Little Nesta

There is a tradition in my family -- a budding one perhaps, since it's only three generations deep -- about names. It's very simple. The firstborn son is named Robert.

Robert [Insert Middle Name Here] Parsley. Robert Horace, Robert Strake, Robert Bayless.

My grandfather started it after he got back from the war. One of six boys raised in the foothills of east Tennessee, his birth name -- and the name he went by when he was chilling as a pilot in the Caribbean, far from the European theater but close to beautiful, exotic women while he patrolled the tropics looking for German U-Boats -- was Horace.

Horace, obviously, is a terrible name. He didn't like it; thought it wasn't professional enough. So, as a young attorney, and new in town, he affixed the much more regal sounding Robert to the beginning.

The decision ended up leading to me posting this:

The kid that I want to have.

Except for the Catholicism that I abandoned a few years ago, I like tradition. I just don't like the name Robert. Or Bob, or Bobby, for that matter. Or even Robbie. The only guy I know named Robbie is a mega douche Cardinals fan.

Unique names are much better. Like Garland. Apologies to my older sister Elizabeth.

And, of course, I love Bob Marley, who full name was Robert Nesta Marley.

I think you may see where I'm going with this.

Bob Marley wasn't always a Bob. He actually went by his middle name as a kid. Little Nesta, running around Nine Mile Jamaica.

If I ever have a son, inshallah, he'll be the compromise, between tradition and an homage to my idol. And carrying on the family name to boot.

Robert, Nesta, Parsley.

Little Nesta, just running around Austin, Texas.

(Baby.)