My grandfather could give some really cool nicknames.
I don’t know what it was, but he could give you a moniker that you could be kind of proud to have yelled at you in a large crowd. I think it was from his days playing baseball, when many players had colorful and creative nicknames. I heard “Buckshot,” “Buster,” “Bruiser” and several others used to call to my brother and other cousins.
The problem was, I was the youngest. I think he must have run out of all those cool nicknames by the time I came along. There are certain little habits that can be described in one word, that you do not necessarily want to be remembered by.
At a little league baseball game, as you are rounding third base, it is not what you want to hear. I had hoped that this nameless word, would be mistaken for someone else, but that was not to be. So here I was, crossing home plate, not to a thunderous applause or a standing ovation, but to players and parents calling out my nickname. It took many years and acts of bravery for me to pick up a new nickname.
Even then, I still wanted “Buckshot.”