My allotted time with semi‑pro ballroom dancer Greg Rutherford was up. It wasn’t his agent tapping an expensive, oversized watch face, the internationally recognised signal; instead, it was a two-year-old called Milo cruising into Rutherford’s kitchen, pushing a fire engine. Milo wanted to muck about in the garden in the sand, which, unbeknown to him, also happens to be an IAAF-approved long jump pit.
I could have one final question. My mind went blank. Eventually I blurted: “You haven’t really got a nickname. Does that bother you?” Rutherford – a thoroughly winning chap, by the way – considered this for a second, as Milo bashed the fire engine into his shins, before agreeing that yes, it was a bit of an oversight. His full answer appears elsewhere in this newspaper, but to sum it up: he’s achieved much in his career – world and Olympic titles, beating Daisy Lowe in a dance-off – but a little, unfulfilled part of him wishes he had a cool nickname, too.
Nicknames are an integral part of some sports. Even mediocre boxers, darters, wrestlers, cuemen and basketball players can expect a supplementary moniker. All self‑respecting football teams have one, although, unlike US sports, it is slightly déclassé for fans to use them. There is no faster way to sound like an American tourist than talking about, say, a match between the Gunners and the Red Devils.
Nevertheless, a concise nickname organically arrived at can be a thing of beauty. Some are inspired, silly puns: South African cricketer Monde “All Hands” Zondeki; ex-Liverpool striker David “Wash” Ngog; boxer Michael “Second To” Nunn. Others make a stinging comment on the talents or resilience of an individual: footballers Neil “Dissa” Pointon, Darren “Sicknote” Anderton, David “Calamity” James and Carlton “Can’t Control” Cole. Hapless Manchester United keeper Massimo “the Blind Venetian” Taibi technically qualifies because although he came from Palermo, Sicily, more than 1,000 miles from Venice, he was signed from Venezia.
But the best have an unsurpassable poetry to them. Is there a richer, more evocative way to describe Michael Holding’s rhythmic and lethal bowling action than “whispering death”? Or Eddy Merckx, who was leading the 1969 Tour de France comfortably when he decided to ride almost 100 miles solo across the Pyrenees simply to crush the spirits of his rivals. “That Belgian guy, he doesn’t even leave you the crumbs,” said the daughter of a French rider, before anointing him with a nickname that would stick. “He’s a real cannibal.”
These are mostly historical, long‑gone examples. Have all the best ones been taken? Will we forever have to make do with JTs and KPs, -azzas and -ozzas? Will future generations come to see the retirement in 2014 of Watford defender “One Size” Fitz Hall as a defining moment in the slow death of the sporting nickname?
There is some cause for concern. British heavyweight world champion Anthony Joshua stepped into the ring on Saturday night against Eric “Drummer Boy” Molina without even having a nickname. No boxer, to my cursory Googling, has ever competed at an elite level without a fighting sobriquet. Next year, the Watford-born IBF titleholder is planning to take down Wladimir “Dr Steelhammer” Klitschko, David “Hayemaker” Haye and Deontay “The Bronze Bomber” Wilder, all sans moniker. And nope, “AJ” is not a nickname. Joshua’s explanation is that he hasn’t found a nickname that he’s happy with. Apart from one, that is – and it was already taken. “I like Conor McGregor: ‘The Notorious’,” Joshua said this year. “I wish I took that name. I like it.”
Two things here. One, “The Notorious” is a meh, four-out-of-10 nickname; it’s what you’d get if you commissioned the current crop of Apprentice candidates to come up with one for you. Two, show some steel, Joshua. Apollo Creed had a selection for the ringmaster to roll around his mouth – “The King of Sting, the Dancing Destroyer, the Count of Monte Fisto, the Master of Disaster, the one, the only Apollo Creed” – and he wasn’t even real.
The crisis goes much deeper than boxing. Chris Froome comes from Kenya, he’s probably seen a lion, he bears a passing resemblance to Kryten from Red Dwarf – his nickname? “Froomey”. We’ve had 15 years to come up with something decent for Roger Federer, the purest stylist ever to play tennis, and what do we have? Essentially nothing.
Think of our Olympic heroes of recent times, there’s not a recognised household nickname among them: Mo Farah is plain Mo, Jess Ennis is straight Jess, and so on. Only Chris Hoy – the Real McHoy, his Royal Hoyness, the Hoy Wonder and so on – is a special exemption.
The fault does not lie with the sports people. There’s something distinctly Brent-ian about trying to coin your own nickname. Even worse are the tags that seem born of a marketing brainstorm in Portland or Herzogenaurach, the homes of Nike and Adidas respectively. Any kind of brand extension – CR7 from Cristiano Ronaldo and, most magnificently, Tom Cleverley’s TC23 – are to be pilloried and never used. Rutherford acknowledged as much after trying to start a clothing label called GRavity in 2014. Though there’s a sweet story in his new autobiography, Unexpected, that it was such a cottage industry that while he should have been preparing for the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow, he and his girlfriend, Suzie, would be packing up orders in their living room and handwriting the addresses.
It’s down to us, sports fans, to raise our games. So what can we do about Greg “The Man With No (Nick)Name” Rutherford? The clock is ticking: the world championships in London next summer could well be his final major tournament. In my interview, he asked for suggestions from Observer readers – anything’s on the table so long as it doesn’t make reference to the word “ginge”. I’ll kick off: Greg “The Sandman” Rutherford? “Jumpin’ Greg Flash”? “The Pit Boss”? Greg “There’s No Other” Rutherford? Right, now it’s over to you …
