Mike Rowbottom: Sad lack of imagination in the footballers' nickname game

Frustratingly, I missed seeing an old footballing acquaintance of mine at an Arsenal Ladies match on Thursday night.

Danny O'Shea, with whom I used to play in a midweek league, has always had links with Highbury. His son, of the same name, played a couple of times for the first team before a dispiriting encounter with an up-and-coming winger named John Barnes effectively brought his Arsenal career to a close. Bad luck, that.

Towards the end of his time as a player, O'Shea junior found himself in an upwardly mobile Cambridge United side that included the likes of Steve Claridge and Dion Dublin. But he could scarcely disguise his distaste for the crash-bang-wallop tactics demanded by manager John Beck – he of the pre-match cold showers and motivational skills from the school of Ricky Gervais.

"Boldness has genius, passion and magic in it.'' Lyrics from the Red Hot Chili Peppers? In fact not. These words were pinned up inside the home dressing room at the Abbey Stadium during the Beck years. As were these: "Last people don't finish nice.''

Another cryptic poster featured Saddam Hussein clutching a ball marked "Scud'' with the accompanying message: "If we allow our missiles to go to their base unexploded, their missiles will destroy us.''

Which I think says it all.

O'Shea junior once told me that in training matches at Cambridge, anyone who touched the ball more than twice consecutively was bawled out. It was not a happy state of affairs for a player who had been proudly schooled in the footballing arts by his old man.

And here – here in the Arsenal Ladies team photo for season 2002/03 – is the old man himself, legs as bandy as ever, slightly more grizzled than I remember him. His official title is assistant coach; the unofficial one is the same as ever – trouper. What a pity I didn't think to check the programme until the morning after the match.

But I digress, if that's the word which covers diverting from your main topic before you even reach it. Perhaps I progress.

The thing is, if I had seen Danny, if I had heard that familiar voice shouting out familiar, gnomic things such as "In the gully?'' or "She's going nowhere!'' and had sought him out, I know how he would have greeted me. "Mickey Row!''

Throughout my life, the only people who have ever called me "Mick'' or "Mickey'' are fellow footballers. I always felt something of an impostor answering to the name. I felt it belonged to someone more assured and probably far better than me. But I did my best to be it.

In short, I've submitted to the great orthodoxy that remains in the game, no matter how formations, tactics and salaries may change: names and nicknames must be dull and obvious.

This great truth crosses the sexual boundary without let, as the Arsenal Ladies programme clearly demonstrates. Let me run a few nicknames past you by way of evidence. Midfielder Clare Wheatley is known as – Wheato. Captain and centre back Faye White is known as – surprise – Chalky. Ellen Maggs is Maggsy. And Emma Byrne? Byrnie. Alex Scott? Scottie. Jayne Ludlow? Luds. Julie Fletcher? Fletch.

You're getting the picture. Some observers remain to be convinced that women footballers can reach comparable levels of achievement to their male counterparts. But in the matter of dismally predictable nicknames, they are already right up there.

At one point during Thursday night's game I thought there had been an aberrant occurrence as an Arsenal substitute ran on to the pitch and was greeted with cries of "Come on, Champ.'' But as she turned, I saw that what I had taken for a nickname was printed on the back of her shirt. Her name was Leanne Champ.

Every rule has its exceptions, of course. I played for a Sunday League side next to a towering defender – our captain's brother, on leave from the Army – whose name I never learned. Everyone knew him simply as Horrid. We also had a forward who was able to beat three men before missing an open goal whose nickname was Tish. His real name was Isherwood. And he sold fish. It's almost there, isn't it?

One Sunday, our captain decided I deserved a nickname which bordered on the interesting. Having perceived some resemblance to the then TV detective played by Trevor Eve, he began calling me Shoestring.

Shoestring. I didn't mind it. I quite liked it, in fact. But gamely as our captain tried, the moniker wouldn't stick. Kept dropping off like a fake moustache.

Eventually he had to admit defeat and call me by my proper footballing name. Once a Mick always a Mick.