Every time I saw David Rinehart, it didn’t matter where it was or when it was, that’s what he’d call me. If I remember right, it was one of many nicknames given to me by my youth group friends in high school that was a spinoff of my name. Most of the time, I get annoyed when people mistake my name, because getting called “Clay” or “Clay Colebourn” happens more than you know. With David, it was a term of endearment. Something was wrong if he didn’t greet me with a “‘Sup, Colebourn,” or some other variation.