Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, April 8, 1991 TAG: 9104060464
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: E-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: BEN WALKER ASSOCIATED PRESS
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
The Sultan of Swat. The Splendid Splinter. Shoeless Joe. Scooter. Stan the Man.
Everyone had one, or so it seemed. Pee Wee, Cookie, Pistol Pete, Preacher and Duke played together, managed by Leo the Lip.
Sometimes, stars were so big they even had two. Joltin' Joe was The Yankee Clipper, Rapid Robert had his Heater from Van Meter and John Martin became Pepper, a.k.a. The Wild Hoss of the Osage.
But it didn't take a Hall of Famer to sound like one - there was Jungle Jim Rivera, Peanuts Lowery, King Kong Keller, Shotgun Shuba and Suitcase Simpson. And teams like the Gashouse Gang, the Go-Go Sox and Murderer's Row.
They still have great players. But where did all of baseball's great nicknames go?
As fans return to the ballparks for the Major Leagues' opening day today, the great nicknames of the past are gone, mostly. They were lost in locker rooms where teams change from year to year. The victim of travel by planes, instead of stay-up-all-night rides on trains. Sacrificed to big salaries - could a man making $5 million really be called Puddin' Head?
"I would love to have a nickname, but I've never had one," Oakland A's superstar Jose Canseco said last spring. "They just don't have them now. I've thought about it, trying to think of one that would fit me.
"The best I've come up with is `The Bionic Cuban,' " he said. "What do you think?"
Well, maybe. But it sure doesn't have the same ring as King Carl, Sudden Sam or even Blue Moon.
There are still a few. There's Oil Can, Pudge, the Rocket, Nails, but not a single Dizzy, Dazzy, Daffy or Ducky.
"Part of it is that the players are more transitory," longtime Dodgers announcer Vin Scully said. "They're not around each other as much and the nicknames don't develop."
When Scully was broadcasting in Brooklyn, nicknames were in their Say Hey-day. The storytellers, like Scully, wove them into the fabric of the game and the headline writers splashed them all over the papers.
"They came on two levels," Scully said. "Carl Furillo was called `The Reading Rifle' by fans, but none of the players ever called him that. To them, he was `Skoonj' for the Italian word for snail, `scungilli.' He was slow."
Furillo, from Reading, Pa., was one of many players named for his roots. The Georgia Peach, The Flying Dutchman, the Fordham Flash and Vinegar Bend Mizell were among them, and plenty of players were called Dixie. The Mad Hungarian, however, was from California.
Others were named for their accomplishments. Tommy Henrich came through in the clutch and was Old Reliable. Walter Johnson's fastball made him The Big Train. Lou Gehrig, known first as Larrupin' Lou, played 2,130 straight games and became The Iron Horse, and Iron Man McGinnity used to pitch entire doubleheaders. Reggie Jackson earned Mr. October in the World Series.
Some were descriptive, sort of. Home Run Baker never hit more than 12 homers in any season, but connected against Christy "The Big Six" Mathewson in the 1911 World Series. Sammy Byrd pinch ran for The Bambino so much that he became Babe Ruth's Legs. Twinkletoes Selkirk was graceful on the bases and Luke Appling's complaints made him Old Aches and Pains.
Wee Willie Keeler was only 5-foot-4, Highpockets Kelly was tall for the times and Smokey Joe Wood threw real hard. There was a guy who went 45-89 with the Phillies around World War II and simply became was known as Losing Pitcher Mulcahy.
Hot Rod Kanehl wasn't so hot and Charlie Hustle turned out to be too prophetic. The Toy Cannon hit 'em, Dr. Strangeglove missed 'em and no one could spell Doug Gwosdz, thus Eyechart. In the 1940s, Harry the Cat played with Harry the Hat in St. Louis, against the likes of Don (Mandrake the Magician) Mueller.
A lot of players were only known by their nicknames, like Hall of Famers Pie (Harold) Traynor and Rabbit (Walter) Maranville and pre-1900 utility man Peek-A-Boo (William) Veach. There also was The Only Nolan, 1880s pitcher Edward Nolan, long before the Ryan Express came along.
The list includes a couple of current players, too - Chili (Charles) Davis, named for the chili-bowl haircuts he got as a kid, and Vincent Edward Jackson, called Bo because he played like a wild boar as a boy.
Awhile back, anyone who wore glasses was Specs, most everyone who went to college became Doc and guys named Henry who could hit wound up as Hammerin' Hank. Lefty, Kid, Whitey, Smokey, Red and Moose were common. So was Babe, long before Ruth.
"I used to run over catchers pretty good in the minors," Angels coach Moose Stubing said. "When I did it up in Minnesota and Wisconsin, I got the name."
Just when nicknames started, no one knows. It seems, though, they began the same time baseball did.
Before the turn of the century, pitcher Tony Mullane won 285 games and was The Apollo of the Box. Orator Jim O'Rourke used to jabber at umpires and Arlie Latham was The Freshest Man on Earth for the way he talked back.
Then, there was Bob Ferguson. He was a pre-1900 infielder, back when popups were no sure thing. But he caught everything and earned the greatest nickname of all time: Death To Flying Things.
Ballplayers still call each other names, but they're rarely heard outside the clubhouse. Toronto's Glenallen Hill is "Full Moon Face" for his round head; Rick Rhoden used to be "Mona Lisa" because of his sneaky smile.
"Almost everyone on this team has one, but the fans don't know us that way. They're not as common anymore," Oakland's Carney Lansford said.
Lansford has always been "Carnac," named for the character Johnny Carson portrays. That's been shortened to just "Nac" during the years, not that anyone knows it. And it sure doesn't rival Big Poison. Or Little Poison.
If anything, fans seem to reject nicknames. Steve "Alto" Sax, Kelly "Churchill" Downs and Kevin "Small Mouth" Bass, among the many coined by ESPN announcer Chris Berman, never caught on.
Tim Raines is trying to change that. Throughout his pro career, he's been "Rock" to his teammates and opponents because of his short and stocky build. His son, Tim Jr., is "Little Rock" in school.
A few years ago, Raines asked the public-address announcer in Montreal to call him Rock. But the Expos already had planned a promotion that season and printed thousands of posters listing him as Tim, and the nickname died.
"I think it starts with baseball cards. Topps asked me if I wanted Rock and they used it. But none of the other card companies asked, and it didn't work," Raines said.
This year, Raines again has asked all ballparks to announce him as Rock. But in this era of no nicknames, will it catch on?
"It's funny sometimes," Raines said. "Everybody who knows me calls me by my nickname. I'm more familiar with that than my real name. But the fans aren't used to nicknames now, and I'm not sure they'll buy it."
by CNB