Francis X. Sullivan was a nickname magnet. He was Frank. Frankie. Franko.

FX. X-Man. XS. Effin XS. Effin.

Sully. Van. Vandaman. Van Gogh. VG. Sully Van Gogh.

In fact, he had so many names, he was also known as A.K.A.

But he might as well have been called Teflon, because none of these names stuck until Skully came along. And when that moniker reared its boney head, it stuck like a high wedge shot landing on a soft wet green.

Its tenacious origins can be traced to the day Frank and his golf buddy Chester Banes were teamed up in a member/member at the River Creek Club. It was a two-man team best ball tournament that found them 7 under after 16 holes. They were on fire. But then something happened that took them out of the zone and into the Twilight Zone.

Frankie had birdied the previous hole and had honors on 17, a 195-yard par 3 along the Potomac River. The pin was tucked in the back left portion of the green, a peninsula protected by a massive waste bunker that wrapped around the front and left side. The hole was probably playing closer to 205 that day and the air was dead still and heavy with late spring Virginia humidity.

“Whaddya think?” Banes asked his partner. “Easy 5-wood?”

“Hard tree,” Franko said decisively, pulling the three iron from his bag.

“You may want a little schwing lube in that case.” Chester offered his partner an old beat-up pewter flask filled with single malt. “Allow me to introduce you to my good friend Glen.”

“Ah, Dr. Livet I presume,” FX replied, reaching for the flask. “So nice to make your acquaintance.” As he took a swig of the Glenlivet, a pair of Canada geese flew in from the river and settled on the white tee box for a front row seat.

“Are we gonna play golf one of these days?” asked Fred, one of their opposing twosome.

“Or would you guys rather have a freakin’ tee party?” his partner Al chimed in.

“Hey, do I interrupt your pre-shot routine?” X-Man asked, putting his ball on a tee.

“Grip it and rip it Sull,” urged Banes.

With that, Sully stood over his ball and emptied his mind, savoring the warmth of Glen emanating from his gut. He eyed his target envisioning the ball flight, a subtle draw starting at the center of the green and arcing magnetically toward the pin. He took a full backswing and then some, determined not to leave the ball short in the beach.

His hips began to pivot.

His arms found the slot.

As the clubhead neared maximum velocity, one of the geese issued a premature “You da man” that came out as a loud “HONK HONK HONK.”

The interruption shattered Van Gogh’s artful concentration causing him to lift his head ever so slightly which in turn lifted the club head an inch too high, resulting in a low screaming zonker.