My Heroes

By David Wood

Over the years my personal heroes have changed more often than Katie Couric’s hair styles. As a seven-year-old in the early 1960s, I was a huge Batman fan because of the TV show starring Adam West as the Caped Crusader. Every week I’d excitedly sit about an inch in front of our rabbit-eared television –  complete with my Halloween Batman mask and a bath towel as my cape –  at the “same Bat time, same Bat channel.” Though I shouldn’t admit this, I‘d also put on a pair of my white underpants over my pajama bottoms to try and complete the full Batman look. It’s a wonder I’ve never been in therapy.

Each Batman episode would find dastardly villains – like the Penguin, the Riddler, and the  beguiling Cat Woman – trying to do in Batman and Robin, usually in large vats of hot oil or something just as diabolically sinister, so they could continue their crime sprees on Gotham City unimpeded. I’d chew my nails to the nubs as it looked like the demise of my heroes became more certain, but they’d always get out of the predicament with some clever Bat-device.  My mother always warned me to back away from the set “so your eyes won’t go bad.” Of course, I wasn’t about to move an inch as I wanted nothing more than to be as close as I could to the Batcave and the Dynamic Duo. As I wear glasses these days, her ocular warnings proved prescient. 

As I got older, I did wonder about Batman’s Superhero credentials – which compared to other members of that select group were miniscule. Superman could fly, had x-ray vision (which is what I most wanted!), and super-natural hearing. Spiderman could use his spider qualities to scale buildings and swing Tarzanesque from building to building from his fantastic webs that spewed out from his hands.  The Amazing Hulk could get all muscle bound like Arnold Schwarzenegger when his rage soared and dominate any evildoer blocking his path for justice. Other the other hand, Batman was a rich dude with a bunch of cool toys – kinda like Donald Trump with a cape.

As the 70s came and my teenage hormones started running amok, my heroes mirrored those strange stirrings that threatened my innocence. My bedroom wall was a tribute to Farrah Fawcett as I awoke each morning to that infamous poster of her in that red bathing suit and gleaming smile and tossed blonde locks that had me chockablock with lust. Hugh Hefner was also a hero with his Playboy Mansion and bevy of beauties romping by the pool. What’s better than that thought to a teenage boy in heat? Plus, it was rumored he wore pajamas 24/7 (sans underwear on the outside), which to my 15 year-old mind seemed to be the coolest thing ever.

The 80s brought heroes in the world of the arts – especially the world of comedy.  I knew every one of George Carlin’s “7 Words You Can’t Say on Television” and Steve Martin’s routines better than he did. I worshiped any movie made by Woody Allen.  I bought every one of Stevie Wonder’s albums and discovered the works of writer Paul Theroux – who became my literary hero. His travel books like The Great Railway Bazaar and The Patagonian Express made me yearn to see the world and travel on trains and buses in strange lands as he did. I acted on those dreams.

The 90s gave me Tiger Woods to worship as I felt (and feel) privileged to witness the closest thing to athletic perfection I’ve seen in my lifetime. Golf had become my passion and in lieu of having a well-funded Roth IRA, I traveled to Scotland and Ireland yearly on a bi-yearly basis to play the ancient game of the Scottish shepherds. So what if I’m going to have to become an expert on the nutritional qualities of cat food in my later years. I’ll manage. I'd ogle over pictorials of golf holes with the same lust I used to save for Miss October in Playboy. Things change, I guess.

The current decade seems a dearth of heroes. Oh, I still have Tiger and Paul Theroux. Bob Dylan has also been a main stay on my personal all-star team, but I can’t say that I have as much passion for them as I did for Batman back in the 60s. As a tribute to the Caped Crusader (and since I work alone at home), I’m going to go put my underwear on the outside.  It’s the least I can do.