Once when my high school hockey team was about to travel to a tournament in another state, I had to notify my various teachers that I would be out of school for a couple of days.
So I dutifully carried from class to class a note written by our coach, an intense little man who did his best.
My history teacher, Mr. Cain, looked at this piece of paper with undisguised disdain. There might have been spittle.
Noting the signature, Mr. Cain sneered and, reading aloud, said “Coach Smith…he signed this 'Coach.' Doesn't he have a real name?”
Not sure why I remember that. But I do recall that it was always interesting to discover that various adults loathed one another's values.