In early 1976, my father and his brother both had pregnant wives. At a bar, proper order for a couple of Irish brothers who are fathers-to-be, they discussed their plans for their future sons. They decided that their sons would be starting forwards for the Boston Celtics.
Which is odd, since neither of them are basketball players. Nor even fans as far as I can tell.
Given that their sons (sons of two short, stocky Irishmen) would undoubtedly inherit their own body type, they assumed that these sons would need flashy names to overcome their physical limitations. Names that would sound good on television.
And so I was to be known as "Cosmo Calhoun" and my cousin was to be dubbed "Elvis Peacock".
I am not kidding.
Luckily for one of us (I leave it up to you to decide who), my cousin Steve avoided this fate while my name stuck. At least the "Cosmo" part. Thankfully, "Calhoun" got vetoed.