What’s in a Name?

A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet, but would a ballplayer by any other name evoke the same reaction?  As I watched Alex Rodriguez standing on the top step of the visitors dugout in Tampa, popping sunflower seeds into his mouth, I realized one of the major epidemics attacking the modern game of baseball: the loss of creative nicknames.  In modern sports, the nickname has become a simple shorthand contraction: A-Rod, D-Wade, J-Roll.  None of these exude any gravitas or evoke any emotion.  Does the moniker “A-Rod” provide any description of Rodriguez’s game or personality?  T-Mac tells us nothing about the skills or abilities of Tracy McGrady.  Gone are the days of the Colossus of Clout and the Splendid Splinter, and with them follows another collegial and affectionate connection between the athlete and the fan.

One of the hundreds of millions of reasons to love sports is that they provide one of the only public arenas where it is socially acceptable to refer to a person by a nickname.  Think about your group of friends.  I guarantee you have at least one person that you know better by his or her nickname.  In fact, nicknames—or the absence thereof—have ruined some modern television for me.  I never bought in to shows like “Friends” or “Sex and the City,” because none of the main characters ever went by anything but their first names.  If you were one of six people that knew each other for ten years and somehow lived in giant New York apartments right next to each other, one of you would answer to something like Tex or Gooch.  It’s human nature.  In order for me to believe in a friendship, every ensemble cast that has its main characters as friends needs epithets. “Seinfeld” had Kramer (a shoddy but still workable nickname), “Entourage” has Turtle, “Saved by the Bell” had Screech, “The Wire” and “The Sopranos” had a veritable who’s who of handles from Johnny Sack and Big Pussy to Stringer Bell and Dookie.  Thus, I honestly believed that the drug dealers of West Baltimore were closer friends than Carrie or Chandler and their respective gangs.

Unfortunately, as a society, we have a hard time accepting the use of these monikers in public fora.  Unless you’re married to the boss’s sister, calling him Shmitty in a board meeting could be the first step in giving your two-week’s notice.  When G.W. Bush began addressing the D.C. press with pet names, they snickered behind his back and publicly derided him for acting so cavalierly in such a serious profession.  Somewhere along the way, these nominal terms of endearment became contrary to our notions of “professionalism.”

Not in sports.  In sports, we regale our athletes with handles like the Hammer, the Rocket, and He Hate Me (although that one was self-regaled).  The best nicknames not only aptly describe an aspect of the athlete’s personality or game, but also set him or her squarely in the contexts and traditions of the sport.  “Sugar” is a good example.  In the past, boxers anointed as masters of the “sweet science” and possessing skills as sweet as honey took on the “Sugar” mantle.  These saccharine pugilists included such masters of the game as Sugar Ray Robinson and Sugar Ray Leonard.  As others adopted the role, such as Sugar Shane Mosley, the moniker expanded.  Now it offers a glimpse into the past, saying that those appointed “Sugar” utilize styles reminiscent of those past legends.  Today, UFC fighter Rashad Evans has added an entirely new dimension to the “Sugar” name, but at its heart it remains the same.  The Light Heavyweight Champion, Rashad’s game is as sweet as candy.

All sports have a strong tradition of stand out monikers.  To name a few, the NHL had the Great One.  The NBA has witnessed Wilt the Stilt, Clyde the Glide, and Magic.  The NFL offered the Galloping Ghost, the Mad Bomber, and Sweetness.  Baseball’s tradition runs just as deep.  Baseball has brought us Hammerin’ Hank (Aaron), Cap (Anson), Mr. Cub (Ernie Banks), and Three Finger Mordecai Brown.  We’ve seen the Georgia Peach and the Big Red Machine.  Some designations simultaneously belied that which they exalted, such as the competitiveness of Dizzy, Daffy, and the Gashouse Gang.  Some, as in the case of the Big Unit and the Big Train, provided intimidation where none was necessary.  Others aptly described their subjects, such as the Wizard, the Iron Horse, the Iron Man, and the Ryan Express.  I could go on for days, just peruse this list on Wikipedia.

Today, we’re overrun by inside jokes that don’t translate outside the locker room (Pronk) and syllabic contractions (J-Roll).  Just don’t use the contraction method for Felix Hernandez (F-Her).  We only see a few creative tags that both suitably describe a player’s capability and evoke the traditions of the past (Pudge and K-Rod).  The main reason is the way that teams are covered.  In the salad days of the nickname, one or two members of the press covered a team.  On a daily basis, these beat-writers or radio announcers would offer their deftly crafted appellations without concern that someone else might co-opt or distort their creations.  Today, the fact that an anchor on SportsCenter addresses Albert Pujols as “Fat Albert” doesn’t necessarily mean we’ll ever hear the title again.

At the end of the day, nicknames provided us with a sense of intimacy to our heroes.  We referred to Willie Mays as the Say Hey Kid and we felt close to him.  It was something we would call our friends.  By referring to Ruth as the Babe, we counted him among our circle of friends.  Today’s sterile nicknames widen the gap between athlete and fan, which has already been made impassable by monster contracts, shrinking press access, and gated estates.  Unfortunately, as fans, all we can do is savor the game and remember the days when we marveled at Satchel, Pee Wee, and the Scooter.