Alexander
Legacy...
A concept I occasionally ponder.
What is my legacy?
Sometimes I feel guilty even thinking this way.
What makes me so special to have a "legacy?"
Other days, I do want to make a mark and leave something behind after I'm gone.
Part of me thinks I've already made an impact and will continue building on that by simply being myself. The other part wonders whether I should intentionally build something bigger...something that lasts.
As I write this, one thing keeps coming back to me.
My high school Wide Receivers/Defensive Backs coach, Steve Vezina (Rest in Peace), had a saying before we'd take the field:
"Go get your name in the paper!"
In other words...
Contribute.
Do something worth talking about.
I've been thinking about that phrase a lot lately.
Maybe that's what legacy really is.
───
Because every name has a story.
Some are passed down for generations.
Some honor grandparents or parents.
Others come from a favorite book, a family tradition, or simply because someone liked the way it sounded.
My name doesn't come with some grand family legend.
But the way my parents chose it was thoughtful.
It was intentional.
And it was uniquely...them.
When my mom was pregnant with me in 1987, my parents didn't know whether they were having a boy or a girl. There weren't gender reveals or routine ultrasounds that told you months in advance. They prepared for both.
They bought a baby-name book from a bookstore in Bozeman, MT, and started making lists.
The lists lived on the refrigerator.
They'd read names aloud to each other, over and over, crossing some off, adding others, until only the favorites remained. Every day, the list got a little shorter.
For a girl, they remembered names like Alice and Tessa, with Rose likely becoming the middle name.
For a boy...
One name refused to leave the list.
Alexander.
My mom said it was one of the very first names they wrote down. No matter how many times they revisited the list, Alexander kept finding its way back to the top.
There was another decision they made very early.
I wasn't going to be a junior.
Neither of my parents wanted me to inherit someone else's first name. They wanted me to have my own identity from the very beginning.
My middle name, Bruce, would honor my mom's maiden name.
But my first name would belong entirely to me.
As my due date approached, my parents would drive from Yellowstone National Park, WY to visit close family friends, Hugh and Aggie Crandall, in Bozeman.
Hugh wasn't just a friend.
He had mentored my dad years earlier in the National Park Service, teaching him how to write and becoming one of the most influential people in his life.
Naturally, the conversation turned to baby names.
When they mentioned Alexander, Hugh smiled.
He pointed out that it was timeless.
A name that had stood the test of time.
He also loved how versatile it was.
Alexander.
Alex.
Lex.
Xander.
Sandy.
Even Al.
A name that could grow with me through every stage of life.
His reaction didn't convince my parents to choose Alexander.
It simply confirmed what they already felt.
This was the name.
My parents also had a philosophy about how names should sound.
A long first name.
A short middle name.
A distinctive last name.
They'd say the full name out loud repeatedly, listening for rhythm more than anything else.
Alexander Bruce deGolia.
To my mom, it sounded stately but approachable.
Formal enough for a resume.
Casual enough to simply become "Alex."
What surprised me most during these conversations was what wasn't part of the decision.
My parents didn't choose Alexander because it means "Defender of Men."
They didn't choose it because of Alexander the Great.
They didn't choose it because of Greek history.
They simply chose it because they loved the name.
It sounded right.
It was unique within both sides of the family.
And it felt timeless.
Only after talking with them did I begin researching the history of the name myself.
Alexander comes from the ancient Greek name Alexandros, meaning "Defender of Men" or "Protector of Mankind."
It has been used for more than two thousand years by kings, explorers, saints, scientists, artists, and everyday people across countless cultures and languages.
Ironically, many of the reasons history remembers the name are the very same reasons my parents unknowingly chose it.
It has endured.
It has adapted.
It has never really gone out of style.
When I asked both of my parents whether they had hoped for a boy or a girl, they gave me the exact same answer.
"We just wanted a healthy baby."
That's probably my favorite part of the entire story.
Before I had a name...
Before I had a personality...
Before anyone knew who I'd become...
Their only hope was that I arrived safely.
Everything else—including my name—was simply chosen with care.
Looking back, I realize my name wasn't inspired by history.
It became part of my history.
And maybe that's what legacy really is.
Not being born with a famous name.
Not having your name passed down for generations.
But taking the name you've been given...
...and giving people a reason to remember it.
My parents didn't give me someone else's name.
They gave me a blank slate.
The rest would be up to me.
Live a life worth remembering.
Leave people better than you found them.
I think if Coach Vezina were here he would smile at me, point toward the field one more time, and say:
"Go get your name in the paper!"