How the Dirty Little Glover Boys Got Their Name

Before we were legends.

Not dirty like unkempt.

Dirty like scraped knees, Kool-Aid mustaches, and chat in your shoes for days.

Dirty because we played hard—full out, every day.

We were barefoot by choice and filthy by effort, chasing thrills and half-baked ideas with the kind of energy that can only be summoned by boys with nowhere to be and everything to prove.

We didn’t choose the name.

It found us.

The Door That Opened a Legacy

The name traces back to Michael Garner, the grandson of Evelyn Kerr and the son of Danny and Carolyn—dear friends of our family. Michael was a few years younger than us, but his family often visited Mrs. Kerr, who lived right across the street from us on North Pearl.

One Saturday morning, we spotted their car in the driveway and wandered over to see if Michael could come out and play. He answered the door, and from somewhere inside, a voice called out:

“Who is it?”

Without skipping a beat, Little Michael hollered:

“It’s the Dirty Little Glover Boys!”

We about fell off the porch laughing.

Michael may have gotten an ear twist for saying it—but by then, it was too late. The name had already stuck.

Maybe it was something he’d overheard from one of the grown-ups. Maybe it just tumbled out, the way truth often does when you’re a kid. Either way, Michael gets the credit for saying it out loud and turning it into legend.

And honestly? We couldn’t have written it better ourselves.

Worse Than Fire Ants and Twice as Fast

The name followed us from the barn roof to the back porch. It echoed across the football field, chat pile peaks, creek beds, and even into the Mo-Kan pits. It was whispered behind doors at Sunday School and shouted across the yard when we let the go-kart fly too close to the Mr. Enlo’s house.

It became a sort of unofficial warning label for anyone within a three-block radius:

If the Glover boys show up, tie things down, lock up the livestock, and say a prayer.

We didn’t mean to be trouble. Not exactly. We just had a habit of turning every day into a mission. There was always something to launch off, outrun, outwit, or blow up. We were two pint-sized tornadoes in T-shirts and tube socks, powered by Kool-Aid, peanut butter, and sheer defiance of adult logic.

And when we weren’t doing something dumb, we were probably planning it.

More Than a Name—It Was a Bond

That name meant we had each other’s back in a BB gun war and shared the last slice of Grandma’s cornbread. It meant if one of us got grounded, the other probably deserved to. It meant laughter that started in the gut and left you gasping for air.

Even now, when someone says it, I grin before I respond.

Because it doesn’t sting anymore.

It sings.

Your Turn: What Did They Call You?

Every family has a nickname. A label. A myth. What was yours?

Drop a comment or visit facebook.com/RealChatRat and share your story.

Bonus points if it involves mud, mischief, or a brother you barely survived.