It was 9:20 Saturday morning, at Lars Madigans grocery store. Lars son, Tim, was carrying baskets of fresh lettuce from the refrigerated vault, to replenish the produce shelves in the store. Tim was a tall, thin, 17 year-old, young man, about 6' 1", 170 lbs. Wearing old, but clean, jeans, and a clean, white t-shirt, he had a big, clean, white apron tied around him. He wore thick white socks in his old, battered deck shoes. He was obviously dressed to work for some hours.
He worked quickly and quietly, bending over, picking up the baskets, carrying them from the cooler, and then setting them down to unpack them – all with stiff, wooden-like, but nonetheless careful, movements. His mind was intently absorbed in his work.
"Hi, Tim," a familiar and friendly, but soft voice spoke. He looked up. There was Keith Evans, another tall, young man – at 6' 3", a good 2" taller even than Tim – standing beside him. Keith was a sophomore and striker on the varsity soccer team for Sparta College, the small, private college located on the mountain plateau where the town was situated. Tim was a freshman and also on the varsity soccer team as a mid-fielder. They had played a game the night before – Friday night – and had narrowly won: 2-1.
"Oh, hi, Keith," Tim replied. "What brings you here, and so early?" he asked. Most of his friends were used to sleeping in late on Saturday morning, but Tim had been working in his fathers store for more than 4 years, so getting up early on Saturday mornings was an unchanging routine to which he was accustomed.
Keith Castro was a sophomore striker on the soccer team, and a guy who had befriended Tim immediately when he began with the team three months ago. They had hit it off really close, right away, despite the difference in classes, age, and other circumstances. Tim had received a small scholarship to play soccer for the college in town, and was living at home to keep costs down. Keith was from Memphis, also had a scholarship in soccer, and lived in the jocks dorm on campus.
"Well, actually, were pretty low on food in our apartment," Keith offered, "and its my turn to stock up. So, I need to get this done early, since we have another game this evening."
"Oh, yeah," Tim muttered his reply, turning back to his work.
"So," Keith paused and dropped his voice softer, "did you get a spanking after last nights game?"
Tim looked up rapidly at his friend, his eyes flashing but seemingly moist as well.
"What are you talking about?" Tim feigned.
"You know what Im talking about," Keith persisted. "Everybody on the team finds out what happens with Coach MacKay, if you break the rules. Nobody wants to cross Coach! Not me – not ever! So, quit trying to hide the truth, man. We all heard Coach tell you to stay behind after everybody else was cleaning up, changing, and getting ready to leave. Its pretty predictable when that happens. Hes done that to plenty of us when weve been in big trouble."
"Uhmm, okay, ah, yes, I did," Tim replied equally softly.
"Im sorry, man. I know what thats like. Believe me, I found out last year – after our first game! It hurts so bad – that paddle just torches your behind. Thats why I try to stay on the good side of Coach all the time. But one good thing. Once its over, its over. He doesnt hold any grudges, and we just get on with the team and playing."
"Ah, look, Keith, its not that simple for me. You asked me if I got a spanking last night. Actually, I got two of em."
"Two?! How come two?"
"Cause my Dad was at the game and saw what happened on the field – and afterwards – and he was pretty hot about it. He got to Coach before I saw him and told him I was through – off the team. Coach MacKay asked him to cool down and let him deal with the situation first. Then, after that, if my Dad was still upset, he could do what he wanted to. Coach told him he was going to nail my behind with his paddle, and Id be real sorry – which I was, er, am!"
Dad agreed to let Coach punish me first, but said hed do what he thought was also needed at home. Coach told my Dad that was fine, but just not to pull me off the team. He told Dad that I needed the discipline Id be getting as part of the team, as well as the chance to play. I didnt really like the first part, but at least Id get to keep the second.
"I understand that, man, but to get two whippings in one night for the same thing is pretty rough." Keith commented.
"You dont understand my Dad," Tim quietly and flatly replied. "What happened last night is beyond anything my Dad has any tolerance for. I know that, and thats why I was dreading going back to the locker room to face Coach, and then going home to face my Dad."
"So, did Coach use the old team paddle?" Keith asked.
"Oh, yeah – and how! I couldnt hold still for his swats, so he hauled me over his knees and trapped me in place, then whaled my butt so bad. I was screaming and crying, then jumping up and down, when he sent me into the showers to clean up. You guys had all gone by that time."
"But, after that, I knew Id better get home; and when I walked in the house, Dad was waiting for me. He told me to get to my room and wait for him. I figured what was on deck, and hurried to my room. When he came in, he made me take off my pants and boxers, and then gave it to me again – with a hair brush! I can hardly walk, bend over, much less sit down, man. I dont know if Im gonna be able to play tonight – if my Dad even lets me."
"I thought you said he and Coach had an understanding, Tim," Keith said.
"Well, I thought so. But Dad was so mad last night about what happened during the game, and then at the end, he told me hes still thinking over whether to pull me off the team," Tim explained. "He told me last night that if he does leave me on the team, Im going to get another thrashing tonight, and Im grounded for 6 weeks. 6 weeks! Im really sick about all this."
"No way!" Keith replied. "Not another spanking tonight and then grounded for 6 weeks too?!"
"Oh, yeah," Tim quickly assured his friend. "But it could easily be worse – no more soccer. Like I said, you dont know my Dad."
"Well, does he know that halfback from Grand Platte was bugging you – gunning for you – all night, throughout the game? Pulling at your shirt, pulling at your shorts. And then he tripped you when he knew the refs werent looking, too."
"I tried to tell him, but he – and so did Coach – told me I had to keep my cool, stay under control, and never refuse to greet an opposing team or player after the game. Coach MacKay said that the threat of a fight after the game was inexcusable, and was partly to blame because I reacted to that same guys goading me in the post-game lineup. Thats why he, and then my Dad, both blistered my backside last night.
"Its the only way Ive even got a chance to keep on playing on the team: take the two spankings, and be grounded for 6 weeks. Otherwise, Ill still get spanked and be off the team."
"Well, Tim, youve got a tough situation," Keith spoke again. "But Im sure glad youre still on the team. Id be really concerned if, besides all the discipline, we lost you off the team."
"Me, too," Tim muttered. At that moment, Tims father came up and spoke curtly, "Tim, get going! Weve got a lot of produce to get out right away."
"Right, Dad," Tim crisply replied, and rapidly emptied the basket before him.
"Keith spoke warmly to Tims father: "Hello, Mr. Madigan. I stopped by for some food for our apartment and was talking to Tim about tonights game."
"Hello, young man. Well have to see about tonights game yet for Timmy." He peered straight into the greenish brown eyes of the young college student who had spoken to him. "He knows he has been very bad, and pays for it. But we will see how he does today, working and keeping his mind on the business."
Suddenly, Keith felt very embarrassed and self-conscious, as he was sure Tim must also (although he did not look at Tim). Reaching out, he shook Mr. Madigans hand and stared back at him. "Ill get outta here, then, and let you all work. We sure need Tim for tonights game, and I hope youll be there too, Mr. Madigan," he offered.
"Yeah, thank you. We shall see. Bye now."
Keith turned his head quickly to glance at Tim, whose face was crimson. "See you tonight, Tim. Be there about 6:30 p. m." Then he walked away.
"I, uh, hope so, Keith," Tim called softly after his friend. Then he turned back to his work, emptying another basket of lettuce and heading back to the cooler.
Tim worked steadily, and hard, all day long, stopping only for a 20-minute lunch break. At 5:10, his father came up to him. "All right, Timmy. You know you deserve to be off the team – for good. Your coach recommended different punishment, which he and we are doing. So, you go on and head over to the game. Mother and I will be there before it starts. Just, behave yourself, young man. Youve got enough coming to you. So, remember: just behave yourself."
Tim was instantly excited. He could make it, and would be able to play. Yes, sir, Dad. Thanks. Ill be good. I promise. Thanks. Ill be looking for you and Mom."
That nights game was anticlimactic after the fireworks of the night before. The midfielder who had badgered Tim the previous night, didnt even start. Tim was solid and strong, although he appeared a bit restrained on the field. In fact, his backside and upper thighs were so sore they ached when he ran, kicked, jumped, twisted, and bent over. Yet, he still assisted on one goal, and scored another, as the Sparta College team beat Middleton College 2-0.
Back in the locker room, the entire team was whooping it up in celebration. Tim felt a little awkward about stripping off his uniform and showering, with the obvious red-purple marks all over his buttocks and thighs. But he remembered that Keith said most everybody on the team got a taste of Coach MacKays discipline, and they all had to guess that was what had happened to him last night.
As he undressed, he caught a lot of his teammates eyes looking widely at his battered behind. He just walked calmly to the showers, and when he stepped in, there right behind him was his buddy, Keith. They took adjacent showers, and began the relaxing soaking of sweat and grime off of themselves.
"Dont worry about this, man," Keith spoke softly to him. "Like I told you this morning, most everybody here has been in the same situation as you at one time or more, from Coach. So, just bear with it. Besides, they dont know about anything else."
"Thanks," Tim answered, feeling relief at having a good friend like Keith.
Afterwards, he grabbed a towel, dried himself quickly, and wrapped the damp towel around himself, hiding the evidence from everybody elses eyes. He pulled on his boxers, and then grimaced while pulling up his jeans. After he pulled a long-sleeve t-shirt over him, he sat down tenderly to pull on clean socks and shoes. Then, standing up, he grabbed his jacket, slipped it on, stuffed his gear in his bag, and began to leave.
"Hey, Tim! Good game! Nice goal!" one of his teammates called out to him.
"Thanks," he called back as he headed to the door.
"Were all going out to Marinaros to celebrate. How bout coming along?" Rob, the senior center and team captain called out.
"Ah, Id like to, but I cant. Ive got something Ive got to do tonight," Tim replied without explaining.
"Come on, man. Cant it wait!" several team members called out.
"It cant. Im sorry." Tim said. "I wish it were otherwise. It would be fun. But Ive got no choice."
"Thats okay, Tim," Keith hurried to interject. "Maybe next time. Well miss you, man."
"Thanks, guys. Me, too, Have some extra fun for me." Then he opened the door, walked out, and headed to his old truck. Driving home, his enthusiasm over the win became eclipsed by dread of what lay ahead. He parked in the driveway, next to his Dads car, and shut off the engine. As he opened the door and walked in, his Mom and Dad were waiting, greeting him with restrained jubilation.
"Nice game, Timmy," his Mom complimented him with her typical, diminutive, but endearing, name for him.
"Yeah, son. You played very well," his Dad added, "and behaved yourself like a gentleman with good sportsmanship too."
"Thanks, Mom, Dad. I know youre right, Dad, and I really concentrated on that too."
"Well, you keep doing that, son, and we wont have any more of these sessions like last night and tonight." Mr. Madigan instructed.
Tim knew at once that he would not escape the second spanking from his Dad. His heart and stomach sunk, and he lowered his head as he stood waiting.
"Lets go get this over with, Tim," Mr. Madigan spoke sternly, yet with a sigh of regret. He walked over to Tim, took hold of Tims left arm, and firmly led his son out of the kitchen and downstairs to the basement. Walking down the steps brought back a flood of memories of the many, many times he had descended these stairs to get a severe spanking. He knew too well what awaited him.
Downstairs. Nothing was changed. He wondered how many years everything would stay the same. Mr. Madigan closed the door behind them, and led his son over to an old sofa. Tim was so well acquainted with that sofa that he could almost taste the upholstery into which he face had been ground so many times over his fathers lap. Before sitting down, Mr. Madigan turned Tim to face him, looked him straight in the eyes, and spoke.
"As proud of you as we are tonight, Timothy, that is how concerned we are about your behavior last night. Its my responsibility as your father to make sure you understand how serious and how bad that was, and that you think carefully and seriously before ever giving into such feelings and temptations again!"
He reached down, unbuckled his sons belt, unsnapped his jeans, and pulled down the zipper. Then grasping the sides of the waistband at Tims hips, Mr. Madigan quickly pulled down his sons jeans to fall at his feet.
"Kick off your shoes, Tim, and step out of the jeans." Tim complied promptly.
Lars Madigan sat down and yanked his lanky son ignominiously over his knees. He swiftly toppled the lean young man off balance, his head falling towards, and his feet lifting off, the floor. Mr. Madigan, fully expecting his son to react quickly to tonights licking, reached down and pulled Tims right arm up and twisted up against his bared back. Then instantly jerking Tims boxers off his butt, and down his legs to his feet, he began cracking the doubled belt against Tims upended, aimed rearend.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
After the third swat, Tim was jerking and calling out. "Oh, Dad, please! No more! Ow, Dad! Ow! Please! Ooo-ow! Daaad!"
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! By the tenth smack, tears had burst forth fromTims eyes and mouth, as he began gasping with broken, choking sobs.
"Aaaa-uh-uh! Daaad! Uh-uh-awww-uh-waaa! Pleeeez! Ooo-uh-uh-waaaa! Uh! Nooo-uh-uh-m-moooor! Oooo-uh-ow! Yowee-uh-ow! Uh-uh-eeyow-uh-waaaaa! Uh! Illbegood! Daaad! Illbegood! Ooo-uh-waaa-uh-ow-uh-waaaa! Illdoooo-uh-waaa! Whatyousaaaay! Uh-uh-ow! Uh-Daaaad! I promissss! Oooo-uh-uh-waaaa! Ill-uh-uh! beeee-uh-g-gooood-uh-uh-waaaaa!" He had snapped quickly from the excruciating pain on his already battered, sensitive behind. Even the shame of being spanked like a small boy over his fathers lap had faded with the overwhelming agony to his bottom.
He kicked and squirmed, bucked and bounced, lunged and lurched, never able to escape, always being scorched by the fiery belt that his father snapped and snapped against his blistered bottom. His boxers flew off his feet across the basement.
SMACKSMACKSMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK!
Tim lost awareness of how many times the belt bit his buttocks and thighs, as he involuntarily surrendered, yet shot up and down, with each flaming torch that singed him backside.
SMACKSMACKSMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK! SMAAACK! SMAAACK! SMAAACK! SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMAAACK! SMAAAACK!
Mr. Madigan stopped much shorter than the previous night. He knew his son had already had more than several sound, stinging lessons. And besides, the boy had done right – and quite well – tonight. Its enough if he remembers this round for the rest of his days, and keeps from giving into angry impulses.
When Tim realized that he was just hanging, dangling over his fathers knees, while coughing and choking with strangling sobs, it dawned on him that this session had been a lot shorter than last nights. He struggled to try to stop wailing and to get his bawling to subside and gain some recomposure. Finally, he lay sprawled across his Dads knees, still shuddering and whimpering muffled sobs, but regaining some control.
"All right, then, Timmy. Up with you now. Youve gotten what you earned, and its enough," he heard his father speaking to him. Then he felt himself being lifted up by his fathers strong arms off the lap, to stand on his feet in front of him. He began bouncing up and down on his feet, in the spanked-little-boy-dance, breaking down and beginning to cry again. "Oooh, Dad. Im sorry. Uh-uh-waaa! R-really-uh-uh I-uh-uh-am-uh-Dad."
"I believe you are, son. You sure should be. And time will prove it out by the way you behave in the future. Now, go get yourself into bed. Mom will be along shortly to say goodnight to you."
He still couldnt stand still from the blazing inferno on his bare behind. Mr. Madigan got up and retrieved his sons boxers for him. He handed them to Tim, who stumbled while trying to stand still long enough to pull them on. Mr. Madigan grasped his sons arm to steady him. Tim pulled up the boxers, and then turned and leaned into and against his fathers chest.
Mr. Madigan was taken aback by his sons completely resigned behavior. He reached around behind the young mans head with his arm, cradling it in his arm, and patting the back of the boys head.
"I love you, Dad," Tim squalled through his tears. "I want to be good. Ill be good from now on. I wont be bad again I promise."
"Okay, there, Timmy. You do that, boy," his surprised father replied. Then, when Tim finally could pull himself away from his fathers hug, he picked up his jeans, gingerly pulled them on, and started up the stairs from the basement, to go to his bedroom.
"Gnight, Dad," he softly called back down to his father.
"Good night, son. And good game," he added. With aching bottom and upper thighs, Tim made his way to his room, quickly stripped down, and slid into bed on his face and chest. He felt relieved and forgiven, even though fiercely punished, and in minutes he was sound asleep.
For the next six weeks, he declined every invitation and pressure to go out with the team, and trudged straight home after school, and after games. When that time was over, however, he was a much more restrained, self-controlled, and coachable young man.