Ron's Blog

When I was about twelve years old, I remember thinking that a lot of people had nicknames. There were famous people like Babe Ruth and Bing Crosby. And there regular people like my friends Skip and Bubba. But, I did not have a nickname. Oh sure, people called me “Ronnie” rather than my birth name, “Ronald”. But eventually, I had to drop the “nie” and go with “Ron” because my southern accent made it sound like my name was “Rye-nie”. Bless my heart.

One day, in my early teens, while shopping for a jersey at the local sporting goods store, I made the decision to put a nickname on the back of the shirt rather than the standard practice of using my last name. As I pondered what nickname to use, I remembered an incident from my years in little league baseball. You see, my coach was an odd fellow who would stash liquor in a Maalox bottle so that he could drink during the game while attempting to fool everyone into thinking he had serious gastric reflux. One day, he had sipped from the Maalox bottle multiple times when he turned to me and said, “Weasel, I want you to go into the game.” It was obvious that he was drunk because a) he never put me in the game and b) he called me by a name I had never been called in my entire life. But regardless of the inebriated conditions leading up to it, I got what I so desired—a nickname.

Now, let’s step aside from the story for just a minute and make sure we are all clear about what was unfolding.

First of all, no one should ever “need” a nickname. Nicknames come from noticeable appearances, behaviors, or skills. Charles Driesell was “Lefty” because he was left handed. Johnny Cash was “The Man in Black” because he was, well, a man who always dressed in black. I, however, did not look or act like a Weasel and as far as I knew, I did not have any Weasel-like skills or expertise. 

Second, you can’t train other people to call you by a nickname. It needs to originate from those other people until it catches on. It’s like the title “Sir” or “Dame”. You don’t just start using it and hope that everyone gets onboard.

Lastly, “Weasel” was a terrible nickname. The very definition of a weasel is “a person regarded as sneaky or treacherous.” There was absolutely nothing compelling or redeeming about it. Yet, in my immature, needy, adolescent brain, I thought it was a damn good idea.

Now that we’re clear on all of this, let’s move on.

Back at the sporting goods store, I picked a rather nice, high-quality jersey and then brought it to the salesperson to get the name and a number ironed onto it. I instructed him to put “Weasel” on the back but I don’t remember what number I chose. It was probably something un-sportsy like my favorite day of the month, part of my zip code, or the atomic number of cadmium. Since I thought of myself as rather clever, the cadmium reference would have been right up my alley. A few minutes later, with the name and number securely attached, I left the store with a spring in my step because I now had tangible proof of my new nickname.

Later in the day, I proudly modeled the new jersey for my sister. I thought she was going to wet her pants. All she kept saying was, “Weasel? Weasel? What made you think of that? Oh my gosh. Weasel? Really?” She was laughing so hard, I thought I might have to do the Heimlich maneuver on her. I finally left the room because her reaction made me begin to doubt the brilliance of my decision. 

I think you can guess the rest of the story. Since I invested a lot of money in the shirt, I had to wear it. And every time I did, someone would always ask, “What does Weasel mean?”

It would have been a mistake to delve into the entire backstory and explain that my little league coach was drunk from Maalox and randomly called me “Weasel” which simply stuck when, in fact, the name never stuck—except when the salesperson ironed it onto my jersey. So, I would just say, “Oh, the shirt was on the sale rack. I guess the person who ordered it decided not to buy it after all.”

I’m sure everyone walked away thinking, “Well, I can see why they didn’t buy it. Weasel? Really?”

As time went on, I really loved the quality of the shirt but hated “Weasel” on the back. I tried scraping the letters off and while they did come off pretty easily, the glue beneath them did not. So, for the remaining life of the jersey, the back was just a ghost of my former nickname.

I eventually grew out of the shirt as well as the need for a nickname and then…

During the summer before my last year in college, I got a job working on a road construction crew that paved secondary roads all over western Virginia. I had never worked on a road crew so I had a lot to learn. My boss, did not have the patience for my learning curve and even though he liked me, he would rant and rave when I did something wrong. He regularly called me “dipstick” and then, one day, he looked a me and said, “You are the skinniest dipstick I’ve ever seen.”

Instantly, a look of inspiration washed across his face and from that day forward, I was no longer “dipstick” or “skinny”. To him, I was “Skinny Dip.”

Skinny Dip? Really? Geez.

By the end of the summer no one on that road crew knew my real name. To all of them, I was Skinny Dip. Without any effort on my part, I had acquired a nickname that was even worse than Weasel. 

So, perhaps the lesson here is to be careful what you wish for. Because one day, you might just get it.

And with that, I wish you a happy holiday season and a wonderful new year!