Tysin, a sprightly cousin of the Old French Tyson—once “Tison,” the firebrand—glides off the tongue like a Vespa through cobbled Roman streets, its two crisp syllables crackling with the same ember-bright energy that once lit medieval hearths. In this modern spelling, the name feels both familiar and freshly uncorked, a rich Brunello poured under a Tuscan sunset: warm, earthy, and just daring enough to leave a trace of smoke on the palate. He carries the easy swagger of “son of Ty,” yet there is a hint of the artisan in him, as though Michelangelo set down his chisel for a moment merely to sign his work with a bold, swift T. Rarer than a hidden trattoria down a narrow Venetian alley—only a small handful of American newborns have worn it each year—Tysin invites parents to bestow a badge of individuality, humor-kissed and quietly powerful, on the little firebrand soon to write his own epic in generous, sun-drenched strokes.