“A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches,” Proverbs 22:1.

A few days ago I received a nice e-mail. A fellow who found one of my columns much to his liking took the time to let me know. I appreciated the compliment, and he made me smile by saying, in effect, that it would be even better if my parents had named me Panic.

I, of course, have heard many ideas and speculations about my rather unusual name. As a lad I really disliked my name and got into many confrontations and downright brawls because of it.

It’s the nature of small boys to taunt and tease others. If someone comes along who is a little different or has a strange name, the fun begins!

It was the culture back then that boys were expected to get into “scraps” now and then. Someone calling me “Push Button,” “Buttons ‘n Bows” or “Zipper” could instantly enliven a humdrum atmosphere with flying fists.

It got to be a thing of honor with me. If someone made fun of my name, I had to fight ‘em. With all of these fisticuffs and wrestling activity, one would have thought I’d become quite skilled at it, but it didn’t happen. However, I did lose any fear of getting whopped.

But somewhere around the third or fourth grade, I got a reprieve. I remember when our teacher ushered a new student into the classroom. “Children, this is William Swineburne. He asks that we just call him Will. Let’s all make him feel welcome.”

We all gazed at Will. He was big and tough looking. An unruly thatch of bright red hair fell over his ears, and some errant strands even hung limply over mean-looking little black eyes which were glowering defiantly out at us. Several of us boys were glancing at each other with knowing smiles, rolling our eyes. Oh, yeah. Things were gonna get interesting.

We weren’t disappointed. At recess, Will swaggered across the playground to the swings. As always, every swing was occupied. The unwritten but immutable rule was that if you were fortunate enough to get a swing, you kept it until you were tired of swinging. Trying to impose taking turns was just too hard to do.

We watched with great interest as Will approached a high-swinging boy.

“Hey kid,” he demanded loudly, “get off and let me swing some.”

“No way,” the boy responded, “I just got this swing.”

“Get off or I’ll take it,” Will growled menacingly.

“Drop dead,” the kid fired back, and kept swinging.

At that time, Will moved in and grabbed one of the chains. This violent maneuver nearly unseated the swinger, and Will completed his attack by grabbing the seat, shoving the boy off into the dirt and claiming the swing as his own.

The vanquished lad was furious. He knew he was no match for Will, so he stood a ways back and began yelling some pretty offensive insults at him, and some of us joined in the verbal attack. Will just sneered at us and began swinging. Then someone came up with the clincher.

“Hey Will — Will-the-burnt-Swine!”

Another chimed in, “Yeah, it’s Swill the Swine!”

At this, Will shot from the swing like an enraged bull, and we scattered like a covey of quail, laughing and hooting.

Fortunately, Will wasn’t a fast runner and seldom caught anyone, and because he was just downright mean, we felt justified in oinking and grunting like a pig, calling him “Swill” and developing our running ability and having great fun doing it.

Will moved away the next summer, and I finally matured enough to just laugh along when someone made sport with my strange name. I wonder about Will though. Did he mature, become kinder and wiser and strive to make his name a good one? I hope so.

This column originally appeared in the Sept. 16, 2003 edition of The Times and Democrat. Rush Button’s column appears every Tuesday. He can be reached by e-mail at buttonrl@aol.com or by phone at 803-534-3724.

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