Everyone always asks me, “Is Tony Pizza your real name?” My response to that question varies with my mood. Typically, I just offer a courtesy laugh and a smile until someone states the inevitable, “I’ll bet you got a lot of crap growing up.”
Again, I offer a consolatory chuckle and a nod for good measure.
A large part of me thinks I deserve to reach across the checkout counter and slap at least one clerk in my lifetime. Especially for the time I was in the Marine Corps and my name was splattered across my chest, which led to where I couldn’t walk around without everyone treating me like I had a third nipple growing out my left breast pocket.
I’ll never forget the first day of class when the teacher predictably pronounced my name like the pie instead of the leaning tower that famously defies gravity in Italy. It still happens to this day.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a love-hate relationship with my name. People usually never forget my name. When you’re talking about someone with whom you want to make a good impression, I have the ability to stand apart from many others. Having a memorable name certainly has its disadvantages, too.
Teachers and drill instructors tend to remember the kid with the last name Pizza, especially when he doubles as a gigantic goofball. Case in point: in Marine Corps boot camp, there is a thing called Individual Training where a drill instructor exercises you to the point of exhaustion with pushups, situps, side-straddle hops (or jumping jacks) and my personal nemesis-mountain climbers.
Because I was such a frequent part of these IT sessions and because I had the unfortunate accident of laughing at a drill instructor when he cut a button off my shirt one day, IT sessions became known as Pizza Parties in my platoon, and guess who got invited to nearly every single one?
I guess my goofy name made me predisposed to being a bit of a jackass. I figured I could either grow thick skin and make fun of myself or turn into a ball of spite growing up. I chose the former.
However, when I began to give the career path of journalism and writing some serious thought, I began to question if I could get by with a goofy name. Would people take me seriously?
After reading Steve Rushin’s Sept. 4, 2006, column, “Seventeen million to one,” about a boy and his dad scoring a hole-in-one on the same day, I decided to comment on how much I liked the former Sports Illustated writer’s column and ask if he had any tips on beginning writers such as myself. Rushin gave me a tip (keep reading and writing) and a boost of confidence: “It doesn’t hurt that you have a great and memorable byline.”
I started thinking about all the successful people I knew who changed their names for the sake of credibility. Can you imagine Tim Allen being cast by his real name, Tim Dick, in “The Santa Clause”? Would little boys be more likely to emulate the sweet moves of Dwayne Johnson than The Rock? Which looks better on a big marquee: Madonna Louise Ciccone or just Madonna?
Lets put it this way: my sports blog, www.pizzasdeliveries.com (yeah, I couldn’t help it), wouldn’t make much sense if I went by Tony Frank.
For better or worse, my name has helped make me who I am today, and I’m happy to carry my moniker with me wherever life takes me. So what if my name is associated with a tasty, delicious, frozen food? Yes, the company came before me, and no, I still don’t know why my parents did that to me.