Eventually, of course, I did start to read comics. I adored them immediately, but only because they were new stories featuring characters I already loved from TV, or had read about on the backs of trading cards (which, by the way, I also used as action figures, smashing them up against each other until they got too bent and folded to use).

The comics were, at first, the least important part of my superhero fandom. The “real” versions were on the TV, and the best versions were the ones I made up on my own, so even though I knew that comics technically came first, they still felt less significant. They were my dad’s things. Glad as I was that he let me explore them, without any ownership or control over them they weren’t as exciting to me as the bins full of plastic people that I could make do whatever I wanted.

Over time, that attitude shifted slightly, especially when a comic book store opened up a few blocks from my house, maybe four minutes away on foot. Lewisburg, PA was a small enough town to only ever have one such shop (and sometimes not even that) so when that lone location was down the street for a while we had to take advantage of it. It was a very different setting in which to browse comics than the dusty garage and softening cardboard boxes I was used to. In the store, there were shelves taller than me from which the comics’ covers could stare me in the face en masse. There were special rare issues hanging on the walls. There were posters and figurines.

Looking back, I can see it for the tiny, dirty, humble store it was, but as a kid it seemed like a magical place with an endless supply of superhero stuff. It had never really occurred to me before where my dad’s comics had come from (because at that age I didn’t think too hard about where my parents got any of the things they got), so walking into the shop was truly a revelation. It was also my first exposure to new comics, all a bit brighter and crisper than my dad’s stuff, most of which was at least as old as I was (only like seven, but still, old enough that I could see the difference right away). The comic book store was a whole new world of well-displayed, bright-and-shiny objects, and I was eager to bring some of them home with me. By then, Spider-Man had a cartoon show, too, and he was the top of the pops in my young heart, so that was where I started.

Still, I was only an occasional shopper, popping in maybe a couple times month with my dad to pick a random issue or two of one of the numerous Spider titles so he could buy it for me. This suited me just fine; I wasn’t concerned with reading full storylines or worried about gaps in my collection yet. I still had my TV programs and action figure fanfic if I was looking for continuity. As far as comics were concerned, I just wanted a new fix now and then, and any single issue would satisfy.

It wasn’t until 1996, right around the time I turned nine, that I ever even paid attention to the numbers on the covers of the comics I was reading. Because that was the year Marvel released Sensational Spider-Man #0.