The paddle had seemingly gone into retirement in the late 1960’s in our house. Behind closed doors in our high school, it was a different story, especially where coaches ruled. In both Physical Ed and Mechanical Drawing, the whack of the wood was felt, and heard.
Our Northern California high school used the adjacent public pool for competitive swimming, and PE, where it was a free for all in the water. Myself, of diminutive stature at the time, spent a fair portion of the sessions under water, teamed up on and dunked in the deep end of the pool. This one particular day, the shenanigans were too much for Coach O.
“Everyone out of the pool and line up on the edge,” he yelled out as he retreated into the office area. Twenty or so soaking wet guys obliged as the coach re-emerged, speaking loudly and wielding a thick rectangular shaped piece of lumber in his right hand.
“Grab your ankles!”
It was a side of Coach O. seldom seen, a man whose eyes seemed to possess a permanent twinkle. Would he unleash all his fury, or yield a kinder gentler paddling hand?
The first in line felt the sting, as the slap echoed throughout the now quiet structure. The recipient dove head first upon contact, droplets exploding from the rear of the suit. Thwack! Splash!The pattern repeated itself. Coach O. knew who the worst offenders were, and maybe administered a little more fire power their way. A few victims attempted to dive out ahead of the swat, but the coach was hip to that and made sure he connected. Then came my turn. I felt the hit, but the bark of the slap was indeed bigger than the bit of the contact. The coach left some in the bag, at least on my account.
Let’s kick it up a few notches. Step inside the Mechanical Drawing class. The instructor this time is the football coach. Teachers were in great demand at the time as us boomers filled the halls, and in retrospect some would have benefited us all in different roles. Anyway, Coach S. devised an interactive punishment measure for various infractions including tardiness, snacking, and excessive talking to name a few. In alphabetical order we sat at our drafting stations, and in that order would get to apply the lumber to the rear of an offending student. Having a last name with the letter ‘R’ insured I would have to wait a while to revenge the multiple hits I would endure before being on the other end of the paddle. You see, I was a bit of a cut-up!
There were some bigger dudes in the class, yep football players, along with some sinister guys who used some of their wood shop time to create the next butt breaking model. Over the course of the year, the implements got thicker, narrower, and bored with holes to improve aerodynamics.
Five minutes or so before the class ending bell, the main event unfolded. In the most open space near the door, the swatter and his victim took their positions, with the latter holding his ankles. Surrounding the pair was the rest of the class. The chanting would begin, and the single brutal wallop would ensue. I had some buddies in the class who would secretly loan me their wallets beforehand. I jammed them two deep in each rear pocket if I could. But the obvious protection only caused the administrator to deliver the blow painfully south of the border. In fact once, my eyes welled up a bit…the onlookers knew that was a good one!
Finally, after many weeks and being on the receiving end of multiple rump busting shots, it was my turn to strike. Oh, and there were a few I was looking to exact some revenge on. As I waited for this opportunity, you would think I would have been on my best behavior, but nope. I don’t recall my infraction that day, but in addition to getting to pop someone, I would have to pay as well. The other guilty party was Don R. who I would hit first, and in turn he would turn around and reciprocate.
As usual, five minutes before the bell Coach S. handed me the lumber and the chanting began. Don bent over and I wound up with my game face on…and merely gave him a tap. ‘Boos’ rang out as we changed positions and Don returned an equally tepid response. The disapproval continued as the students filed out. You see, Don and I were friends, at least in that class. It really hurt in a different way relinquishing my opportunity, but neither of us was interested in getting popped. Hitting second, Don could have betrayed me, but he was a stand up guy. So we in our own way took the air out of the perverse entertainment the Coach enjoyed, as he kept the blood off his hands by having the students carry out his dirty work.
We weren’t empowered in those times to stand up to practices like that, but oh for a pair of Depends to at least mitigate the pain, and an IPhone to completely end it.
