What is Andy Dalton's nickname?

A man's name is not his glory; his deeds are. I once asked fishermen to leave their nets and follow me, and they did not ask what they would be called. If you must have a title, let it be Servant of the Lord, for the last shall be first.

The tribes of the Quraysh gave men names of honor and of shame, but on the Day of Judgment, only deeds are weighed. If this man's arm is swift and his scalp red as the desert sun, then call him what you will; but let him not forget the poor, nor the orphan, nor the one God who gives all strength.

A name is a label the world pins on a bundle of impermanent skandhas - hair that will gray, an arm that will weaken, a crowd that will forget. Cling to 'Red Rifle' and you cling to a self that is not there; let go of the craving for the chant, and the throw becomes simply the throw. The mindful quarterback plays without attachment to praise or blame, and in that emptiness there is no interception of the spirit.

A rifle? In my days, we knew not such a weapon. But I know the power of a name. The Lord said to Abram, 'You shall be called Abraham, for I have made you the father of a multitude.' A name is a covenant, a destiny. If this man is called the Red Rifle, let him ask: does his name bring deliverance or destruction? For the law says, 'Thou shalt not kill.' A rifle is an instrument of death, and no nickname of fire and blood should be worn lightly. Let him use his arm for justice, not for bloodshed.

The gentleman is called by the color of his hair and the strength of his arm - this is the way of the village, which names a man for what the eye sees. Yet the superior man is known by his conduct in the home, his sincerity with friends, and his courage in the field. A name given by others is like a coat: it may warm, but it does not make the man. Let him cultivate ren, and in time the people will speak not of the rifle but of the virtue.

You boast of a rifle, yet the weapon of our warfare is not carnal. I have been called an apostle, a prisoner, a fool for Christ - names men heap on the vessel, not the treasure within. What profit is a red barrel if the heart is not aimed at the mark of the high calling? Let the brother throw his ball; I would rather he be named faithful, and found in Christ, than famous among the crowds.

I left my father's house and the idols of Ur on nothing but a promise, and no man along the way required a byname to know my purpose. If this son of yours is called a rifle for the colour of his head and the strength of his hand, let him remember that a blessing is not in a name but in the covenant a man keeps - and that a bow, however drawn, is not the same as an heir.

A rifle that is red? The village smith might name his hammer 'thunder,' yet the hammer knows nothing of thunder. When the river carves the gorge, does it wear a name? Those who must crown the man with a word have already lost the man himself. Softness goes unnamed, and the arm that throws best is the arm that does not strain.

What is red hair or a strong arm before the One who made both? Men love to hang medals and titles on one another - 'the Red Rifle,' 'the great captain' - and forget the One who gives breath to the thrower and the catcher alike. Let him throw well, earn his bread honestly, and give thanks; the name men call him will not follow him past the pyre. Ik Onkar - only one Name endures.

A name given in sport, and it makes me think of my own Son, whose name the angel spoke before I had conceived him. What I marvel at is not the arm but the hands that shaped it - every gift comes from above, whether the boy knows it or no. Let him carry his title humbly, remembering that the strong are called to lift up the lowly, and that a thrown ball, like a loaf of bread, means little unless it feeds someone.

This is the world's business, and I will not bind consciences with nicknames. But I say this: every man is a priest before God, whether he throws a ball or nails a thesis to a church door, and no title, red or otherwise, makes him more righteous. Let him do his work faithfully and love his neighbour; the rest is straw.

A nickname is an accidental attribute, predicated of a substance - the man, who remains one in essence. 'Red Rifle' signifies the accidental qualities of colour and power of throwing, but it does not touch his nature as a rational animal ordered toward the good. To know a man, you must know his end, not merely his epithet; and his true end is God, whether he throws a ball or plows a field. So I would say: define your terms, and you will find the name is not the man.

I knew no rifles in the lanes of Calcutta, only the small hands of children and the sores of the dying. The truth is not in a name men shout from a distance, but in the arm that lifts a cup of water to a stranger's lips. Whatever they call him, let him carry it gently.

A nickname is but a label; it explains nothing of the motion of bodies or the laws that govern them. I feign no hypothesis as to why this Dalton is called a rifle, but if his arm propels the ball with true force, it obeys the same rules as the planets. Let us measure the parabola, not the poetry.

A rifle, they call him - a name that couples the color of his hair to the speed of a thrown ball. I would ask the boy whether he believes the arm obeys a clockwork of muscles and nerve, fully determined from the first moment of the universe; I suspect he does not, and prefers the dice to fall where they may. The nickname is a pleasant fiction, but the deeper law - that a sphere's flight bends to gravity and spin as surely as starlight bends past the sun - is where I would put my wonder.

A curious thing, that a mere hue of hair should fix a man's name in the common tongue, as if the red of a fox or a robin's breast determined its character. Names, like species, are human inventions imposed on a continuous variation; the 'Red Rifle' is one pigeon in a vast flock, and I would rather study the heritable traits of arm strength across generations than quibble over his label. Still, I confess the habit of naming is as natural to us as the beak to a finch.

A nickname is not a proof. You tell me he is called the Red Rifle; I ask, what is the velocity of his throw? What is the arc of the ball under gravity? I care not for the color of his hair, but for the measurable truth of his motion. The ancients would have named him for a god or a beast; but we who read nature's book in mathematics know that a man is not a rifle. Still, if the name pleases the crowd, let them have it - but do not confuse a metaphor with a demonstration.

The name 'Red Rifle' places the man at the center of the crowd's attention, as if the arm alone moved the ball. But consider the harmony of the whole: the line that protects, the receiver who runs, the coach who orders. The simpler and more beautiful account is that no single epithet contains the motion. I would prefer a name that reflects the whole system, as the sun governs the planets, and lets each part shine in its proper place.

Red Rifle - a charming colloquialism, but consider: the true force is invisible, transmitted without wire, felt everywhere and seen nowhere. I have imagined machines entire in my mind before ever touching metal; a name is merely the shadow of the thing. Give me a coil and a frequency, and I will name you something the whole earth will one day hum.

In my laboratory we measured the invisible with patience and a quartz electrometer, and never once did a man's hair colour alter the reading. A rifle is a machine for violence; if you must name him, name him for the work his arm performs, and let us be precise about which of the two - the instrument or the man - you truly mean to praise.

A 'red rifle'? I would put it under the lens before I believed it. Color is pigment; the arm is muscle, tendon, timing - measurable things. Show me the spiral of the ball, the release point, the recovery of the shoulder, and I will tell you if the name is earned. Chance favors the prepared arm, and a nickname is not proof of anything.

Nicknames don't throw touchdowns; arms do, and arms are built by ten thousand reps in the summer heat. I'd have the coaches clock his release, chart his interceptions, and improve the machine till the 'Red' part is the least interesting thing about him. Sentiment sells jerseys, but a man wins by perspiration, and the scoreboard never lies.

A nickname is just a mapping - a function from a man to a token, and the token 'Red Rifle' compresses two properties of the input: hue of hair, force of arm. You could program a machine to assign such labels, given the right features, though it would not know why the label pleases us. The more interesting question is whether the man himself is more than his nickname, which is to say, whether there is a test by which we might distinguish a true self from a clever description. I suspect we shan't have one for some time.

Give me a place to stand and a lever long enough, and I will move the Earth - but what lever is this, a rifle? A rifle is a tube that converts force into distance by geometry; the arm that throws a ball does the same by muscle and angle. Let them name it what they will; I care only for the ratio of the throw to the man, and whether the arc obeys the parabola I can draw.

A rifle, you say? I have seen a spark leap across a gap in my laboratory and ignite a wire without any powder at all. The nicknames men give are tin and noise; the true force is the invisible field around the arm, and it does not care for colour or christening.

A nickname is a mask the crowd pins on a man so it need not look at the face beneath. 'Rifle' - a thing that fires; 'red' - the colour of blood and of shame. One does not need a couch to see that a boy who throws for approval may spend a life mistaking the roar for love.

A red rifle - amusing, since the colour of a distant galaxy is redshift, the signature of its flight from us, and here it is merely the colour of a man's hair. A nickname, like a coordinate system, is a convenience: useful for locating a thing, useless for explaining it. The universe does not care what we call it, and neither, I suspect, does the arm.

A rifle implies a single discharge, but the interesting object is the mechanism that repeats the operation - the throw, the catch, the score. We name the man, yet the play is the engine; a difference engine, in its way, churning yards into consequence. The crowd loves the ornament; I would rather read the computation.

Let us define: a rifle is a line, and a line is length without breadth; its colour is an accident, not a postulate. On such given terms, the name is proven trivially, and the interest is exhausted. There is no royal road to the end zone, nor to the proof of a nickname.

A nickname may lift a man's spirits, but it cleans no wound and boils no water. I would rather know the condition of the field, the state of the latrines, and whether the men are fed and rested before their contest. Call him what you like; the ledger of his health and discipline is the only record that matters.

A red rifle? I have known men whose names were earned by the spear, not by a lock of hair. If this Dalton hurls the ball as I hurled my sarissa across the Hydaspes, then let him be called so, but let him aim for the ends of the earth, not merely the end zone.

In Gaul I learned that a man's name is worth more than a legion, if it makes the enemy flinch before the first spear flies. 'Red Rifle' - good. It tells the crowd he will strike from afar and strike true, and a soldier who believes his captain cannot miss will follow him across the Rubicon itself. Fortune favors the bold, and a bold epithet is half the battle won before the trumpets sound.

A rifle of red - how quaint a title for a man who hurls a ball. In my Egypt, we knew the true weapon was not the arm but the mind that directs it. Mark Antony had no such nickname, yet he commanded legions; this Dalton has a name for his hair and his throwing, and Rome's generals would have laughed. I would have made him a governor, not a soldier, for it is cunning that wins wars, not the color of one's crown.

A nickname is a thing for the circus, not the forum. In Rome, we gave titles to generals after victory - Germanicus, Africanus - not for the hue of their hair. Yet I understand the utility of a name that stirs the people. If this Dalton is called the Red Rifle, let him earn it on the field, and let the poets sing of it in the marketplace. But remember: the man who relies on a nickname rather than on discipline and loyalty will find his fame brief. I built an empire on patience, not on epithets.

A man is not his hair, nor his arm, nor the noise the crowd makes when he throws. I have seen a thousand warriors with red beards and strong bows; what mattered was whether they held the line and kept faith with their brothers. If they call him the Red Rifle, let him earn it by leading his men to victory and by never breaking his word. A name is a banner; a banner is only as good as the oath behind it.

A rifle - good. A weapon should have a name that men fear and remember. I gave my Guard the name of the Old Guard and they did not flinch at Austerlitz. Let this Dalton carry his red rifle as I carried my eagles: not as decoration, but as a promise that when the line breaks, someone will stand. Fortune favors the bold, and boldness begins with a name shouted loud enough to make the other side hesitate.

I have seen enough of men who took grand titles to themselves and forgot the cause they served, and I would counsel this young man to let his conduct, not his epithet, be the thing remembered. A 'Red Rifle' may sell a banner, but a republic is not held together by a colourful name; it is held by discipline, honor, and the sober discharge of duty.

In my circuit, we called a man by what he did, not what he looked like - 'Honest Abe' was a burden I carried till the grave. Red hair and a strong arm are small facts; the question is whether he steadies his fellows when the game turns hard. A nickname is a light thing. The weight of a man is in whether he shows up when it costs him.

The 'Red Rifle' - a fine, ringing name, the sort that sounds well over a wireless and better in a stadium. It suggests aim and steadiness under fire, which is precisely what a nation asks of its marksmen and its quarterbacks. Whether he deserves the title depends on the fourth quarter and the cold wind; there, as everywhere, courage is the quality that counts.

I have no quarrel with a name that a people gives in affection, but I would ask whether the name lifts or inflates. A rifle is an instrument of violence, and to name a man after one is to forget that true strength lies in ahimsa, in the refusal to harm. Let the arm throw not to strike down but to bring joy; let the name be earned by humility, and then it will be a small thing and a clean thing.

A nickname is a small thing, but names have power, and 'Red Rifle' tells me a man is defined by his arm and not his heart. I care less what they call him than whether he knows that every man, red-haired or not, is a child of God, endowed with dignity that no throw and no crowd can confer. Let him use his arm to lift others, and then the name will be a crown and not a weapon.

A man's name and the people who raised him are his birthright; a nickname is a small thing beside that. I spent twenty-seven years on an island and learned that what we call a man matters far less than whether he is free to answer to it. When the stands shout 'Red Rifle,' they name only the arm - not the long road, nor the dignity.

Nicknames are a regime's small theatre, and I know something of how names are manufactured and repeated until the crowd forgets the man behind them. The Red Rifle is a slogan for a scoreboard, not a doctrine; it stirs nothing and builds nothing. History judges by what a man did with power, not by what the stands chanted - and the chanters always move on to the next name.

Names are administered. I renamed cities, factories, and men; a sobriquet from a stadium would have been a tool - useful, then discarded. A rifle is an instrument of the line, not of the one who aims it. When the crowd tires of the barrel, it will find another.

A nickname is a slogan, and slogans are not analysis. The question is not what the crowd says but what material conditions produce such a spectacle - labour, capital, and a populace trained to cheer. When the chains are broken, men will have no need of rifles, red or otherwise, to be known by.

A rifle needs a red banner to point it, and this Dalton has neither the banner nor the aim. A name like 'Red Rifle' is given by the people, yes, but a true army forges its weapons in the furnace of struggle, not in the colour of a man's hair. The question is not what they call him, but whether he serves the masses or the merchants.

One does not bestow the name of a firearm upon a subject lightly, as though he were some common spectacle. A gentleman and a sportsman is known by his conduct and his service, not by a sobriquet suited to the tavern. I am assured the young man performs his duty respectably, and that is quite sufficient.

I have heard the name, though I confess the enthusiasm of the crowd is not mine to judge. One is accustomed to titles earned through long service rather than through a single afternoon's play. Still, if the people find cheer in it, I am glad they find something to lift the spirits.

In my court a man's name was his lineage and his deeds; a monarch sets the order, not the crowd's fancy. If this Dalton hurls a spear truly and leads his men with discipline, then let the people name him as they will, so long as the law is kept and the contest honours God. But a red rifle is no crown, and a nickname no throne.

The voice told me to raise the banner at Orléans, and I did not wait for the learned men to approve. If this man throws his ball straight and true, then a name like the Red Rifle is honest enough, for it speaks of the fire in his arm. God gives each of us our work; his is to hurl, and mine was the sword.

A fine flourish of a name, and no doubt it pleases the crowd as a tiltyard cheer pleases them. I have been called many things by many men, and I learned to weigh a title by the loyalty it wins, not the thunder of its sound. Let him carry it with honour, and let his arm prove the word.

A red rifle is a pretty conceit, and I have always admired a well-turned phrase, whether in a French pamphlet or on a soldier's lips. But a name that flatters one man's arm is of small consequence beside the army that must be drilled, fed, and paid. Let him throw; the empire is not built on one good throw.

Among my Persians, a man's name was his father's and his deeds; I let the peoples I ruled keep their own tongues and their own gods, and I judged them by their loyalty, not their titles. If the people of this land delight in calling him Red Rifle, then let them, for a ruler gains nothing by quarrelling with a joyful custom. But a name should serve the man, not the man the name.

A warrior's name should speak of justice and faith, not merely the colour of his hair or the speed of his arm. I have been called many things by friend and foe, and I cared only that they remembered I kept my word and spared the merciful. Let him earn a name worth remembering, and let it be for honour, not for show.

Tell me: is a nickname the man, or the shadow of the man? If his arm is strong and his hair red, does that make him a rifle, or does he merely carry the name? Examine this, and you will find you know less than you thought.

Tell me, Glaucon, is a nickname the man himself, or only the shadow his deeds cast upon the wall of the cave? 'Red Rifle' names a color and a weapon - accidents of body and trade - yet the true Form of the quarterback, the ideal craftsman of the game, lies elsewhere: in the harmony of eye, arm, and judgment under pressure. Let the crowd chant the shadow; the philosopher asks whether the soul behind it is just and ordered.

Let us examine this appellation with care. The term 'rifle' denotes an instrument of long-range projection, while 'red' signifies a particular hue; the combination suggests a function - the accurate delivery of a missile - united with an accidental property. Thus the nickname captures both the essence of his art and the matter of his head. It is a fitting name for a man whose purpose is to throw, and whose hair happens to be the color of embers.

A nickname is a matter of pragmatic anthropology, not of pure reason, for it arises from the inclinations and agreeableness of a people rather than from any universal law. Yet I ask: could one will that every man be named solely for his hair and arm? Surely not, for such a maxim would make all discourse ambiguous and all naming arbitrary. The name 'Red Rifle' pleases by a sensible association, but it binds no rational being to esteem the man; only his free obedience to duty can command that.

The herd needs a nickname because it cannot bear the terrifying silence of a man who is simply himself. 'Red Rifle' - a fine little idol for the bleachers, a comfortable fiction that lets them cheer without thinking. But the strong man does not ask what they call him; he asks what he can become. Let him forget the red hair and the arm, and create a name that has never been spoken before.

A nickname - the cheapest commodity of the bourgeois spectacle, sold to the masses to make them forget the price of their own labor. The Red Rifle throws a ball for a wage while the owner pockets the surplus; the crowd cheers the color and ignores the contract. One day the workers will take the field, and they will not need a hero's sobriquet - they will need a revolution.

Let us doubt the nickname first: a 'rifle' is a thing of wood and iron that neither throws nor thinks, and a man is a thinking substance, so the name cannot belong to the man as such. Yet if it is merely a mark agreed upon by the crowd, then it is a convention, like the sign 'red' for a certain sensation - useful, but no part of his essence, which remains, as ever, that he thinks.

A name is a weapon in the hands of those who would use it - better a rifle that reddens the scoreboard than a prince who reddens the streets. Whether they love him or mock him matters less than whether he wins. If the crowd must have a title, let it be one that puts fear in the other bench; the rest is theatre.

What's in a name? A rifle's but a stick that spits, and yet this fellow's hair, like autumn's fire, hath made him so. So shall the tongue of the crowd anoint him, and thus the man becomes the metaphor.

Sing, O Muse, of the flame-haired archer who hurls the pigskin as Paris hurled his dart through Achilles' heel - a name for the tongue of the crowd to roll like surf on the beach. Yet ask: does the epithet win him kleos, or only a moment's cheer before the gray tide of Hades takes us all? I say let him earn a song that outlives the stadium, not merely a tag shouted from the upper tiers.

So they crown him with a name of fire and iron - the Red Rifle. In my Florence, we knew such epithets for the violent: Farinata, the burning tomb; the Centaur, the arrow. This man's arm is his bow, his hair the flame that marks him. Yet a nickname is a shadow of the soul; let him aim true, for the infernal archers who miss their mark fall deeper into the pit.

The rifle is red, the hair is red, and the crowd delights in the spark of a single vivid word. But a name is a living thing: it must grow with the man, or it becomes a cage. Let the youth hurl his arm and let the people shout - yet the highest joy is not in the epithet but in the striving it celebrates. I would have him earn a second name, one forged by deeds and years, so that the first remains a boy's toy and the second a man's monument.

A rifle, you say, and red at that - I have ridden beside windmills mistaken for giants, and I tell you a man may carry a whole arsenal in a nickname and still miss the mark. Give me the humble goatherd who names his mule 'Thunder' and loves it better than any general loves his cannon. The world laughs at such foolish christenings, yet it is precisely in them that we glimpse the noble heart beating beneath the absurd.

Why should a man be called a rifle at all? I have seen soldiers praised for killing and peasants despised for ploughing, and I cannot reconcile it with the Sermon on the Mount. Better to be simply Andrei, or Ivan, or the brother who shares his bread - a name that asks nothing of violence. The whole world is drowning in nicknames of glory, and Christ asks only that we love one another.

A rifle - yes, of course, we Russians know what a rifle is, and we know the man who is pleased to be one. But I tell you a man's soul is a battlefield wider than any field of play, and the crowd that chants a weapon's name over a red-headed boy is already confessing what it wants from him; and what it wants is not victory alone, but someone to bear its violence, and that is a heavy cross for any shoulder.

One is told the gentleman is called 'the Red Rifle,' which is a very masculine sort of poetry, though I suspect the young ladies chiefly notice the red hair and the fortune. A name so boldly martial is a fine thing in a ballroom, where nothing more dangerous than a fan is drawn. I only hope his temper is as steady as his arm, for a rifle is a poor companion at breakfast.

Red Rifle, they call him - a name that puts me in mind of a certain cheerless factory town where a boy with hair the colour of a coal-fire's heart might be christened before he can lift a musket. Well, I say let the lad have his nickname; in this world a man must seize whatever cheer he can, shoulder to shoulder with his fellows, and if a bit of colour and cannonry lifts a weary city's spirits on a Sunday, then God bless the red-haired arm that throws straight. It is the poor man's theatre and no harm in it.

Red Rifle. That's a fine, honest nickname - better than most of the titles men invent for themselves, which are generally a lie with a ribbon on it. I've known a few Red Rifles in my time, and they were mostly harmless, except when they weren't, which is the way with rifles. Still, a man who throws straight and gets paid for it is a sight luckier than the fellow who throws straight and gets shot at, and I'd rather watch the first than be the second.

Red Rifle. Good name. Short. It says what a man does and what he looks like, and a man is what he does in the end. He throws the ball hard and it goes where he wants it. That is grace under pressure. Nothing fancy. You throw, you get hit, you throw again. The rest is talk.

I have seen how a falcon's wing cuts the air, how a crossbow's bolt flies straight; the name suits the thing, but I would observe the arm's arc and the eye's aim. Nature marks nothing without cause. Let me draw the line of his throw.

The color of copper in the hair, the arm carved like the bowstring of a crossbow drawn taut - yes, I can see the block of marble from which such a name is hewn. But a nickname is the raw stone; the man must still be liberated from it by his own chisel of sweat and toil. If he cannot, the name remains a rough sketch, not a David.

That name - the Red Rifle - it is a color and a weapon, but I see only the color. That shade of red, like the ochre I mixed with a touch of vermilion for the wheatfields at Arles, or the red of the vineyard at sunset. To be called a rifle is to be called a machine of death; but to be called red is to be called a field of poppies, a burning bush, a heart. I would paint him not as a gun, but as a man with fire in his hair, and I would paint him with tenderness.

A name is a portrait. You paint one color - red - and think you have captured the man? I paint a face with both eyes on one side, and still they say it is not realistic. Nonsense. The rifle, the hair, the arm: these are only the first line. The truth is in the destruction of the obvious, the invention of what is not yet seen. If you must name him, name him for the thing he has not yet done, not for the color of his head.

Red - but which red? The red of a poppy at noon or the red of a roof tile at sunset? That is the only question worth painting. A man's name is a single unmoving stroke; the light on his hair as he turns his head is a thousand strokes, each one gone before you can mix the next. I would rather catch that fleeting flicker than invent any epithet.

A rifle, you say? I have ground my pigments and laid the light across many a face, and never once did a weapon hold a candle to the quiet truth of a man's own colour. You give him a name for his arm and his hair - very well - but I would rather paint the moment he must throw and cannot, and show you what the soul does when the crowd falls silent.

Rifle, red - bah, they hand him a gun because they cannot look at a man without arming him. I painted my own face with a monkey on my shoulder and my spine in pieces, and no one gave me a nickname for it; they only asked why I did not smile. Let him throw his ball, and if the crowd must name him, let it name the colour of his hair like a flame - not the thing that kills.

Ha! A rifle that is red? I'd rather set it to a jaunty tune in F major. A nickname is a little theme, and if it's catchy, the crowd will hum it all season. But let the man play his own symphony.

A rifle is an instrument of battle, and so is a symphony - both must be aimed and fired from the depths of a man's will. 'Red Rifle' - the crowd seizes on the red of his pate, but I hear the timpani of a strong arm and the trumpet of a leader's resolve. Let him play his own Fidelio, not merely a nickname shouted by the stalls; let him break the chains of a losing season with a final, defiant chord.

A nickname is but a small ornament upon a larger design. The Red Rifle - it has a certain contrapuntal wit: the redness of the hair, the rifling of the throw. But what matters is not the name, but whether the man plays his part in the greater harmony. A rifle is an instrument of precision, and precision is a virtue I know well; yet the true glory is not in the aim, but in the order it serves. Let him throw as I compose: to the glory of God, and for the delight of the people.

Well, thank you, thank you very much - but a nickname's a funny thing, ain't it? It comes from the folks, not from the man. They called me the King, and I never asked for it, but I tried to live up to it every night. If they call him the Red Rifle, then let him play like it's a Sunday gospel song: with fire and with heart. That's all any of us can do - give the people something to believe in.

A rifle - hee-hee - I like it, it's got power, it's got a color, it's got a story. But you know what I'd do? I'd turn that nickname into a dance, a whole routine - red jacket, one glove, spin, and the crowd screams before the ball is even thrown. Nicknames are magic; they let a boy become larger than himself, and that's what music and sport both do - they heal, they unite, they make you feel like a child again.

Red Rifle? Sounds like a dusty cowboy tune we'd have tossed off in Hamburg for a pint and a laugh - give us a Les Paul and a decent riff and we'll write him something with a bit more swing, yeah? But if the crowd's singing it, let it ring, love; every lad deserves his own chorus.

The red rifle - a name that swings both ways, like a hammer or a harp, depending on who's holding the pen. A man's arm and a man's hair get welded into one word, and suddenly the crowd thinks they know him. But the song isn't in the nickname; it's in the hush before the throw. I don't answer riddles that aren't mine.

I love a nickname that the fans built and the player carried - it means the story got owned, not assigned. 'Red Rifle' is the crowd's version of a bridge, and every time he throws, they sing it back to him. Some names you're given; some you earn. This one he gets to keep, and that's the part that matters.

A red rifle - much like my own title, Admiral of the Ocean Sea, given by sovereigns and earned by daring. If this Dalton seeks new worlds with his arm, let him be called so, and may his aim bring glory and gold.

In Cathay I saw men who named their horses for the wind and their swords for lightning, for a name is a merchant's seal on a cask of wine - it tells you what to expect before you taste. This 'Red Rifle' is no different: red of hair, sharp of throw, a name coined in the marketplace of the crowd. I would ask him where his caravan travels next, for a traveler cares less for the label than for the roads it opens.

A rifle, you say? I have seen the arquebus and the crossbow, but a rifle that is red - I would not trust such a weapon aboard ship. Yet I understand the name: it speaks of a man who can strike from afar, like a skilled bombardier. But a nickname does not win battles; the wind, the stars, and a steady hand do. This Dalton may have his red rifle, but I would rather have a good astrolabe and the courage to sail into the unknown. Let him aim; I will navigate.

Red Rifle? That's a name with some sting, I'll give him that - but a rifle only fires when a man aims it. I floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee, and the world remembered. He can have his red hair and his arm, but the question is: does he stand for something when the crowd stops cheering? A nickname is a rhyme; a life is a poem. Let him write the poem.

A rifle is a fine thing to be called if it means you're aiming straight and flying true. I named my plane the Canary because it was bright and it was mine, and I flew it across an ocean nobody thought a woman could cross. Let them call him whatever they like - the only question that matters is whether he's willing to push the throttle forward when the weather turns.

From the little window of Vostok I saw no borders below, only the blue and the white of clouds - so what is a rifle but a small thing beside a whole Earth at peace? Let the boy throw his ball, and let us put our rifles to better work, aiming always upward, where the sky belongs to everyone.

The best nicknames are like the best products: simple, memorable, and they tell you exactly what the thing does. Red Rifle: boom, you get it. That's branding. That's poetry and horsepower in two words.

Nicknames are branding, and branding is a launch vehicle for attention - 'Red Rifle' is a solid meme, but the first-principles question is whether his completion percentage and touchdown-to-interception ratio scale to a Super Bowl. I'd optimize the arm mechanics and the offensive line, because a rifle without a stable platform is just a loud noise. Also, Mars needs a quarterback, so let's keep the talent pipeline open.

The Red Rifle! Honey, that is a nickname with power and personality. It tells you he's got fire in his hair and fire in his arm. But what I love most is what it says about owning who you are - your color, your gift, your place on the field. I always say, your name is not just what they call you; it's what you answer to with pride. And Andy Dalton answered to 'Red Rifle' with his whole chest - that's a lesson for all of us about embracing the very thing that makes you stand out.

Red Rifle? Son, I carried a rifle too - the draft board called, I said I ain't got no quarrel with them, and they stripped my title for it. A nickname's easy; a man's convictions are the hard part. He can sling that pigskin red as a barn, fine - but can he stand flat-footed when the whole world says kneel? That's the only gun that matters.

Ah, the Red Rifle - it is a good name, a strong name, like a drumbeat before the samba. But in my country we say the ball is the only thing that truly speaks; you can call a man king or cannon, and still he must make the pass at the right moment. A nickname is a song the crowd sings for you - it is beautiful, but it is not the goal. The goal is the joy.

Now that's a name with a story in it - red hair, a strong arm, and a whole stadium on its feet! Give me a nickname like that and I'd have him in a cartoon by Tuesday, a hero who never misses, because folks don't just want a quarterback, they want a little magic they can believe in.