What's in a Name?

Today, when you encounter a baby in the United States, chances are better than even the child will be named Charlotte or Liam or Olivia or Noah. Their parents are quite likely named Madison or Jacob or Emily or Ethan.

Toward the ebb of the baby boom generation, pick any dozen of us at random and it is a virtual certainty you will find a Mike, Debbie, Steve, Patty, David or Julie.

I was never the only Mike in my class/peer group/clique.

Over the years, teachers, scout leaders, other assorted and sundry authority figures used variations of my name to distinguish me from this vast sea of omnipresent Mikes: Matson, Mike M., Michael, Mike Matson, Hey You.

As I grew older and my circle expanded, Mikes remained ubiquitous. You can't swing a dead cat in my generation without popping a couple of Mikes. We Mikes were born, grew up, came of age, lived, loved and learned, together. We many, we happy many, we band of brothers.

In my late teens and early 20s, my best friend was also named Mike, which apparently created a crisis of identification for our circle of friends. Rather than sorting it out logically, they solved it culturally. He stayed Mike. I became Michael J. — pure 1970s nickname energy. Since my middle name is James, Michael J. at least had the advantage of making a little sense.

As a dues-paying member in good standing of the aforementioned like-minded clique, I raised no objections. Groupthink occurs organically when one travels in packs. Harmony and conformity trump conflict and critical evaluation of alternatives.

I guess it could have been worse. They could have called me Shaun Cassidy.



At the time of my birth, my parents and two-year-old sister were living in an 18-foot trailer in the Blue Valley trailer court just north of Allen Road in Manhattan — too small to honestly qualify as a “mobile home.” My father was studying agronomy at K-State on the G.I. Bill, back in the Bob Boozer era, when money was tight, basketball was big, and the future still fit inside 18 feet.

Long before I was even a twinkle in the old man’s eye, my parents were joined in this expansive portable palace by a cat.

Named Mike.

You can see where this is going.

Hold that thought.

My sister, Viki Beth, my parents’ firstborn, has the distinct honor and high privilege of being named after our grandmothers, Victoria and Elizabeth. Our younger brother, David, can trace his name to a righteous King of Israel, acclaimed warrior and musician. An Old Testament hero. A freaking Psalm writer, for God’s sake. Literally.

Me?

(Meow).

Imagine the conversation on the frigid December day of my birth at what was then the Riley County Hospital.

Mom: “He’s so adorable, our little bundle of joy. What shall we name him?”

Dad: “Hmm... I kinda like that trailer cat’s name.”

Not sure whatever became of Mike, our cat-in-a-trailer. Perhaps he escaped the cramped confines, fell in with a peer group of like-minded felines named Debbie, Steve, Patty, another Mike or two, and lived the rest of his days and nights, happily roaming the Blue River floodplain with the pack, munching on mice and leftovers tossed in Blue Valley trailer court trash cans.

Harmony and conformity.

I do know that shortly after my birth, we became a dog family.

I try not to take it personally. 

Mike Matson’s column appears every other weekend in The Mercury, and he hosts ‘Within Reason,’ Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays at 9 a.m. on NewsRadio KMAN.