Time was, people changed their names for one of three reasons: They were running from something (the law, an ex-wife), for religious reasons or they were stuck with a handle they couldn't abide for one reason or another.

Take my buddy Mike. He used to be Ralph, but as he told me while working at the Durham YMCA several years ago, "Ralph just wasn't making it."

So he had it changed legally.

Ralph seems to me like a perfectly fine name with a strong tradition -- Ralph Kramden, right? Of course, that's easy for me to say, since I didn't have to answer to it daily.

Would Cary Grant have been as suave and smooth if he'd kept his birth name -- Archie Leach? Would Doris Day have reigned for years as America's sweetheart if she'd stayed Doris Mary Anne von Kappelhoff? Would Kareem Abdul-Jabbar's skyhook have been as devastating if he'd kept his original name, Lew Alcindor? Who knows.

Some names are changed to help a career, but some changes not only don't help professionally or socially, they also potentially hinder the name-changer.

Take Muhammad Ali, and, to a lesser extent, Abdul-Jabbar.

When Ali shed what he called his "slave name" of Cassius Clay, many in the media and millions of Americans angrily viewed it as a repudiation of the country: It was.

Regardless of how one felt about Ali, though, you had to respect his moxie in taking such an unpopular stance. Besides, Cassius Clay was an alliteration that he reportedly loved.

Ali, Abdul-Jabbar and thousands of other famous and not-so-famous people changed their names during the 1960s to reflect their changing beliefs. Of course, they had something to believe in larger than themselves.

You might say Chad Johnson of the Cincinnati Bengals football team changed his name this week to reflect his beliefs, too: He seems to believe, as too many pro athletes these days seem to believe, only in himself. And he apparently identifies himself only as a football player.

Why else would a grown man legally change his name to Chad Ocho Cinco -- 85 -- his uniform number?

Oy.

If you're anything like me, you watched one interview too many in which Johnson, surrounded by reporters, ranted on and on about how -- as he did in a recent interview -- "My name ain't Chad Johnson no mo.' Call me Ocho Cinco."

What sports fan can forget the hoopster who, though born Lloyd B. Free and known as such when he played at Greensboro's Guilford College, had his name changed to World B. Free?

At least in Free's case, the name change perhaps reflected a dream for a planet free from war and a dream of -- what the heck: Who are we kidding?

The change, like Johnson's, reflected what happens when egomaniacal jocks with more green in their bank accounts than gray matter in their heads find the spotlight shifting away. They're desperate to reclaim it.

Chad Ocho Cinco, by whatever name, is a latterday minstrel who doesn't realize that the media aren't laughing with him, but at him: that's why nobody took the time to explain that 85 is actually ochenta y cinco, not ocho cinco.

Then again, someone who speaks English the way Johnson does shouldn't be expected to grasp the intricacies of another language.