Are nicknames an endangered species? Worse, are they already extinct?

As a retiree who lives on another planet (Bluffton, South Carolina), I admit I am way out of touch with the real world. What I do recall is that when my children went through school in Rhode Island during the 1970s and ‘80s, neither they nor their friends had nicknames. To me, shortening my younger daughter’s name from Meridith to Mer (pronounced MAA-yaa in New Englandese) does not constitute a nickname. Nor does changing Jeffrey to Jeff.

Nicknames are often on my mind because a whole section of this website is devoted to baseball players with names I find interesting. Many of these players have nicknames that over time obliterated their given first names. Almost all of the interesting nicknames were created before 1960.

Recently I scanned some photos from my Solvay (NY) High School yearbooks and was reminded that during the early 1950s nicknames were alive and well ... though some bordered on bad taste, especially by today’s standards.

Assuming nicknames have been forced into the witless protection program, I looked for reasons. Most obvious, I guess, is political correctness, which frowns upon several nicknames from the past. You’ll find examples in baseball reference books. In the early 1900s, for example, German-American players were often nicknamed “Heinie.” It didn’t matter what their real first names were. Players who were at least part Indian (Native American) usually were called “Chief.” I believe most of these nicknames were handed out thoughtlessly, not maliciously, and occasionally were tokens of respect, a conclusion that many, I’m sure, find difficult to swallow.

One of my high school classmates was nicknamed “Wop.” Why she, of the many students from Italian-American homes, was singled out with a common, usually disparaging piece of slang, I don’t know. But Angela Lauri wore her nickname proudly. (It was included in the 1955 Solvay High School yearbook, something that today might get yearbook editors suspended from school.)

Granted, some of us cringed when we saw the nickname in print, but Angela, being unusually good-natured, handled the name with style and a great deal of the humor that made her one of the school’s best-liked students.

Angela’s nickname was an exception, because by the 1950s we were a more sensitive people than we were before World War II. Again, check baseball reference books. The proof is in the nicknames from the 1920s and ‘30s. You’ll find outfielder Nick Cullop, whose chubby cheeks and ruddy complexion earned him the nickname “Tomato Face.” Infielder Frank Crespi was called “Creepy” because he looked like a disfigured movie monster known as “The Creeper.” Catcher Ernie Lombardi was called “Schnozz” because of his large nose. Outfielder Bob Fothergill was called “Fat” or “Fatty”; likewise, pitcher Freddie Fitzsimmons was better known as “Fat Freddie.” There also were several players nicknamed “Jumbo” and a few called “Blimp.”

Today, with people perhaps overly concerned about a child’s self-esteem, nicknames such as “Fatty,” “Creepy” and “Tomato Face” would probably be subjects of lawsuits. Sure, even in these touchy-feely times, a lot of kids regard others as creeps, nerds, skanks, skunks, wimps and worse, but apparently these and other such words remain lower case insults and don’t become upper case nicknames. Perhaps today’s kids don’t have the self-assurance to wear a name that conflicts with an inflated self-image. Or maybe our sense of humor has changed (and not for the better, judging by today’s sitcoms and movie comedies).

AMONG the students in the photos I recently scanned was Andrew Patapow, a member of our varsity basketball team during the 1952-53 season. I knew Andy because I was on the junior varsity team that year. However, his first name momentarily eluded me and the yearbook identified him in the team photo only by last name and first initial. I found his senior photo, which identified him as Andrew, with the obvious nickname, “Andy.” But a memory floodgate opened when I came upon an article in the student newspaper that referred to him as “Goo Goo.” Suddenly, some of the braincells that went into hibernation that day I retired, were awake and functioning.

How could I have forgotten “Goo Goo”? Yes, that’s what he was called, but even then I didn’t know why. Perhaps it had something to do with a candy called Goo Goo Clusters (which had nothing to do with The Goo Goo Dolls, who took their name from a “toy” they saw advertised in a magazine). I don’t remember Goo Goo Clusters, but found a website that says the candy was around when I was a kid ... and is still around today. Or perhaps “Goo Goo” was a family joke that went back to Andy’s infancy. Who knows?

Anyway, standing behind “Goo Goo” Patapow in that team photo was “Dumbo.” As in “Dumbo” Dabrowski. Imagine the trouble you could get into today if you hung that nickname on a child. Dabrowski’s real name was Anthony, but everyone called him “Dumbo.” Whether it was for his ears, his demeanor, the Disney movie, or just a stupid Polish joke, I don’t know, but since alliteration is the driving force behind many nicknames, I’m sure he wouldn’t have been given this one had his last name started with a different letter.

Dabrowski seemed to enjoy his nickname. Most kids I knew responded the same way ... because having a nickname gave you a certain status, but only if the nickname was pinned on you by someone else. That meant you had been noticed. To nickname yourself was to indicate you were desperate for attention. Such a nickname could backfire. (Advice: never call yourself “Ace.”)

IT FOLLOWS, then, that the more popular the student, the more likely his or her nickname was the only identification necessary. When someone in Solvay said “Bimby,” everyone knew it was a reference to my cousin, Bimby Smolinski. His real name was William and some adults called him Billy (never Bill; that name belonged to his father). I believe “Bimby” came from the way he said “Billy” when he was a toddler. It was a nickname he never escaped.

Likewise, in 1953, the nicknames “Dixie,” “Noc” and “Gun” referred only to Richard O’Hara, John De Santis and Donald Bartle. I don’t think I even knew “Dixie” O’Hara’s real name until I went through my 1953 yearbook for the first time. “Dixie” might have been one of those family nicknames; I don’t know for sure. “Noc” and “Gun” were unique to the two boys who carried them. I have no idea how, when or why the nicknames started.

According to the 1953 yearbook, my cousin Bob Smolinski’s nickname was “Thuggie,” and I guess it was, though my recollection is he went through a series of short-lived nicknames, including “Tiger,” “Bengal Bob” and “Nasty.” That last one is an indication that “Thuggie” was appropriate ... because Bob was not someone I wanted to see headed my way when I walked the hallways. His idea of a greeting was to thwomp me on my left shoulder as we passed each other. I bounced off the wall and he kept walking, probably smiling. Two things I remember about high school Bob is that he had an evil smile and a wicked left jab. He mellowed considerably during college, though on the basketball court for LeMoyne he usually played like someone you’d call “Thuggie.”

NICKNAMES suggested by real names usually are forgettable – if your last name is Cook, you’ll probably be called “Cookie,” if it is Woods, you’ll be called “Woody.” etc. – but two Solvay students were all the more memorable for it. Joe Sardaneri was called “Sods,” or “Joe Sods,” and Joseph Fragnito carried a nickname you’d expect to find in a movie about the mob – “Joe Frogs.”

War movies and television series are usually big on nicknames. “M*A*S*H” had some of the best because they reminded me of high school – “Hawkeye,” “Trapper John,” “Radar” and “Hot Lips.”

Solvay High in the early 1950s also had “Hawkeye” (Bruce Walker), along with “Hot Dog” (Remo Valazza), “Camouflage” (John Briggman) and “Pumpkin” (Janet Rydelek). Several years ahead of me at school was John Savo, who played a lot of basketball with my cousin Bimby on the driveway basketball court next door to our house. Savo wore thick glasses and was called “Bombsight.”

We also had “Birdseye” (Ronald Zulberti), “Horse” (Ed Showerman), “Hawk” (Robert Fagliarone), “Shadow” (Joan Donnelly), “Speedy” (Irma Emanuelli), “Slip” (Lena Failoni) and “Yiggers” (Vincent Volturno). Since I lived the experience way before "M*A*S*H," I was struck by another Hollywood comparison at the time – nickname-wise, going to Solvay High was like being in a Bowery Boys movie.

IN ADDITION to “Goo Goo” (Andy Patapow), Solvay High also had "Ga-Ga" (George Comstock) and "Ginch" (Madeline Alberti).

Madeline was unusual because she had two nicknames that were equally popular. Boys seemed to prefer “Ginch,” while girls called her “Lolly.” And you knew you’d have a successful party if your guest list included “Lolly,” “Dolly” and “Polly” (or Madeline Alberti, Antoinette Cela and Priscilla Daniels).

Several girls carried nicknames usually given to boys. Some were obvious. Joanne Maziiuk was better known as “Joey,” Mary Lou Jerome as “Lou” and Clementine DeGilio as “Clem.” Salvatrice Mollura had two nicknames – “Sally” and “Sam.” She was Solvay’s answer to Babe Didrickson. You name the sport, Sally Mollura played it and played it well. And then there was Nancy Knapp, aka “Ignatz.”

Other nicknames for girls were not so obvious – Barbara Northup was known as “Mort,” Helen Paetzke as “Bert” and Carol Raymish as “Oscar” (but not “Oscar the Grouch”; this was long before “Sesame Street.”)

HOWEVER, we did have the Archie comic books, which may have inspired John Ciciarelli’s nickname – “Jughead,” which was changed to “Jugger” in the 1955 yearbook. “Jughead” Ciciarelli was more like Archie than the doofus for which he was named; like Archie, Ciciarelli always had a Veronica and a Betty fighting over him.

Some kids seemed to inherit nicknames. I think that’s what happened to “Dixie” O’Hara. And I’m sure Donald Demperio wasn’t the first member of his family to be nicknamed “Dip.” And I may be wrong, but I think Raymond Tyson wasn’t the only one in his family called “Corky” or that Dick Maselli was the first one in his to be nicknamed “Moose,” though he may have been the most deserving.

We called Bill Hall “Hooker” because of his basketball hook shot, which he did with either hand. Unfortunately, spectators never got to see this shot because Bill was a guard, not a center. But you should have seen him in practice.

The center of our 1954-55 team was the late Bill Morse, who was nicknamed “Heels” because of a real or imagined injury. He kept whining about how much his heels were hurting that we retaliated with the nickname and were surprised when it stuck. I think more than any nickname that appears in my three Solvay yearbooks, “Heels” prompts the most questions.

William Douglas Forsythe was known by his middle name and usually called Doug. Things would have remained that way if it weren't for infielder Hector Rodriguez who played for the Syracuse Chiefs in 1953. His name came up one day at school and someone joked that Forsythe looked like a Hector. And another nickname was born.

ONE OF MY favorite nicknames was “BVDs,” hung on Bruce Van Derwater. A Solvay student who didn’t need a nickname – his real name being memorable enough – was Hurley Quackenbush, but he had a nickname nonetheless, and it was one of the few that passed my Michael Buffer test. That is, imagine ring announcer Buffer handling the introductions. For this one, Buffer would belt out, “Curley Hurley Quackenbuuuuuuuuush!!”

A few more of my favorite nicknames from high school were “Turk” (Louis Saad), “Count” (Peter Cunningham), “Cube” (Tom Hrim), “Brunswick” (William LaBrosse) and another of those you probably can’t use anymore, “Twerp” (Frank Fernandez). Trust me, in Frank’s case, the nickname was applied with great affection.

Already out of style by the 1950s were the descriptive phrases – more like titles than nicknames – that these days seem the exclusive property of the boxers Buffer introduces. In the old days the best phrases were those that described baseball players – “The Sultan of Swat” (Babe Ruth), “The Wild Horse of the Osage” (Pepper Martin), “The Splendid Splinter” (Ted Williams).

Those baseball titles came naturally; that is, most were created by sports writers or other people who had no vested interest in the players. Boxers violate the old nickname rule by creating their own titles, things like “The Allentown Assassin,” “The Albany Annihilator,” “The Trenton Terminator.” The more vicious they seem, the better.

I don’t remember anyone at our school ever inspiring any such phrases, cruel or benign. Joe Cichocki could have been called “The Bearcat Bomber” for all the shots he took, but we felt “Joe Cy” was nickname enough. Likewise, we could have called Gus Castellini “The Solvay Scoring Machine,” but we didn’t. There would have been several candidates for “The Piercefield Princess.”

Nor was there any attempt at the kind of cleverness that led a sports writer to add one letter to a popular movie title and create a perfect nickname for first baseman Dick Stuart: “Dr. Strangeglove.”

I don’t think we ever went further than using the title of a John Wayne Western, “Hondo,” and sticking it on at least one of my friends, but I don’t even remember who.

MY COUSIN Jim Smolinski got stuck with “Baby Jim” when he was the youngest of three sons. A fourth brother arrived when Jim was about 10 years old, but his nickname didn't go away. His younger brother is named Philip Duncan Smolinski. A half-hearted effort was made to nickname him “Flip.” Not only did that nickname come out of his real name – if you said "Philip" fast enough – but it also was borrowed from Jim’s favorite baseball player, Al “Flip” Rosen. But it never caught on in Phil’s case.

My sister, Mary Beth, had three imaginary friends when she was a child. One of them, Mickerbeak, became my sister’s nickname for several years.

Like my cousin Bob, I had several nicknames. My elementary school teachers considered “Jack” a nickname, since, to them, I was John Major. “Why don’t they call you Johnny?” one of my teachers asked. I had no reply, but was grateful no one took her up on it. Being called “Jackie” by parents, aunts and uncles was bad enough.

A couple of years later, while playing basketball in a neighbor’s driveway, “Red” Mathews (real name Dan) hung a nickname on me. As far as I was concerned, “Red," well into high school while I was still in elementary school, was one of the Russet Lane gang's elders. I was flattered he had thought of me. Thus I became “Magi.” “Red” pronounced it with a hard G, which is how this nickname has remained, though when you’re referring to the magi, as in The Wise Men, a soft G is preferred.

However, a nickname pronounced “MAG-eye” inevitably led to “Maggot,” which persisted for several months. In high school I picked up the nickname “Dirty Jack,” though I can’t remember who started it or why, though the person responsible probably was my cousin Tom Smolinski. In college my roommates and my landlord called me “Neatness” Major because the area around my bed was always a mess.

AS THE YEARS went by, all but one of my nicknames faded away. Only “Magi” remained. “Red” Mathews died before I could thank him. “Magi” has served me well, though I’ve exempted it from password duty. Everybody should know by now that nicknames and important family dates should never be used to protect your identity. Besides, turns out Magi is too short to be a password.

On the other hand, maybe nicknames are still around, but are kept as closely guarded secrets so that they CAN be used as passwords ...

No, I think nicknames have disappeared and the biggest reason may be that so many people these days have such interesting names that no aliases are needed. Also, some of the old nicknames – such as Corky, Chip and Buck – have become real names that appear on birth certificates.

I noticed a pattern of change when I did family trees for several relatives. In the beginning, male Majors often bore one of these names – Charles, William, John, Dennis, Robert, James or Francis. Female Majors were often Helen, Mary, Margaret, Elizabeth or Ann. The same was true of the McLaughlin side of my family. On my Polish side, names were usually Americanized when Smolinskis arrived at Ellis Island or soon thereafter. Boleslaw became William, Ignatz (or Ignacy) became James, Jozef became Joseph.

THOSE DAYS are long gone. Most who come to America from other countries now settle here with their names intact.

Meanwhile, Major and McLaughlin family trees, like many, many others, now include such first names as Aiden, Ashley, Brynna, Christopher, Conor, Eric, Erin, Ethan,, Jonah, Kaylee, Kerry, Krista, Liam, Maura, Melissa, Madison, Monica, Owen, Ryan, Sean or Shawn and Tyler.

Also popular are variations of Brittany (Britney, Brittani) and Tiffany (Teffany, Tiffni). Christine also is popular, with variations including Kristine, Kristi, Christi, Christina and Tina. There also are females named Karen, Karin, Karyn, Caren, Carin and Caryn.

A look through a local phone book turned up such first names as Alyne, Aquarious, Branko, Declan, Dwaynette, Esteban, Jaquettia, Jere, Johany, Kendra, Kiona, Latoya, Malik, Romayne, Shanique, Sheraleen, Taquana, Tonda, Vianney and Zamora.

Celebrities have added to the unusual names that are out there, what with Bruce Willis and Demi Moore having children named Rumor, Scout and Tallulah Belle; Gwen Stafani selecting Zuma Nesta Rock for her second child by Gavin Rossdale, and Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie naming their first child Shiloh.

There’s a singer who calls herself Kait. Can K8 be far behind? Or K80?

Not long ago Providence College had a basketball player named God, and in Bluffton lives a man named Satan.

So maybe nicknames aren’t extinct so much as they’re irrelevant ... or in some cases redundant.