Mccoy drifts across the ear like bamboo wind-chimes on a cool Kyoto evening—muh-KOY, a brisk two-beat rhythm whose roots trace back to Gaelic Mac Aodha, “son of the fire-bright one,” yet whose branches now stretch westward into the frontier idiom “the real McCoy,” that dry wink of English assuring the listener of unquestioned authenticity. In this single name, a parent tastes both peat-smoked Highlands and umami-rich miso: a fusion of rugged Celtic spark and the Japanese reverence for things honmono—genuine. He carries the quiet confidence of a samurai who polishes his blade not for show but for inner clarity, steady as census tables that, decade after decade, place Mccoy in the middle ranks—never common enough to blur, never rare enough to vanish, a silver carp gliding just below the water’s surface. Choose it, and you bestow upon your son a compact passport stamped with originality, a dry shrug against counterfeit trends, and a gentle ember of ancestral fire that glows even when the sakura petals fall.