For most of my life, I’ve been a pretty determined fellow. That has not always served me well, however. Take the time when I was nine. That was the year I decided I wanted to change my name — to Rocky.
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No, not that Rocky |
Growing up, I was never a big fan of the name Terry. I’ve
grown more accustomed to it over time, having the benefit of its use for
60-plus years. In fact, its distinctiveness probably suits my contrarian
nature. But when I was nine? Ugh. Terry didn’t suit my self-image as an
independent young man — well, as independent as a nine-year-old can be. Not
even the fact I was a goaltender in minor hockey and one of the greatest
goalies of that era was Terry Sawchuk, could dissuade me. I just figured
Sawchuk surely hated his name as much as I hated mine.
But Rocky? Why Rocky? Well, it was in honour of my first
true boyhood hero, the great left fielder for the Detroit Tigers, Rocco
Domenico (Rocky) Colavito Jr.
I grew up in a small white-bread Ontario town so I
understood nothing about ethnicity, Italian or otherwise. All I knew was that
Rocky Colavito was about the coolest-sounding name ever and if I could be called Rocky,
too, maybe some of that coolness would rub off on me.
Yet Rocky Colavito was cool for more than just his name. He had just come off his best season
ever: 129 runs on 169 hits, 140 RBIs, a .290 average and a .402 on-base
percentage. Players today would kill for numbers like that. Moreover, the
Tigers had managed a pretty good season themselves: 101 wins, which in most
seasons would be pennant-worthy. Alas, it was 1961, the year the Yankees, an
even more formidable team, won 109 games behind Roger Maris’s 61 home runs and Mickey
Mantle’s 54. The Tigers, sigh, finished eight games back.
The only games in which the Tigers regularly trounced the
powerful Yankees were in my imagination, as I played the game I loved by
myself, in the parking lot of the school across the street, equipped with
nothing more than a ball and a bat.
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My hero, Rocky Colavito |
Like my father, who grew up as the only boy on a farm, I was
skilled at keeping myself entertained. And certainly, on those endless summer
afternoons, I would create entire nine-inning games in my head, the Tigers
usually the victors against the best of the rest of the American League. My mother and my sisters would sometimes watch from across the street,
and wonder how it was that I could miss the ball so many times with my swings.
What they didn’t realize was that they were watching the Yankees at bat. When
the Tigers were at the plate, their bats were mighty indeed and the ball sailed
to the outer regions of the parking lot. The Tigers had many great players on
those magnificent afternoons: Al Kaline, Stormin’ Norman Cash, Dick McAuliffe,
Charlie Maxwell, and with the great Jim Bunning, Frank Lary and Hank Aguirre on
the mound. But always, always, it was Rocky Colavito who led them to victory.
So it was that with a supreme confidence that defied all
logic, even for a nine-year-old, I gamely announced to my mother one day that
henceforth, I wished to be known as Rocky. She was indulgent, as mothers are with their little boys, but damn if she didn’t keep getting it wrong and calling me Terry.
My dad didn’t even try. He didn’t have to. If he was speaking to me, he called
me “Son.” If he was talking about me, I was “the lad” … as in, “What the hell is the lad talking about?”
At my insistence, my mother did inform my Grade 4 teacher of
my sudden name change and, surprisingly, she agreed to share the news with the
class. Yet the teacher, too, kept getting the name wrong, even after I would
correct her.
“It’s Rocky,” I’d say when she called on me.
“Fine,” she’d say, then five minutes later get it wrong
again.
As for the rest of the kids … well, they were all nine, too. How do
you think they reacted?
So, to my not insignificant regret, the name Rocky did not
stick. I had failed in reinventing myself in the image of Rocky Colavito and
henceforth faced the disturbing realization that for better or worse, I would
be stuck with Terry.
Still, my devotion to the Tigers continued for many years
to come. Twenty or so years later, my father gave me a Tigers
jacket for Christmas. It still fits like a glove — as does my enduring affection for Rocky
Colavito.
