No matter how
long I live I will never be able to call the game soccer. The
English invented it and called it football, we exported it to the world and
the world was perfectly happy to cal it FOOTBALL. So why is it when the
game found its way to the United States of America it had to be called soccer
? America may have its own game, the rules and objectives of which are
an enigma, which it likes to call football but the originators of that game
should have come up with something different allowing football to be football
and NOT soccer !
Have you ever
thought how strange it is that Americans speak English yet manage to turn
it into a foreign language ? They call the footpath
the sidewalk, they put gas in their cars when they really mean petrol.
The wire baskets on wheels you push round supermarkets are trolleys yet
Americans insist on calling them carts. A mobile phone is a mobile phone
yet in America it becomes a cell phone, the list goes on and on and on.
Oh yes there is one more thing I have to mention: a paddle is an oar used to
propel a canoe through the water - at least that was what I thought it was !
Now please do
not get me wrong, inspite of our language differences I like America, no more
than that I love America. I love the country, I love the people and love
the year I spent living there. If I were allowed to call it football and
not soccer I would not mind being an American.
As a kid we I
had been on family holidays to Disneyland - note holidays and not vacations -
and I was always sorry when it was time to return to England and school.
I did not do well at school and would have willingly left at sixteen had my
father not insisted I stay into the sixth form to study A levels. Those
extra two years were a waste of my time so imagine how happy I was when the
winter turned into spring and my date for finally leaving drew ever closer.
Then my father dropped the bombshell that I was going to America for a year as
a student in the senior year of a Texas high school.
I need here
to explain that my father is the kind of person you do not argue with, when he
gets an idea into his head that idea quickly turns into reality and god help
anyone who gets in his way. He is a successful businessman owning a
nationwide chain of sports shops, a business he founded after retiring from
being a professional football player. Oh yes my dad was a footballer
playing for Aston Villa and England, if I were to tell you his name no doubt
you would have heard of him. While I like the game and played for a variety of
youth teams since I was eight years old I was never any where near as good as
he was, it is hard being the son of a living legend.
It was always
assumed that when I left school I would go into the family business, I did not
want to go to university and my dad was never slow to tell me he was educated
at the university of life.
"I was
cleaning the boots of the professionals," he would say, "as an
apprentice when I was sixteen and by eighteen I had my own place in the first
team."
"Yes
Dad."
Of course
things are different now, gone are the apprentice players to be replaced by
football academies nurturing the next generation of stars.
"An
extra year at school won't do you any harm," my father explained.
"An American experience will make a man of you. I have arranged for
you to be part of the school's football team and I mean football English style
or soccer as they insist on calling it. Show them how the game should be
played."
"Yes
Dad."
The prospect
of a year in America was fantastic but going back to school ? Bugger
that ! But it no use at all protesting.
James
Kingsley High School is massif, gigantic, much bigger than the school I went
to in England. It has more than three thousand pupils, the Americans
call them students. I swear that within days of my arrival each and every one
of them made me welcome. I knew I was going to love my American experience
even if it did mean I was going to be at school for another year.
Schools in
England are just a system one has to pass through before being able to go out
into the world and earn a living. Some are better than others but
invariably they are a form of purgatory to be endured throughout childhood and
adolescence. Not so in America. First of all every aspect of the
school is so well structured and organised, everyone has a part within that
structure and everyone is made to believe their part is all important.
School requires a minimum of 101% commitment and everyone gives well above the
minimum. I wish my father had sent me to James Kingsley High School
years before he did.
The school
ran many different sports teams all of which were central to school life.
The soccer team was a top team in the school's sports hierarchy and it appears
my fame, or rather my father's fame, had gone before me. The team was
managed by a Mr Ford, the Americans call their team managers coaches - in
English a coach is, of course, a bus with posh seats - and the word coach is
used as a title so Mr Ford was never called Mr Ford but always Coach Ford.
A team coach is a very important person in the school, respected and obeyed
without question. Nobody ever had much respect at all for teachers when
I was at school, particularly sports teachers who were regarded as less
intelligent than those who took subjects like English and Maths. (Note
Americans insist on calling Maths Math - don't ask me why.)
Texas is a
vast state covering a land area of more than quarter of a million square
miles, students at James Kinglsey High School come from all over the state,
particularly in the senior year where coaches seek out promising players from
many miles away. Four of my team mates were from out of town and boarded
along with myself in what was called a frat house. Coach Ford was in
charge of the frat house and lived on the premises running it with the same
discipline as he did the team. The four team players: Bobby, Stuart, Gene and
Sam, who boarded became my close friends, we did everything together and life
was great even if at the age of nineteen I was still at school.
I hope you do
not think that I have been too critical of American's lack of understanding
with regard to the English Language after all it's no big deal but there is
one thing about life they have totally screwed up ! An American lad can
not buy alcohol or consume alcohol until he is twenty-one years old. In
England the law allows this at eighteen but most kids have come to know the
taste many years earlier. I was going into pubs, or bars for the benefit
of my American friends, since my seventeenth birthday - it was hard during my
year at James Kingsley High to become tee-total. Well I didn't, of course I
didn't and while it is as near to impossible as it can be for an American kid
to buy alcohol without identification to show he is aged twenty-one there are
ways round this problem. Bobby had a cousin who was twenty-five and
worked in a liquor store, (In English that is an off license !) for a fee he
would purchase once a week our needs and we kept the stash in a secret place
well away from Coach Ford. There was something fun about secretly
drinking at two or three in the morning when our adult supervisor was fast
asleep. But as my American experience was about to tell me Coach Ford
was a light sleeper.
This
particular drinking session took place six months after I joined James
Kingsley High School, I could not tell you how many times before we had boozed
the night away but on this occasion we got just a little too merry and made
just a little too much noise.
"What
the hell's going on in here ?" Coach Ford burst through the door
without knocking.
We could not
possibly hide any evidence even if our brains had not been numbed by alcohol
and were alert enough to try.
"Sorry
Coach did we wake you ?"
Coach Ford
was no religious fundamentalist but he gave we five a sermon on the evils of
drink any bible basher would have been proud of. We would have to be more
careful next time we had a drinking session. I waited for the tirade of
anger to wear itself out and for Coach Ford to return to his private area of
the frat house but reflecting back now I realise the other four knew there was
a little more to things than that.
"Not
only have you five abused my trust," Coach Ford was saying,
"not only have you let down the school and the team but you have been
breaking the law."
I tried to
protest my age and explain that in England the purchase and drinking of
alcohol was not illegal and was considered a perfectly normal thing for a
group like ours to do. That was a mistake.
"But we
are not in England," Coach Ford roared, "not in England where
liberal ideas have destroyed much of the social fabric belonging to a once
great nation. We are in the United States where we do things
differently. You may not understand how we here deal with misdemeanors
such as this but your friends will no doubt tell you. I'll leave them to
do just that while I go and fetch the necessary."
"What's
he talking about ?" I said when he had gone. "What does
he mean by the necessary ?"
"He's
going to paddle us," Bobby explained.
"Hey I
aint been paddled since tenth grade," Stuart giggled, "I've
almost forgotten what it's like."
"It
hurts," Gene said.
"Hang
on," I interrupted. "What's paddling ?"
My friends
were quick to explain. To begin with I thought they were having me on but when
Coach Ford returned holding a wooden paddle in his hand just as the lads had
described it to me I knew they were not. There was a faint haze of
alcohol clouding my mind but even so this situation was surreal, perhaps I was
dreaming. I had better make sure, I began to protest.
"Corporal
punishment was abandoned decades ago in my country, besides I am nineteen, you
can't do this to me."
"It's
only a wuppin," Bobby said, "no big deal really."
"No way
!" I continued my protest. "Besides you guys are all eighteen."
Sam shrugged
his shoulders, the others said nothing.
"I am
going to paddle the arses of the four American students," Coach
Ford said, "you have two choices: you can take a spanking the same as
them or you can pack your gear and I'll drive you personally myself to the
airport first thing in the morning."
Shit what
choice did I have ? To have my backside spanked by Coach Ford, no matter
how humiliating it may be no matter how much it may hurt this would be
infinitely more acceptable than facing my father if I were sent home in
disgrace.
"What's
it to be ?"
"I don't
have any choice do I ?"
"Take
your shirts off and line up against the wall."
What did we
have to take our shirts off for ? We were wearing an assortment of tee-shirts,
vest and sports shirts. Our lower quarters were covered by shorts which I
guessed would not offer a lot of protection from Coach Ford's anger.
I took my
place in the centre of the line with Stuart to my left and Gene to my right.
On the outer ends of the line were Bobby on he far left and Sam on the far
right. Coach Ford moved down the line moving each one of us to a
position that suited him best, adjusting how far we were away from each other
and how far from the wall.
"Place
your hands against the wall and brace yourselves," Coach Ford
ordered. "Three each I think."
Fucking hell,
what was going on ? But still I did as I was told. I glanced left
to Stuart and then to Gene on my right. Both smiled. What happened next I did
not expect, Coach Ford went down the line pulling each of our shorts down to
our knees and exposing five bare arses. I sensed Coach Ford move to the far
right and stand behind Sam. The latest episode of my American experience
was about to start. I looked along the line but could not see him properly
beyond Gene.
Whack !
I heard the almighty crack as the wooden paddle struck across Sam's backside.
God I bet that hurt. Before I could fully consider the degree of pain my
friend must be experiencing there came the sound of a second stroke. It
was louder than the first. Shit this was going to happen to me in a
moment's time. Whack ! Number three and the ordeal for Sam at least was
over.
I looked
again to Gene on my right and mouthed the words Good Luck. He winked an
eye. Coach Ford was standing directly behind me as he positioned himself to
paddle Gene, I could not see him with my eyes but sensed every movement.
I felt the air move as he lifted his arm the swung the paddle down. Whack !
Gene flinched and I looked at him again. He smiled. Whack ! Coach
Ford was delivering the strokes much more quickly to Gene than he did to Sam,
that meant my turn was coming very soon. Whack ! Three. Gene had
received his three, now it was my turn.
I shut my
eyes and prayed. I sensed Coach Ford move to my left, any moment now.
I did not feel any movement of air behind me, perhaps I was blotting things
out of my mind but I was unable to blot out the paddle as it whacked its first
blow into my behind. I felt the stinging blow before I heard the sound
and the pain that surged through me made the sound much quieter than it had
been when Sam and Gene had received their spanking. It's only a
wupping Bobby had said. Only ? Whack ! Bloody hell that was
right where the first one had landed. Only a wupping ? Only ! Whack !
Christ, number three hurt more than the first two put together ! What
ever did my backside look like ?
I opened my
eyes, at least my wupping was over. Now it was Stuart's turn. Before I
could look at Stuart I heard the crack of the paddle on his behind. The volume
of the crack had now resumed its previous level but was secondary to the
fire my backside was experiencing. My spanking was over but the pain was
still surging across my buttocks. Whack ! That was Stuart's second.
I looked at him but his face was squarely facing the wall.
"Good
luck my friend," I whispered. "Good luck."
Whack !
Only a
wupping Bobby had said, now he was taking his wupping. Whack ! The pain was
every bit as fierce, my backside was yet to cool down but I was thinking of
loads of questions I wanted to ask the other lads. This was like nothing
ever to happen in schools back home, at least not for years and years and
years. I was curious. Whack ! That was it all over.
"Pull
your shorts up," a voice said from behind me.
I reached
down and covered up my bruised behind.
"Turn
round all of you."
As we turned
round each one of us looked at the others. Thoughts were being silently
transmitted between us and as soon as Coach Ford had gone these thoughts would
no doubt be turned into words. Coach Ford was swinging the paddle by his side,
the simple piece of wood that had just whacked five backsides each with three
swats. Now that it was over it didn't seem quite so bad, don't get me
wrong my backside was still stinging like hell, but it had been an
experience.
"Right,"
Coach Ford said, "that's that then. I'll leave you to compare
notes, just don't make too much noise about it. If you disturb me again
I will not be happy. Do I make myself clear ?"
"Yes
Coach."
And then he
was gone.
"Well,"
I said.
The others
were laughing. How could you laugh about having your arse spanked.
"Time to
inspect the damage," Bobby said. And with that the four had their shorts
off and were standing bollock naked.
"Come on
get yours off as well, we need to see your arse."
Did I have
any choice ?
Coach Ford's
paddle had left a deep red patch on each of our buttocks. We debated as
to who had the best form of bruising and the unanimous opinion was that I had.
"Bet you don't get that in no English school."
"Too
right you don't." I smiled then said, "Hey he's left the
booze behind, he didn't confiscate it."
"Oh no
he wouldn't," Stuart explained. "We've been punished now so we
can drink it."
"Are you
sure ?"
"Certain."
Everyone
agreed.
"But
there's just one thing," Gene said.
The others
nodded.
"Kind of
a frat house ritual."
"What's
that ?"
"If
you've been wupped you have to wank."
"Really
?"
"Really
!"
