It's true, they do. Whenever I meet new people, invariably, someone will call me Steve. Not Sam, Sven, Stu, or Stan; not Soren, Solomon, Saul, or Socrates; not Sheldon, Sydney, or Skipper. Not Scott. Just Steve. It started in college. During my freshman and sophomore years, I roomed with Steve Glover. ("It's 'lover' with a 'G,' " he said.) Occasionally people started calling me Steve. I didn't think much of it. We were roomies; we were often together, and Steve and Scott are similar names. I left college. I got married. I moved 600 miles away, but it kept happening.
Since that time, every place I've lived, worked, or gone to church has been populated with people who call me Steve. I correct them, of course. No use in their being embarassed. Then I correct them again and again. It becomes a joke. And still I correct them.
Perhaps it's because there are famous Steve Lyonses out there. There's the hurricane doctor on the Weather Channel, Dr. Steve Lyons. And of course, there's the infamous Steve Lyons of the White Sox who dropped his britches at first base in Detroit to brush away some dirt.
So what is it that calls Steve to mind when people meet me? Is it the swath of destruction I leave in my wake, or is it my propensity to drop trou at arguably inopportune times?