I remember seeing my first comic book when I was about eight or nine. My dad was an avid collector during the 1960s, but grandma threw most of his massive collection away when he left for college. To this day, she still says if she had any idea how much they’d be worth, she would’ve kept them safe. Every grandma who’s ever thrown out a baseball card or book has said the exact same thing. Though most of the collection, like the first issues of the Hulk and Thor, ended up in a landfill in Staten Island, he did manage to hold on to some of them.
On my eighth or ninth birthday, he brought me into his library, pushed aside the massive pile of papers blocking blocked his cabinets, and reached inside to pull out a small book with a plastic coating. It was bright red, covered in heroes I had never seen or heard of. The issue was Avengers #38 , the first time Hercules showed up on the Avengers radar. Even though I couldn’t recognize anyone besides Captain America, I was immediately hooked. The bright colors, flashy word bubbles and simple story captured my young imagination. My father, seeing the exact expression of enthusiasm and glee that he’d hoped for, continued to pull books out of the dark cupboard.
Over the years, my dad continued to buy comics, but only in small doses. Either because he was still pretty pissed about grandma’s recklessness or because he felt the lawyers at his practice would judge him for spending his time on a “children’s hobby”, he stopped buying in bulk. My birth was an excuse to relive those childhood days, a chance to turn back the clock and experience the majesty of Asgard once more, without the fear of my mother or the other lawyers at his practice judging him.
The books he showed me still vividly stick out in my mind. There was X-Men #39, the first time Cyclops’ iconic blue suit graced an ink-soaked page, Alan Moore’s “Whatever Happened To The Man Of Tomorrow” and a black plastic sleeve with a bloody Superman logo emblazoned on the cover. I tried to open open it because I wanted the trading card inside, which truly upset him. My father was a collector (or hoarder, depending on who you ask) above all else, and my grubby little fingers were not about to ruin one of his prized possessions. He yanked the book out of my hand, put it on a high shelf so I couldn’t reach it and told me to leave.
Right after my dad passed, I found “The Death Of Superman” while going through his stuff. The moment was almost cinematic: I pulled back that familiar stack of papers, opened that hardwood cupboard and saw that plastic case all over again. The black veneer was still in perfect condition, I don’t think it had been touched since that fateful day all those years ago. After some serious thinking, pacing around my kitchen and calls to my grandmother, I decided to leave the book alone. He always said “it could be worth a lot of money some day” but I could never sell it.
My dad wasn’t Superman. He didn’t come back six issues later with a mullet and a bad attitude. But he did introduce me to a world that’s been the focus on my life since, which I think is pretty super.
