Mostly, this is about schools with Native American nicknames changing them to something less offending, at least to the Native Americans. What has so many in a froth lately is the NCAA's move to ban schools with particularly derogatory Native American nicknames or mascots from hosting postseason tournaments, or showing up, with or without mascot in tow, to such events wearing uniforms that depict their nickname. Unless, like Florida State, you threaten to sue about your Seminoles' inclusion on the list, at which point the NCAA takes you off of it.

Still, these debates can go on without the specter of the white man's genocidal behavior as a backdrop. Witness Syracuse, where many alumni are still smarting over the "Orangemen," a paean to the school's Protestant roots, being changed last year to the "Orange," a paean to the football team's goal of reaching some sort of citrus-themed bowl game.

In 1930, outraged alumni did not protest North Dakota's decision to change its nickname from Flickertails to Fighting Sioux, a decision made because it sounded as tough as archrival North Dakota State's Mighty Bison, and because nobody could come up with a cheer that could rhyme Flickertails. The late, filty-rich alum Ralph Englestad used to threaten to withdraw all financial support from his alma mater if it even considered caving into a 35-year effort to get rid of the Fighting Sioux nickname.

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Why do so many keep fighting to hold onto school nicknames? (I'm already on record as saying I didn't care when my college, Indiana University-Purdue University at Indianapolis, changed its name.) The obvious answer is tradition (and my school, only around since 1969, had none.) You go to games, or play in games, under a certain nickname, and it feels weird to come back to hear your school referred to by a different nickname.

Then again, sometimes changes in sensibility necessitate uprooting tradition. The University of Mississippi still calls its teams the Rebels, but over the years it's junked mascot Colonel Reb and banned Confederate flag-waving at games, figuring that allowing such things might put a slight crimp in recruiting black athletes. The university higher-ups must have figured, geez, we may as well have a cotton field in the end zone while we're at it. Not that there weren't Mississippians disgusted by this attack on, ahem, Southern heritage.

There has to be some middle ground when deciding to keep or scrap a nickname that's offensive, out of date or just plain stupid. Unfortunately, that middle ground — American-style democracy — can drain just as much time and make everyone look just as ridiculous as the other options.

Marquette used to be known as the Warriors, but the Milwaukee school changed its nickname to Golden Eagles so as not to offend the sensibilities of Wisconsin's sizable Native American population. The name wasn't well-loved, and at the 2004 graduation, one alumnus offered $1 million to the school to change the name back to Warriors, perhaps in the same suave way Robert Redford offered $1 million to sleep with Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal.

The school didn't take the money, but it did re-open the nickname debate. In May it decided to change Marquette's nickname to just plain Gold. Students, professors and alumni were no longer divided — they agreed Gold sucked much worse than Golden Eagles.

So the school opened up its nickname to nominations, hiring a consultant to help run the election and interpret the results. About 1,500 suggestions poured in, from A.B.C. to Ziggies, from the Fickle Felines to the Mighty Moose, from the Fightin' Christians to the Hellfires, plus something called the Extracentrifugal Forz. Seventy-six varieties of "Golden" were entered, including Golden Eagles, Golden Globes and Golden Retrievers. Amazingly, for a contest that included college students, no one nominated Golden Showers.

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