We can’t always be a Tiger; names that describe how we play the games
Early on it was my contention that Tiger Woods benefited greatly from his name, meaning it fit his game and his image, a double plus. Better I thought than Tiger Irons or Tiger Wedge, maybe not as good as Tiger Country Club, but that may still come.
I wondered, though, when time and wear arrived if, to be honest, he might need to change his name to, say, Kitty Meadows.
And so, here we are and so is he, stuck with what comes after while wanting what came before. The random journey of Woods toward his final summation offers glimpses and groans, but if Tiger cannot be Tiger, that is not our problem, it is the name.
How less distressing might things now be if Woods had come to us as Eldrick or as Gibby or as Bunky, actual golf names resting unseen in storage.
What is in a name? A Rose by another name might not be in the Hall of Fame, but I wonder if Rose had legally changed his name to Charlie Hustle, as he was known in better times, honors would have come.
Before Woods there were a couple of Greens, as well as a Player, and a Chip, a winner named Strange, though the best golf name may still be Bobby Cruickshank, who managed to see no humor in it. I once interviewed “Wee Bobby,” just 5-foot-5, when he was in his 70s and he insisted then that players didn’t get better, only the equipment did.
Living up to a name can be burdensome, as we know from the Bulls’ Lonzo Ball, the unkept promise, and now Angel Reese of the Sky, who yet may be heaven sent.
Basketball name changers were pioneers, not just Lew Alcindor, who redesignated himself as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, but the more impressively and already wishfully named Lloyd Free became the happy sentiment World B. Free, an ungranted wish, whereas Dennis Rodman had to become Worm, whereas he was, of course, always so.
The once and unremembered Bull, Brian Williams, became the more distinctive Bison Dele, whereas the ultraphysical player of the time, Ron Artest, became Metta World Peace, which did not fool the careful.
Michael Jordan went almost immediately to initials, MJ, forgoing the popular hyphen or he might have been Mi-Jor or some such. It must be pointed out, however, that Air Jordan did end up with the same name as his shoe.
The Bears once had a quarterback named Willie Thrower, significant not because he was the first Black quarterback in the NFL but because he previewed the lasting dilemma at the position — good name, poor results. I wonder if Justin Fields had been Dash Fields, he might not still be around. I also wonder why every kicker is not named Helmut Optional.
Football has had maybe more apt names than any other game with Blood McNally and Ox Emerson and Tuffy Leemans and Bulldog Turner and Tank Younger and Night Train Lane and Dick Butkus, not that Butkus is anything more than just sounding like the toughest man in the game, which he was.
A contest was once held to find a nickname for Joe Montana, a foolish notion. A man already named after a state did not need another one, one of the largest states at that. As Montana faded he would have had to become Wayne Wyoming or Vinnie Vermont, finishing as Danny Delaware.
There was no better name in soccer than George Best, because he certainly was, and Margaret Court did own tennis in her time, while Lance Armstrong undid every syllable of his name.
Name changes of teams have brought us the culture bereft Commanders in Washington and the uncertain Guardians in Cleveland, appropriately sensitive but practically irrelevant. The once Devil Rays in Tampa are now just the Rays, free of satanic tarnish.
Other than Woods the most appropriate recent figure matching game and name has to be Usain Bolt, truly as fast as lightning, while plainly named Carl Lewis and Michael Johnson fade into the alphabet.
This is not to suggest new parents designate their kids as what they expect them to do, like Crank Homer or Puck Handler, but just in case, how about the highest-ranking suit in pinochle? On second thought …