A meaty proposal

An observation from a basketball game I covered tonight:

Several kids from the visiting school made the trip to support their classmates, certainly a laudable show of support. It's something that's customary, apparently; their T-shirts had a singular logo and color. Some even had names on the back.

From the looks of it, most of them had nicknames. And they must have been nicknames they weren't ashamed of - I won't speak for the kids and say they're proud of their nicknames - but they must not have been that bothersome.

One stuck out to me, though: No. 63, apparently his football number.

How do I know this? Because folks nicknamed "Meat" aren't generally on the tennis team.

(Before I continue, I must confess I played football in college with a guy nicknamed Meat. But he wasn't what you might expect from someone with that name; he was pretty thin, relatively speaking, and was a pass-rushing outside linebacker. So he wasn't your normal Meat.)

I don't know who Meat is, i.e. his real name, but that's fine by me. He very well could have been good people. I really don't know. But he certainly looked the part more than my ex-teammate.

But Meat? Come on now.

He even had a girl or two come up and chat with him. A well-adjusted Meat? That doesn't make sense. Furthermore, where's the social justice? My own high school nickname wasn't that far away - Mort, the circumstances of which I'll save for another time - and I just had dudes chatting with me. I have trouble envisioning a high school girl chatting up someone named Meat; it seems the name alone should make him nearly unapproachable.

Oh well. Good for him I guess.

Maybe I should have been Meat.