Penalty Flag

It was my second year teaching, and I’d been given a real treat: I was selected to develop a soccer program for the school.

The high school hadn’t had a soccer program until after I’d graduated, and they’d never started one in the middle schools. When I spent time in the mornings, before school, working with my little brother Ben and some of his friends, it had been an inspiration. The head coach had done most of the work to get the program approved, but he was a football coach, and I had to do most of the work setting it in motion.

The real question was budget. While our head coach was very supportive, I still had to get approval from the principal for some of my expenditures, and even had to meet with the superintendent once, trying to gain access to some discretionary funds. It took a while, but I was finally able to convince them that the soccer team really did need its own equipment.

Some things had been provided for me; they’d actually understood that we’d need soccer balls and goals for this, and had even set aside enough for me to get uniforms and practice jerseys. I was also able to use some of the training stuff for other sports. Unfortunately, there was some stuff I specifically needed for soccer, and they really didn’t have anything for indoor training in bad weather.

Still, by the time school started, I had my goals set up, and most of the equipment I wanted was on its way.

Of course, just because you’ve ordered something doesn’t guarantee it’s going to arrive, which was why I was back in the coach’s office looking through catalogs again.

It was the first week of school – Wednesday, I believe. School had already dismissed, but football practice was just ending. I’d timed it that way deliberately. I’m generally not interested in someone with a football player’s build, but eighth graders are a lot different even from high school football players, much less college or pro.

A boy who’s on schedule is going to be thirteen when he starts eighth grade. While there are probably a few thirteen year olds who have started filling out, most of them look like tall boys, not young men. For that matter, in eighth grade, when most of their opponents aren’t breaking a hundred and fifty pounds yet, there were still some smaller boys on the team – even if they were mostly benchwarmers.

As football practice ended, I was on the phone with a company and finishing an order. I leaned back in the coach’s chair and surreptitiously checked out the boys. They all came in, went over to the football lockers where they stowed their helmets, then started removing clothes and pads. And believe me, if you’ve never played football (as I haven’t), watching them remove all that equipment can be rather mystifying.

I hadn’t had any of these kids in class since I had only taught sixth graders so far, and these kids would have been in seventh grade my first year, but I did know some of them, just from being around. Most of them I didn’t know. Either way, it was interesting to watch all those pads and layers come off, and slowly order emerged from chaos. Of course, I knew that each set of equipment was assigned, and not caring for your equipment was a paddling offense (or, if the coach was in a good mood, maybe you’d just have to run extra drills for a first offense), and I’m sure that was a good motivation.

My eye had been caught by one group of boys in particular. Two of them were right about the same height – maybe 5’4" or so, and the third was two or three inches taller than his friends. The taller boy had red, nearly orange hair, while one of the shorter ones was a fair skinned blond, and the third was very well tanned and had dark brown hair (as well as a very long neck and square jaw). I would have called any of the three of them cute, but together they were quite a set.

Some stuff was hung or set out in what seemed to be a designated pattern on the shelf. Other stuff went into the mesh bag that was marked with their locker number and would be washed and returned before the next practice.

Even though the three boys were all sweaty and looked worn out, they still had energy to talk and laugh as they undressed; but soon enough, all three of them were down to just jock straps.

I was being very sure not to stare at my group of boys. They were about in the middle of the herd, speed-wise. Some boys were already in the shower, while others were still sorting their pads. I was watching, amused by the fact that some boys had thick pubic hair, a few of them even seemed to have the start of a happy trail, while others had little, or even no, hair yet. It was quite the smorgasbord, and wonderful eye candy.

I had finished the call I’d intended to make, assured that my equipment would be delivered by the next Monday, but loathed to give up my seat at this point, so I made another call to check on an order that hadn’t arrived on time.

While I was making my second call, my threesome had taken off their straps and were now headed for the showers. All three of them were nicely hung. The dark-haired boy was the smallest, but also had the most hair. Though he was nearly hairless, the blond was actually better hung than his taller friend, which might have just meant he was a shower, not a grower. As they turned, I had a perfect view of three wonderful backsides. I especially admired the dark-haired boy’s, since his rear was so pale compared to the very tanned rest of him.

I had a brief moment to wonder if any of them were still spanked at home and how, then turned my attention back to the phone, as I felt a stirring that I didn’t want to have to deal with right then.

After getting myself back under control, I looked up to see a couple of kids already out of the shower. You wouldn’t think it of such an ordinary, day-to-day activity, but it’s something you hardly ever see, and there’s something strangely intimate, if not actually erotic, about watching a boy towel himself dry.

As I was watching, listening to clicking keys as the sales rep confirmed that my order had been shipped, the team manager wheeled an empty buggy towards the showers, just in time for the first towels to be tossed into it.

The team manger wasn’t a bad looking kid, wasn’t small, and was in pretty darned good shape. He was suited out, not in a full football uniform, but in a something that looked like a cross between a regular gym suit and a coach’s uniform. He’d already removed the red polo shirt he’d been wearing, and was just running around in his black shorts now, which gave me a good view of his toned upper body. (I later learned that he had been a football player, but had broken his leg in off-season training the previous year and was having to miss the season).

Our shower was in three parts – an entry hallway that walked away from the locker room, then there was a ‘T’ with an actual, open shower to either side. I watched as boys went in and came out, letting my mind wander and enjoying the scenery.

A few boys were already leaving by the time my three amigos came back out of the shower. They stepped to the very edge of the showers, each of them squeaky clean and soaking wet, with droplets still running down those lean, firm bodies. As Zen as I try to be in those moments, I couldn’t turn my attention away. Then Red stepped over, picked up three towels, handed one to each of his friends, and they each began to towel off. I gave up, and just scooted forward in my chair, so any unsightly bulges were concealed beneath the desk.

As the last of the boys wandered into the showers, Coach Teague came over to the office.

"What’s up, Jack?"

"Still trying to get all this new equipment straightened out," I told him.

He just shook his head. He walked over to the files, removed something, and sat at his desk. The silence was companionable.

I’d never had a lot of use for coaches while I was in school. I’d known a few that could be friendly and fair, but most of them seemed like jerks. While there were always teachers that were jerks, it just seemed that a higher percentage of the coaches were. I also remember having little to no respect for the ones who taught English or History part-time, around their coaching duties.

I don’t know if I’d misjudged them or if Coach Teague was different, but I had a great deal of respect for him. He was our head coach, and he’d never been anything but respectful and helpful to me. He knew that I’d intended to be a math teacher, not a coach, but he never held that against me, let me know he liked the way I was approaching the job, helped me out when he found me working with Ben and his friends on their soccer game, and had pushed for us to have a real soccer program and for me to head it. It would have been hard not to like him.

My buddies dried off and walked over to the regular lockers and started to dress. That was in the days before boxers became so popular with young guys, so I got to watch all three of them pull on their snug, white cotton briefs, which hugged those round rears closely enough that I had to start thinking icebergs again. It was kind of fun to watch as Red and Blondie pulled on their jeans, since the well-tanned boy grabbed his shirt and put it on next instead. The three of them were talking and playing around as they dressed, and as they bent or sat to put on shoes, the locker room was already almost three-quarters empty.

Coach Dodd had been watching the room, and now he stuck his head into the coach’s office.

"Howdy, Jack."

"Brad," I replied, nodding to him.

"Todd, you gonna need me to stick around?"

Coach Teague glanced up and looked out.

"Jack," Coach Teague asked me, "how much longer you gonna be?"

I shrugged.

"Todd has a boy still out running drills, and when he gets back…"

Coach Teague lifted the discipline report he’d been writing.

"Need a witness?" I asked.

They both nodded.

"Go ahead, Brad. I’ll be here that long."

"Great," he replied. "See you guys mañana."

As the sales rep finally came back to the phone, I looked up to see that my three favorites had left. The locker room was actually almost empty, though I was just in time to see the team manager slipping out of his shorts and heading towards the shower.

"So what’s up with this kid, Todd?"

"Smart ass," he answered me succinctly. "The kid’s a great player. He has magic hands. As a matter of fact, if he can develop some real speed and a bit more size, I could see him playing pro. It seems like he can snag passes that should just bounce away."

"But?"

"But he’s got a pretty crappy attitude. He wants to bitch about everything. I basically like the kid. I want him on the team."

"But you can’t let him screw stuff up for everyone."

"Exactly."

The office went back to quiet. After a few seconds, Todd got up and went back out to the field. A few seconds after that, the team manager came back out of the shower. He looked around a bit, obviously surprised to find himself alone, then saw me in the coach’s office and waved. Standing there, totally naked and wet, he was as nonchalant as if he were totally dressed and saying hi to a friend.

It was cute.

I half-watched as he grabbed a towel and dried off. Greg something, I remembered. I’d heard about the kid who’d broke his leg last year, but only made the connection when I remembered Ben talking about having a class with him. Mary had taken him to visit at the hospital. I made a note to ask Coach Teague if it was the same boy.

Greg had dried off and was half dressed when Coach Teague came back with another boy, still completely in uniform. Greg had already pulled on his jeans, but his belt and fly were still open, and he was bent over, tying his sneakers. I’d finally finished the phone call (with the promise that the equipment should be delivered tomorrow), so I took that as my cue to step out of the office.

"Greg," Coach Teague was saying, confirming my suspicion, "I’ll make sure everything gets locked. You go ahead and take off."

"Yes, sir," Greg answered. He had a gym bag into which he stuffed a couple of things, then he pulled a shirt on, threw the strap of the bag over a shoulder, and headed towards the door, fastening his pants as he went. Obviously a boy who thought paddlings, as well as spankings, might be contagious.

The boy in uniform had been watching quietly. It was very hot outside, and he was dripping sweat. If he’d just spent an extra twenty minutes running drills, I wasn’t at all surprised. When he’d come in, he’d made a beeline for the water fountain, and his lips and chin were still dripping. Now he was just standing there, watching.

While he was watching Coach Teague talk to the team manager, I was able to watch him. It’s always hard to tell how a kid is built when he’s wearing football equipment, but he didn’t look too stocky. As a matter of fact, his lower legs, which were visible below the football pants, were well shaped and firm, but lean and long. I’d guess he was already about 5’6" or 7". His hair was a very dark brown – one might have called it black if we hadn’t had so many Hispanic boys around for comparison – which he wore a bit shorter than normal. Of course, considering the temperature at this time of year and how long he had to wear that helmet, it seemed like a good idea to me. His short hair was still thick, and right now it was sweat-matted and sticking up everywhere, but I had the feeling it was usually pretty bushy – maybe just from seeing him around school. At one point, he must have felt me watching him, and he turned to look at me, giving me a quick glimpse of his face, which was still boyishly cute, though his cheekbones were strong enough to suggest that he’d be handsome in a few years, especially with those dark, almost velvety, blue eyes.

Before Greg had left the room, Coach Teague turned to the player.

"Go get out of your pads, Blake."

Blake looked miserable beyond the heat now, but he walked over to the section where the football gear resided and started removing everything. They’d just been practicing, so he hadn’t been in full game uniform, but it seemed like he had just as much stuff. A squad jersey, shoulder pads, and a t-shirt all came off, leaving him bare from the waist up. Then he bent down for a minute, obviously removing cleats. When he stood, he had socks in his hands, so he must have been barefoot. Then those football pants came off.

At that point, he looked miserably towards where Coach Teague and I were waiting. Coach Teague had gone into the office and was now holding The Board. The paddle was a medium shade of wood with a reddish tone, but I doubt that’s what caught his attention. It was about as big as any high school paddle I can remember seeing - nearly two feet long, and at least three inches wide. There was something evil looking about the handle that was long and wide enough for a one or two handed grip, and the way the end rounded a bit. It looked more than functional, and obviously only had one purpose. Of course, for all it’s bad looks, it was actually only three-eights of an inch, so not as thick as a lot of high school paddles, but it looked serious, and in a coach’s hands, it meant business.

Blake grimaced when he saw the paddle, obviously regretting whatever had brought him here, but he reached around and removed the tail and hip pads from his girdle. He took a few more seconds to make sure all his gear was stored properly, and then came back to where we awaited him.

"Mr. Wells, Blake is here because he can’t learn to control his mouth. I’ve talked with him before about proper ways to talk to people. He treats his teammates well enough, but he has a bad habit of mouthing off to his coaches and sometimes saying stuff that’s just disrespectful. He‘s been talked to a couple of times before, and I warned him to expect this if he didn’t straighten up."

As expected, I nodded, then turned from the coach to the player. I’d already been studying him, as the coach lectured. His upper body was pretty firm, especially his chest and arms, but he seemed to be carrying a little extra padding around the middle, though it was barely enough to make his stomach not flat. It looked like he had a very deep belly button, which seemed very cute for some reason.

"Do you have anything to say about that, Blake?"

The boy wasn’t looking at either of us. At first he just shook his head. Then he added, "No, I just didn’t think he could… No."

I looked at Coach Teague, who was rolling his eyes. We both knew what the boy had been about to say. I caught the coach’s attention and made a gesture, requesting permission. Coach gave it.

"You didn’t think he’d hear you?"

"No, sir."

"Do you like playing football, Blake?"

"Yes, sir," he answered, sounding pretty nervous now, since he must have taken it as a threat to his status on the team.

"Just playing, or do you like winning?"

That was kind of a ‘duh!’ question, and his voice couldn’t quite keep that out of his response.

"You know that no matter how good one player is, he can’t win games by himself, don’t you? I don’t care how good you can catch a ball, you have to have a quarterback who can get it to you, don’t you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the quarterback isn’t going to be much good if he doesn’t have a line that can protect him, right?"

"Right."

"That’s because football is a team sport, right? Everyone on the team is important and has to do their part if you want to win?"

"Yes, sir."

Blake had seemingly forgotten the paddle in Coach Teague’s hand for the moment, and looked like he was really listening to me, trying to understand what my point was.

"Well, Blake, a team is just like your body. It doesn’t matter how well your legs run, or how well your hands catch, if you don’t have a brain to tell them what to do and when to do it. With a team, the coach is the brain. While you guys are out there playing, the coach is watching everything. It’s his job to see what you guys are doing right and wrong, and his job to see what the other team is doing. That’s why he’s the one to call the plays. Without him doing that, you might as well just go out there and run in circles. And when you mouth off to him in front of the rest of the team, you make it harder for him to do that."

I looked up to see that Coach Teague was watching me almost as closely as his player was. There was a moment of silence as both of them took in what I’d said.

"Umm… Blake," Coach Teague said after a moment, "if you have a problem with me, a legitimate problem – not just that you’re mad because I told you to move faster or do something you don’t like – come to me. I try very hard not to give any serious criticism in front of the other guys, and I never chew you out for other stuff in front of everybody, and I’d like the same respect from you. Understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Blake responded, sounding on the verge of tears after the long, pointed, two-pronged lecture.

"Then grab the position."

Blake turned towards the bench the coach had pointed at. Instead of just bending over, like most kids would have done, Blake crouched down, almost like he was taking his place at the line of scrimmage, then he grabbed a firm hold on the far side of the bench, and finally straightened his legs again, bringing him almost perfectly into position.

Coach Teague studied him for a second, then nodded.

As the coach took his position, I moved out of the way a bit, where I’d have a perfect view but not have to worry about flying paddles. I also had a nice view of Blake’s rear. It was a nice rear – long, like you’d expect from a boy this age, and not round enough, but it seemed to be only slightly dimpled. The white fabric of the football girdle was stretched tight across his rear, and it was sheer enough that I could tell he was wearing only a jock strap beneath it. That was bad news for him, but perfectly within school rules.

Coach Teague was probably my main rival for worst teacher to get a paddling from. While it was hard to get kids to talk to you about stuff like that, when you could find someone, he could usually give you other kids’ opinions, as well as his own. And while kids who would talk about that were rare, it did happen from time to time (if you worked at it just a bit).

The difference between Coach Teague and me is what I’d call the difference between ache and sting. The way one young man put it a couple of years after this event was that with Coach Teague you knew you were going to be sore for a while afterwards and tender for a while after that. My swats actually hurt worse at first, but they faded more quickly.

My personal opinion was that, because Coach Teague always used the same paddle, he had to adjust his swats so as not to break most kids in half. Still, that paddle was big enough that I think the swats numbed a kid almost as much as they hurt him. His swats, the kind I remembered from school, were that deep ache that was going to stay with you for a while, but that would actually hurt worse a few minutes after he’d finished. Because I adjusted the paddle to the kid, I could always swing as hard as I wanted, so my swats burned worse when they happened. One particularly honest (though not particularly well-behaved) boy once told me that my swats brought tears to his eyes when he got them, but Coach Teague’s swats brought tears to his eyes when he had to sit down afterwards.

I doubt any of that mattered to Blake right then, though.

When Coach had his position, he reached the paddle down, lined up, gently patted Blake’s butt, right about the middle of it, then drew back.

I was a bit surprised at how much the swat echoed. It’s not like I’d never paddled in an empty locker room before, but maybe I’d been too distracted by doing the paddling on those earlier occasions.

Blake went tense when the swat landed. His arms flexed as he gripped the bench. His head came up for a second, then dropped loosely. He clenched his butt for a second, then flexed first his left leg, then his right.

Coach Teague was watching this, and he waited. When Blake seemed to have settled down, Coach lined up his second swat. The paddle tapped Blake’s butt again, just below where the first swat had landed, then pulled back again.

Blake’s shoulders tensed when the paddle tapped him this time. The coach waited just a second with the paddle raised. Just as some of Blake’s tension seemed to ease, the paddle cracked down again.

Blake rode the paddle forward a bit this time, and there was what might have been a quiet grunt mixed with the paddle’s echo.

Blake went through the same routine again, but a bit more slowly this time. He also moved his feet just a bit, widening them, maybe trying to make the paddle land in a slightly different place. It was also easy to see from the way his chest was moving that he was breathing slowly and deeply.

Coach gave him a minute to settle down, then the paddle tapped against Blake’s butt again, this time very low down on his butt. There was a definite moan in response to that.

The paddle cracked down a third time; then the coach moved away. Blake’s legs bent this time, but he only crumpled slightly after the third swat. From the flex of his shoulders, I’d say he had a death grip on that bench. From the way his upper body shook, I think he must have been fighting back tears.

I looked up and nodded at Coach Teague. He nodded back at me. I took the paddle from him and returned it to the office as he talked to the boy.

"I really hope I got through to you this time, Blake, because I’m not going to be able to put up with much more of this kind of behavior and let you stay on the team. Now finish putting your uniform up and hit the showers."

I put the paddle away, then turned back to the desk and started sorting the paperwork I had strewn across it. That also gave me a perfect view of Blake returning to his football locker. He was walking slow and carefully, with his toes pointed a bit outside, like he was trying to keep any and all stress off his aching glutes.

He was even more careful when he bent down to removed his football girdle, and there was a perfect view of a crimson moon, framed by the white straps of his jock.

It was beautiful.

Todd walked back into the office and handed me the discipline form to sign. Then he sighed and started to sit.

"I’m going to be a few more minutes here, Todd. Do you want me to lock up?"

"You don’t mind?" he asked, pausing in the act of pulling his chair from the desk.

"No need in both of us staying."

"Thanks," he said, already gathering his stuff up to run.

"No problem," I assured him. "No homework today, so I’m not doing anything but lying out by the pool reading, and maybe flirting, a bit this evening."

"The tribulations of being young and single, huh?" he said with a laugh in his voice.

He reminded me how to lock up, then headed for the door.

"Have a good night, Jack."

"You too," I returned as he quickly left before I could change my mind.

I looked up to see Blake cautiously leaving the football area for the showers, and stuck my head out the door.

"Did you get all your stuff out of there already?"

He looked at me, and nodded. In the bright, overhead light, I could see that his face was dry, but maybe lightly tear-stained, and that his eyes were definitely red.

I also saw that he was pretty well hung, and had a thick bush of that same, nearly black hair that was already spreading towards the sides, and that cute navel.

I moved the laundry basket into the wash area, then locked all the interior areas (which were mostly to keep non-jocks from messing with the expensive sports equipment). The buggy for clean and dirty towels was already in the laundry area, so I snagged a couple before clicking the lock. I laid them down on the bench right outside the shower, then stepped into the entry hall.

"Blake," I said, sticking my head around the corner where I heard the shower running.

I didn’t speak until I’d rounded the corner, so I had a moment to see him, leaning against the shower wall, his very dark red butt pointed at me, as water ran over him and off. It was a very nice view, but I felt a little bad for the kid. Was he crying?

When I spoke his name, he stood up straight and turned, but didn’t dash his hands over his face, so I don’t know if he’d really been crying, or just trying to deal with the soreness.

"I left a couple of towels on the bench for you."

"Thanks, Mr. Wells," he replied. Then he got a handful of liquid soap and started sudsing up his chest.

I couldn’t think of a good reason to stay, so I went back to the office and put my paperwork away.

When Blake came out of the shower, he seemed to be walking more comfortably. All the lights were off, though it was only dim because of the vents over the outside door, which faced west. I was leaning up against the wall, reading an article from a coaching magazine about techniques to improve dribbling control. From that position, I was able to surreptitiously watch him dry off and dress, storing the sight, along with my other views of him today, for later.

‘It could be worse, Blake,’ I thought about calling. ‘When I was a kid, a lot of guys got it again from their dad at home if they got in trouble at school.’ Hmmm… It was more subtle than, ‘Hey Blake, your dad going to bust your butt again?’ but I felt like the poor kid had really had a rough day, so in the end, I stayed quiet.

"You okay, Blake?" I did finally ask when he sat down to put on his sneakers. I mainly asked because of the way he nearly levitated off the bench.

"Still a little sore," he answered after a second, his voice admirably steady.

I thought again about making some comment or joke, but let it pass. A moment later, when Blake shut his locker and ran a comb through his hair, I tucked the magazine under my arm and escorted him out.

We walked out into the empty back parking lot. Being mostly a teacher, I’d parked in front, so headed around that way. Blake followed me. He seemed to be walking okay now, which made me feel better about my earlier, prurient thoughts.

"You need a ride, Blake?" I asked about halfway round the building.

"No thanks," he replied. "I only live a couple of blocks," he added, pointing towards a residential area that started katty-corner from the school.

At the corner of the building, I turned to head for the parking lot, while he continued in his direction. He even raised his hand and waved.

I waved back, then stopped, and spent a minute watching the moderately tall, fairly lean, thirteen year old, wearing snug Levi’s and a tight t-shirt, as he walked away from me.

Then I suffered a ‘V-8’ moment, which left me wanting to smack myself in the forehead. I’d been in a boys’ locker room, by myself, after just having witnessed a good looking young kid get paddled (and a whole lot of others stripping and showering), and I’d locked myself out before taking advantage of it.

Note to self for next time this happens…







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