Yes, dear readers, the pitcher formerly known as C.C. Sabathia is now to be known only as CC Sabathia, which is really just the same name sans those pesky little periods — the same things my sisters have been whining and complaining about for years.
Look, C.C. — er, I mean, CC, I get it… all those punctuating periods, dots, bumps in the road… they get in the way. They put a damper on things. I feel your pain. But if you’re going to all of the sudden change the way your name is presented in print worldwide couldn’t you be a little more emphatic about it than simply saying:
“I guess I’d go no periods.”
That doesn’t sound like you mean it, C.C. And because you don’t sound like you mean it, I’m not changing a damn thing. You will forever be C.C. to me — with periods. Consider me cramping your style, Mr. Sabathia. (That was a big friggin’ cheesy pun and I take complete ownership of that).
*Note to the uneducated: periods are necessary to indicate stopping points.
When I look at CC, what do I see? Two consonants begging for a vowel. Take heej and beej for example. Without a period between HJ and BJ, you get a couple of awfully funny sounding euphemisms for things I don’t want my mother to know about. Do you see, C.C.? Do you see what you’re doing?
What would E.E. Cummings be without periods? Eeeeeeeeeeeeee. Gross.
When the news first broke a couple of days ago, I chuckled away the thought that people would actually pay attention to this minor detail of an otherwise blockbuster of a story (the trade between the Indians and the Brewers). Why did it matter? Why did Sabathia wait until leaving Cleveland to make this monumental name change? Honestly, I thought this would just disappear into a series of tubes…
Alas, no! Dear reader, we live in tumultuously technocratic times and I’m here to tell you that an hour after the story broke, even the mighty Wikipedia had fallen under C.C.’s spell.
But I am no dummy. The older I get, the wiser I become. Today I am able to admit my shortcomings and tell of a time when my cavalier spirit got the best of me: having fallen a slave to the many conjurations of my own aura, I legally changed my name from “Jeff” to “Jefff” fanatically crying out to the world that the last “F” was indeed silent.
No one got it.
And in what I thought was an enchantingly austere state of dignity and self-worth brought on by my my bold name change alone, I ran myself directly into the ground until one day I woke up under a Las Vegas overpass with no shirt on, covered in unidentifiable cuts and bruises, reeking of Tanqueray, vomit and Marlboro Lights, my possessions consisting of two dimes, a nickel and three pennies.
So, take it from me, stick with C.C., C.C.
And don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.