Steve, both of those times, one player was holding, while the other pulled the ball away. Thats illegal as anything. Yet no flag!"
"Speaking of flag, is your conditioning off, Terry? You sure looked like you were flagging in the third and fourth quarters."
"No way, Steve. I feel like telling you what Marcus just said: Anytime you want to come on out and take some hand-offs and run the ball, go ahead and give it a try. You may not be so _c_o_c_k_y about how you think things ought to go."
"Oh, Terry, cmon. We all know how things are supposed to go. The ball is supposed to be moved down the field – advanced – not fumbled or taken down behind the line. That was your story in last weeks game."
Terry stopped, breathed deeply, and fixed a glaring gaze on his host.
"Well, look, we can sit here the whole show and listen to excuses why you guys blew this game big time. But lets get Coach Sutton out here, and let him handle some of the heat. Coach Bobby Sutton, ladies and gentlemen."
A large man, seeming to be in his 60's, lumbered onto the set. He sat in another chair, between the players on the sofa, and Steve.
"Welcome to Red Hot Sports Talk, Coach."
"Thanks, Stevie," Coach Sutton replied.
"So, what do you tell the fans and alumni when you blow a game as bad as this one?!"
"We didnt blow the game, Steve. Im not happy with the result, but weve lodged a protest about the officiating of that game. It weighted the game against us so bad it would have been a miracle if we had won."
"Well, wouldnt it be another miracle if you could get the ball held onto by Marcus and Terry, when passing or running?" Steve pressured.
The Coach stopped suddenly, leaned back studying his young interviewer-host. "Uh, yuh know, Stevie, ahve been listening to yur mouthy criticizing and ridiculing for more than four years. You bring guys on the show – like Marcus and Terry, here – and berate and make fun of them, without ever trying to be fair. Thats disrespectful. If you were one of my boys, Id turn yuh ovah muh knee and give yuh a whuppin thatd be one real good – red hot – refresher lesson in courtesy and respect for yuh."
Steve was momentarily taken aback by the Coachs blunt words. Then he quickly recovered. "Yeah, sure, Coach, cool. How you deal with guys who dont execute plays correctly – like these guys in last Saturdays game – is beyond my thinking. Anyway, youre pretty cool for an old guy. So, Coach, answer us this question, . . ."
Steve was on a roll and really didnt notice the Coachs glances towards his players, and theirs back to him. All at once, Marcus and Terry were on their feet, walking over to Steves chair, where they each grabbed an arm and hoisted the young talk show host straight up out of his chair. He appeared astonished.
"Coach is right, Stevie," – they picked up on Coach Suttons calling him with a demeaning, diminutive name, – "and you know it, too."
Hanging down, but not touching the floor, in the grip of his two, huge, guest players, Steve tried to recapture control of the situation. "Sure, guys, of course. Nobody is doubting Coachs judgment here," he answered.
"Good. Glad you agree then," they responded, while each of them extended an arm to grasp the sides of the waistband of Steves wind pants, and yanked them off his hips, down off his buttocks, to fall around his dangling feet. Steves face flushed deep, angry, embarrassed red immediately from the pantsing.
"Heeeey, guys! You cant do this!" he protested, but he felt himself being carted along in the grip of these two huge players, over towards the couch. He glanced at Coach Sutton, who was just sitting calmly, clearly approving of what was going on. Marcus and Terry sat down right next to each other on the big couch, and then hauled their captured young host down, horizontally, stretched out and sprawled across both of their laps. With his pants at his feet, his head and arms hanging over Terrys left leg, and his butt being shifted and lifted by his captors, Steve realized for the first time what was going on here.
He fought and struggled furiously, only to have his right arm pulled upward and secured up against his back bared by his shirt pushed up. Steve looked around frantically, then straight into the cameras, then twisted his torso as much as he could muster, and yelled, "Turn off the cameras – NOW!" He saw the wide-eyed, grinning cameramen keep right on filming.
His attention was diverted at once, arrested by the sudden succession of smacks descending on the seat of his boosted boxers. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Marcus big, wide hand was descending against Steves overturned rearend, over and over, making noisy contact, and spreading mounting discomfort and outrage to him. He tried to regain control of the situation. "Okay, guys, very funny!" he bluffed.
SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK! Marcus hand sounded like machine-gunfire. Steve was trying to thrash about as he began sweating and his stinging bottom was registering increasingly sharper to his brain. He was enraged at being held against his freedom in this situation.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! His head, neck, and shoulders were snapping back upward with each stoney swat to the seat of his boxers, and he squirmed while confined across the players laps.
"Okay, guys! Enough-augh! Enough already! Whats your point?!" he demanded.
This time Coach Sutton spoke, but Marcus didnt even pause in the repetitive pummeling of Steves backside. "Its like ah told yuh, Stevie, yuh been needin this for a long time – and now their gonna see yuh get what yuhve been askin for. Like they say about barbecue, Stevie, itll do yuh good and hep yuh too."
Steves bottom was heating up rapidly and throbbing already. He felt himself becoming panicky and emotional – out of control. Okay, okay, he thought to himself, Ill eat a little humble pie, give these guys some laughs and amusement, and get this stopped. At the same time, his breathing was sharper and quicker as he huffed, puffed, and groaned in reaction to the pounding on his butt.
"Haaummm, uh, guys! Uh, aaaaummph-uh! Guys, uh, I got your point. Aaaah! Ummmaaaaah! Uh! Enough now, guys! Enough-uh-uh-aaaaauh!!" Instinctively, he was wriggling and twisting, trying to evade Marcus battering hand, and his legs jerked as he tried to kick in reaction to the fiery swats on his rump. They paid no heed to his shouts or his bucking around on their knees.
Ive got to get this ended, he thought desperately. I cant take much more of this – its really hurting!"
"Okay, Coach, you win. Ive learned my lesson. Lesson over. Ive got the point." He strained to lean upward and spy the Coach who was still sitting motionless while his players spanked the upended sportscaster. "Cmon, Coach. Callem off. I concede. Youre right. You win. Ive learned my lesson – for sure!" Now Steves voice betrayed his growing frenzy to have this humiliating session ended, and get off the laps of the giants who had him pinned down and were administering a shattering spanking.
"Coach! Coach! Please! Its enough! Uh, uh, Ive learned my lesson! Uh-uhI have! Coach, please! Its enough! Uh, uh, its gotta be enufffff! Uh! Coach! Coach, please! Makeem stop!" He was plainly begging and pleading.
Yuh, know, Stevie, I think well know yuve learned your lesson when were sure yuh behave a whole dad-gum different in the future. Ah dont think were there yet."
"Oooo-ah-yes, uh, yes we are! Uh, uh, er, uh, I mean, uh, I am, Coach! Please! Ill be different! Uh, ow! Ow-uh-uh-ow! Ill be better! Uh, uh, ooooo-uh-ow! I promise!" He was crying out against the pain being inflicted on his scorching bottom, through the thin, cotton seat of his boxers. He bounced and thrashed on Marcus and Terrys laps as much as the restraints on his wrenched arm and locked down legs would allow.
"No, Stevie. We all got to be sure yuve really learned a lesson in respect and courtesy. People are fed up."
"Uh, uh, noooooo, Coach! Noooooo! Ow! Ow! Ow! Stopit! Stopit! Cmon, guys! You caaaaant, uh, uh, dooooo thissss!" he shouted.
"Wul, pay better attention, son. The guys are showin yuh what they can do. Yuhll see before the evenins over, Stevie."
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
The next round brought the arrogant, proud young sports emcee down further. "Aww-uh-uh, ow! Ow! Uh-uh-ow! Stopit! Uh, uh stopit! Pleeeeez! Ooooo, uh, it, uh, hurrrrtz! Ooooo, uh, uh, staaaaahp! Yeeeow! Ow! Ow! Uh, uh, you cant doooo thsisss! Oooooo, uh, staaaahp, uh, uh, spang-augh-keeeng, uh, uh, meeeeeee! Stopit! Stopit!"
At Steves repeated objection, Marcus stopped momentarily. Reaching for the waistband of the overturned young mans boxers, he plucked them down over the young announcers obviously reddened buttocks and thighs, to join his tangled pants at his feet.
Steve shrieked with outrage and shock! "Nooooooooo-uh-waaaaaaaaaay! Puh-leeeez, uh, oooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"
SMACKSMACKSMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACK! The rhythm of Marcus whacks was smarting and stinging worse against the bare behind of overturned Steve Green.
"Im sorry! Uh, uh, Im sorry! Ooooo, uh, uh, staaaahp! Uh, uh, pleeeez! Uh-uh! Illbegood! Illbegood! Uh, uh, ow! Ow! Oooooo, uh, uh, Cooooach! Uh, uh, Ill bee-uh goooood! Coach! Uh, Coach! Uh, uh, oooooo, uh, uh! Ill listen, Coach! Uh, I will! Uh! Ow-ow-ow! Uh, uh, awww, uh yeeeow! Uh, Ill be good-uh-uh! Ill be different! Uh, ow! Ow! Uh, uh, I promissss! Oooooo-uh-uh-nooooo-uh-uh-moooooor!"
Nobody spoke as Steves unending, unimagined nightmare of punishment continued. SMACKSMACK! SMACKSMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK! The faster, harder volley of spanks against the inferno that was Steves exposed butt echoed across the set.
Oh, uh, whoa, I cant take it. I cant take it. Its too much! Its hurting so baaaad! I cant, I cant, I caaaa . . . All at once, he broke, reduced and defeated, stiffening and arching, he collapsed in uncontrollably sobbing.
"Awwww, uh, uh, uh-uh-oooooo! Uh, waaaaaaa! Waaaaaa! Yeow-uh-waaaaaa!" He wailed and squalled like a naughty, spanked child. His gasping sobs strangled any more talk, and he lay jolting and weeping as each burning smack branded his inflamed behind. "Waaaaa, uh, ow, uh, waaaa! Aw-uh-uh-waaaaa! Augh-uh-waaaaa! Waaaaa!" He was bawling like the bad little boy he was being spanked as.
Marcus and Terry took turns blistering the bare, reddened bottom of their capsized studio talk host. Steve was incoherently sobbing through gagging gasps. When the big football players had finished their spanking of their young talk show antagonist, he lay weeping and bawling, still dangling over their laps.
"Awll right, guys," Coach Sutton spoke. Maybe old Stevie has finally learned his lesson. Stand him up, and he can go wait over in that corner while we finish up the "xs" and "os" of last weeks game. The two large guys reached under Steve and lifted him up off their laps. He doubled over while stomping up and down, up an down, in abject misery, disgrace, and pain.
"You heard, Coach, Stevie," Terry addressed him. "Face the corner over there."
This additional humiliation shattered Steve, and he sobbed louder, pleading, "No, uh, pleeeeez! Not thaaaat! Nooooo-uh-not thaaaat!"
"Maybe the lessons not sunk in yet, fellahs," Coach Sutton commented. Instantly, they had Steve stretched and sprawled back over their laps, as they resumed the granite spanks against his inflamed, bare bottom.
He shrieked – first in protests, then in pleas. "Oooo-ow-ow! Uh, nooooo, uh, ow-ow-ow! Uh, okay-okay! Ooo-uh-waaaa! Ow! Illdoit! Owee-ow! Uh, uh, pleeeeez! Uh, uh, waaaaa, uh! I willlll! Ugh-uh-waaaa, uh, ow! Staaahp, uh, uh, spaaaanng-uh-uh-king-uh-meeeee! Uh, ooooo, uh, uh, waaaaaa! He was yowling his begging.
Once more Steve found himself standing bent over on his shaky, wobbly legs, sobbing and coughing uncontrollably. His face was covered with tears and sweat, and his eyes were swollen and red, as he let himself be led over to a corner of the set. He placed his face obediently in it, leaning forward, heaving, shaking, and sobbing, his blistered bottom plainly displayed.
Terry and Marcus returned to the couch, and began an altogether different conversation with Coach Sutton about last weeks game, and about the upcoming one. In quick time, the show was over. The players and coach closed the show without once mentioning the host.
When the cameras had stopped, the guys and Coach Sutton got up and walked over to Steve, still standing like the chastened, punished young man that he was. "Alright, Stevie, yuh can pull up yur pants and get outta the corner now," Coach directed.
Steve began sobbing loudly again, as he gingerly pulled up his boxers and pants over his sore upper thighs and rump. His reddened eyes were flowing with tears, and he continued to shake and tremble.
"Ah, hope yuve learned yur lesson, Stevie. If not, yuh better not invite any of us back, if you get mah meaning."
"Ooooo, uh, y-yesssss! I have, uh, uh, I mean, uh, I dooooo!" The coach and players walked off the set, and out of the studio. Steve stood alone for a while, still shivering with whimpers and shame. Eventually, the studio was empty as he made his way out and to his car. He grimaced as his lowered his throbbing behind onto the seat. Then, he drove back to his apartment, went straight to bed, and slept until late the next morning.
"Red Hot Sports Talk" did not air on the customary, following Thursday evening. In fact, it did not air again. Steve sent a letter of resignation to the station, and quietly moved away. He turned up as a sports broadcaster, and hosted another talk show, for a local television station in Iowa. But his attitude, tone, demeanor were totally different. Maybe he had learned a lesson in courtesy and respect, after all.