My Nickname: January 2012

I've decided to seek out a nickname. I think of a nickname in the same way that women think of scarves or handbags.

It's the perfect accessory and, at 65, I'm finally ready to accessorize.

Like most of you, I've had nicknames in the past. When I was in high school, most of my friends called me "Get". Of course that's just a diminuation of my actual name. Not much imagination there. It lacks the essential quality of any worthwhile, bona fide nickname: panache.

During my teaching career many students referred to me as "Mr. G." I'm quite sure there were scores of kids who had other nicknames for me, many of which ended in "---hole." While Mr. G. connotes a warm informality, which was, I hope, an accurate portrayal of my attitude in class, it also lacks imagination and duende.

I need me some duende.

During my long and almost distinguished tennis career, I was often referred to as "lefty," which was strange because I'm not left-handed. Of course I'm just kidding, but again this nickname is simply a literal description of my handedness and not the kind of imaginative sobriquet I'm seeking.

There are lots of "lefties" out there, but only one...what?

One of my sons has long referred to me as "Bub" or "Bubster". I'm not sure of the derivation here but, while I am more than happy to answer to it, this nickname contains no flowery or heroic imagery. If he could possibly place "The Great" or "Number One" in front of Bubster, we might have something. Alas, I fear that after reading this, he may choose to go with something in the "---hole" category.

As they say, "The devil you know..."

For a brief period, within the confines of 33 Foxtail Road in Hanover, Massachusetts, I was known as "Chief Five Tails." This colorful Native American nickname was bestowed upon me as a result of a particular act of tremendous bravery on my part. With all appropriate modesty, I would like to relate the events that led to my being called Chief Five Tails:

Our home in Hanover had become infested by field mice. Not a day went by without one of us becoming terrorized by these huge, disgusting beasts. No one was safe. It fell upon me, the alleged man of the house, to solve the problem. I tried many different approaches including "have-a-heart" traps and yelling, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, I decided to go old school and bought a number of traditional Tom and Jerry type mousetraps.

Each evening I would strategically place a couple of the wonderfully inventive mousetraps, baited with a chunk of delightful Jarlsberg cheese, and sleep fitfully, listening with one ear for the telltale snap or click that all Native Americans know so well.

In the mornings no one would approach the kitchen until I had made my rounds and given the all-clear signal. Lo and behold for five mornings in a row, a rather stiff example of the American fieldus mousus species would be peacefully at rest in the trap. It fell upon me, brave warrior Chief Five Tails to gingerly remove the newly departed from the trap and deposit him/her somewhere in the back yard.

I was proud of this noble nickname and would have been happy to carry it forward the rest of my life, but word must have spread among the savage beasts and we were not tormented by their kind any more. Thus did The name "Chief Five Tails" become a quickly forgotten footnote in the annals of our little family.

From time to time I have looked to the world of sport to find a suitable nickname. Unfortunately, my two greatest sporting heroes, Bill Russell and Ted Williams, could not assist me in my quest. Williams was known as "The Kid" or "The Splendid Splinter". I'm certainly no Kid and never in my life, not for one second, has anyone looked at me and been reminded of something as slender as a splinter. As for Russell, he was simply known as "Big" as in Big Bill Russell. While I sadly qualify as Big, I'd prefer not to be reminded of it too often.

Also, I'm hoping to stay away from the ironic nickname. Over the years, unbeknownst to them, I have bestowed ironic nicknames upon various acquaintances and co-workers. Thanks to me, one member of the hotel staff in New Hampshire was known by one and all as "The Genius". Needless to say, he wasn't one. I see now that maybe it wasn't my finest hour and I'm hoping to avoid karmic retribution at this time in my life.

So that eliminates the following: Slim, Muscles, and Mr. No Ear Wax.

Recently I bought a new Odyssey putter and noticed that the putter cover had the name "White Ice" stitched on it. I immediately began lobbying my golf group to make this my nickname. After all, it contains my race and my favorite additive to a gin and tonic. A perfect nickname I thought.

My bubble was burst when one of the group questioned, "Does this mean that we'll have to stop using our old nickname for you, ---hole?"

I hate it when there is someone more clever than me in the room.

So I leave it up to you, faithful followers of these meanderings. I eagerly await your suggestions. Please stay away from vulgarity and irony.

Thanking you in advance,

Joel "The Moyle" Getman
(I'm Jewish and I have a tendency to slice...)

Ain't life grand?
J