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As I look back over the years, I would have to admit that I have been rather intrigued by nicknames and how they have come to pass. Aside from the obvious ones, owned by notorious organized crime figures, there are a bunch of nicknames that I personally have had the pleasure of creating. Of course, I do not have the inclination to conjure up such names for the aforementioned group of gentlemen, but when it comes to my buddies, that’s another story. Creativity is always the goal and a good nickname can last for years, for one’s entire life even! The key is to make a nickname humorous, memorable or both.
Some nicknames are like low-hanging fruit. It’s no big deal to call a big guy “Tiny” or one who lacks energy “Speedy.” When you are young, if you’re going to give a kid a nickname you have to be sure that he won’t be offended. Cruelty has no place and a laugh at the expense of another’s appearance or misfortune is off limits. Besides, an ill-advised nickname might get you a punch in the nose! However, none of my friends became monks, so a nickname that solicited a good chuckle was ok.
Let’s take my friend Tom Manieri, who has been my pal for almost 70 years. When I was about 12 years old, I made the observation that Tommy, who is a couple of years older than me, resembled the animated character, “Spinner” the sidekick of “Clutch Cargo” whose claim to fame was that when he spoke, they somehow dubbed in real human lips on his comic book-like face. Very cool indeed and quite an innovation for the mid-1950s. Of course, I still call him Spinner to this day and this highly successful tax accountant answers to his moniker freely and without the least bit of hesitation. My pal Spinner!
Another of my childhood friends, Bobby Teears, used to always like to be the umpire when we played baseball in the schoolyard. So much so, that he bought a “clicker” to make sure he kept balls and strikes accurately. Of course, he really didn’t need it because such a simple task was not a big deal for such a kid of superior intellect. You see, young Bobby is now retired after having a career as a nationally renowned pathologist. You can find Bobby, who I still call “The Ump” skiing down the slopes in Sun Valley in the beautiful state of Idaho where he’s been living for years. “Ball four, take your (24”) base.”
My nicknaming of buddies continued in college, especially among my baseball teammates at Temple University. Two of them stand out. The first involved my dear friend to this day, Ted Frett. Back in the mid-1960s, when I first met him at practice, I couldn’t help but notice his lanky 6-foot-5-inch frame. He was all arms and legs. Happily, for the rest of us, he could throw a fastball at great velocity. However, this very positive quality did nothing to prevent his teammates from calling him “Sleeves” for his entire career. Now, still a dear friend, retired high school principal and grandfather of 12, he still hears the occasional “Yo Sleeves.”
Perhaps the most creative of nicknames belonged to another teammate who unfortunately passed away a few years back. Jerry Grapel was a free spirit in college, smart as a whip, and a terrific defensive outfielder. He was true to himself and after graduating from law school and practicing for a year, decided that he wanted no part of the rat race. He packed up and moved to Key West where he became an outstanding author of essays who drove a cab to put food steadily on his table. His free spiritedness, on the team, compelled him to be one of the few guys with the courage to attempt to grow a goatee. The only problem was that his body didn’t cooperate and his beard looked like a few scraggly strings. It was obvious to me that the beard, coupled with his skinny 6-foot-3-inch body caused him to resemble the “Sea Hag,” the Popeye cartoon character. It would be a rhetorical question for me to ask what name he ended up with. Interestingly enough, Jerry embraced being called “Sea Hag” and over the years, when we would correspond, he always ended his emails by signing off, “Ciao Hag.” What a great guy he was and I truly miss him.
Finally, I myself have not been spared a nickname that has stuck for all of these years. How I got it and how it interfaces with my real name, I believe is quite interesting. At the age of 10, I was playing Little League baseball for the Southwest Colts, in Southwest Philadelphia. At the start of the season, we had our initial practice on a dirt only, sandlot at the corner of 65th Street and Lindbergh Boulevard. The Phillies shortstop at the time was a good field, no-hit player named Chico Fernandez. The coach sent me out to play shortstop so the kids started calling me “Chico.” To this day, anyone who knew me from childhood or from playing baseball all the way up through college and beyond calls me Chico. Anyone else who I have met through business or any other way calls me Charlie. The funny thing is that I know who calls me which name and believe me, I have met a lot of people during my working life. Even my wife, who never saw me hit a baseball calls me Chico, most of the time.
The only exception to this name-calling rule was my dear mother, Catherine, who would introduce me as “Charles” to strangers. I was never nuts about my real name, as delivered formally. But heck, your Mom gets a pass!
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