HEAVY LIES THE CROWN
SOME nicknames are easy to live with. “Lefty,” for instance. Unless something terrible or tragic happens to a guy named “Lefty,” he’s going to remain “Lefty” from the moment he acquires the name until the moment he joins the Great Southpaw Portsider Club in the sky.
(Odds are, he also will be “crafty,” even if that’s not part of his nickname.)
“Murph,” that’s another one you keep for life. I went to Chaminade High School. At any given time at Chaminade, and every other Catholic school, 40 percent of the student body is named “Murphy.” And 100 percent of those Murphys are, eventually, called “Murph.” It’s part of the Baltimore Catechism. Look it up.
(One notable corollary: The great scout Red Murff — who signed Nolan Ryan and Jerry Grote, among others — whose surname actually was “Murff” so he needed “Red” as a nickname, and “Red” is another nickname that usually survives even after the more appropriate tag would be “Whitey” or “Gray” or “Salt and Pepper .”) “King,” however. Now that’s a nickname that can also be a millstone. Whether it’s your idea or someone else’s to give you that nickname, the moment you agree to it, the moment you don’t say, “Really, ‘King’ isn’t necessary,” then that’s one hell of a nickname to live up to.
Elvis, of course, was the original (and forever) King, and he wore the crown when it was both a truthful and a wildly ironic name, and in death he se cured the fact that whenever anyone not of official royal heritage is referred to “The King,” the first three images to spring to mind are these: gaudy jump suits, peanut butterandbanana sandwiches and “Thank you. Thankyouverymuch.”
Years later, Michael Jackson elbowed his way into
the “King of Pop” nickname, but if you need the extra two words as qualifiers, all due respect, you aren’t the real King.
We have in our sporting midst, in 2015, three athletes in three sports who go by “King,” which probably vaults us to a place we never have seen before. Though there was a time when sports was drunk with Kings, was populated in all of its realms by Kings — be they tennis players (Billie Jean), hoopsters (Bernard and Albert), or observers (Larry) or gadfly promoters (Don). All of those folks, of course, were born Kings.
Today’s Kings entered this world as a Felix (Her
nandez), a Henrik (Lundqvist) and a LeBron (James). All of them could have gone other ways, of course. Lundqvist does go, as often as not, by the Anglicized “Hank,” a name that always emblemizes toughness. Hernandez easily could have agreed to something like “The Cat.” James actually has three other nicknames, all of which seemed to be building toward what he ultimately became: “LBJ,” “BronBron” and “The Chosen One.”
Seriously: If you answer to “The Chosen One” with a straight face, then “King” doesn’t sound like such a profound leap, does it?
It’s not an easy nickname, though, because it all but requires you to be flawless, or else. Lundqvist, for example, was otherworldly during most of the NHL playoffs. But there were those pair of sixgoal aberrations, then the fivehole softy that wrecked Game 7 against the Lightning, and … well, there was no shortage of critics who pounced with extra glee seeing the King derobed.
Then there is Hernandez, who Friday night in Houston allowed eight runs in a third of an inning. That translates to an ERA of 216.00. And, yes, the King jokes were abundant and they were abiding.
James? Well, should he pull off what he is halfway to pulling off, he may also earn the right to King exclusivity. But if he doesn’t … well, you know headline writers will be falling over each other to declare: The King is dead.
Long live the King.