How can a child be a fish when he doesn't even have a dorsal fin?!?

Throughout my entire life I’ve always found myself insanely jealous of anyone I know that has a nickname. Now I’m not talking about those unfortunate individuals who, through some unfortunate action of their own, ended up with a less-than-pleasant nickname like Captain Crusty or Booger. Oh no, I’m talking about the people who have a nickname that is unique and cool sounding that was most likely born from a comical or even an endearing event. I’m surrounded by people with nicknames like that — Scooter J (my best friend Scott), De-Uh (my sister Teresa), Allypaca (my girlfriend’s daughter) and my all time-favorite – Fish.

My son Alex was born in 1991. Every other weekend we’d take the 45-minute trip up to visit my parents in Excelsior Springs. As he grew older the drives became much more enjoyable as that was time that the two of us spent alone entertaining one another with some of the most eclectic conversations and play-on-word games in recorded history. One of our favorite games when he was three was simply called “Trash.” Each of us would take a stab at cutting down the other with the most creatively comical name to call one another, preceded by an “Oh yeah, well you’re a/an (insert cutdown).” Until you’re able to quickly make up and deliver the crushing “trash can brain” call out, this game is not for you.

Past classics include “giraffe sock,” “spaghetti lip” and “toe monkey.” Alex’s modus operandi back then was to quickly look around at the passing scenery, find something that piqued his interest and then slip a type of animal into the mix. How else would one create the brutal put down of “street sign camel?”

Nearly every time that we’d each take a turn trashing one another, laughter would ensue before the next freshly coined quip was tossed out. This was not the case on one particular drive back from Ex-Lax in 1994.

While nearing the downtown loop on I-35, I found myself having just been called something along the line of a “garbage squirrel” when I decided to slightly change the format and go for a one-word cut down.

“Oh yeah?” I began in our playfully put off sounding tone, “well you’re a fish.”

Crickets.

This time there was no laughter.

I figured that he may have fallen asleep in his little car seat next to me in the front of my beloved red Mazda truck (before the days of air bags, thank you) — which he would often do mid-sentence — so I glanced over to see.

Rather than finding my son sweetly enjoying a nap with his big brown eyes closed I found them staring at me intently…and with a hint of anger to boot.

“I am NOT a fish,” he sternly stated.

Now there I was being stared down by my three-year old son. My son, who had repeatedly requested to play this game with me for months and months. My son, who had endured a plethora of “putdowns” without taking offense ever before. My son, whose post-quip giggling record was close to .996 over his brief trash career.

My son, who was adamantly ready to defend that he was definitely NOT a fish.

I began my “logical” assault.

Who knew that a silly game that we played to pass the time…would create a nickname that has lasted for a decade and a half?

Me: “Do you drink water?”

Alex: “Yes.”

Me: “Then you’re a fish.”

Alex, slightly flustered: “I am not a fish. I don’t have gills.”

Me: “Do you take baths?”

Alex: “Yes.”

Me: “See? You swim in water. You’re a fish.”

Alex, increasingly frustrated: “I am not a fish.”

The line of skewed questioning continued for several more rounds before Alex, who is now very angry with my accusation that he is a fish, tries to settle the matter once and for all that he is not a fish by shouting…

“I don’t even have a dorsal fin! I AM NOT A FISH!!!!!”

I decided to end this before he required therapy and dismissed it with what I thought was going to be a throwaway comment:

“Okay, Alex, you win. You’re not a fish. However, from this day onward, that’s your new nickname.”

Here we are nearly fifteen years later and he is still known as “Fish.” Everyone from his best friends, teachers, acquaintances, family members, you name it – they all call him Fish. He’s embraced it and loved it. My father even made him a ball cap that simply read “Fish” on the front which he wore when we took a trip to Texas to go, what else, fishing.

Now I’ve given a lot of nicknames to a lot of people throughout my life. Some have stood the test of time while others just fizzled away. None, however, bring as big a smile to my face as when I think about the history of why my son is a fish. Who knew that a silly game that we played to pass the time (and that I secretly played with the intention of making him use his brain in a creative exercise as early as possible) would create a nickname that has lasted for a decade and a half?

Once Fish got older I remember him asking me how he received the nickname as he couldn’t recall, exactly. I retold the tale in the hopes of taking him back to that moment and his face instantly changed to one of “oh yeah!” when he recalled playing Trash. He smiled and said “I remember being so angry with the line of questioning. I remember thinking to myself ‘maybe I am’ some kind of sentient fish creature.”

It was then that I asked him the million dollar question.

“Do you remember why you took such offense at being called a fish?”

He thought about it for a minute, shook his head and said “no clue.”

The world may never know.

Either way…it just goes to show you that after all these years I’ve been proven right: my son IS a Fish.