by Ray Flook

Now that the convention season is winding-down for 2016, I've started going through the long list of topics that I wanted to write about but put on hold once the madness started. So I started putting together a post on diversity and comics fandom, going at it from a brutally opinionated perspective. And it was going great.

Until it wasn't. Ten tons of "writer's block" came crashing-down on my brain like I owed it money with interest. I had nothing but random notes on random pieces of paper, and I couldn't understand half of my own handwriting because it looked like I was being strangled while writing it with my left foot on a moving bus. So I sat there and wracked my brain for either ideas or a way to figure-out what was going on. Then I realized what the date was…and what time of year we were in now. It's during these times that I'm reminded of both my Dad's passing and the life he lived. And how that ties-into the long-standing, never-to-be resolved debate over who's better: Batman or Superman. So just humor me here and I think you'll see what I'm getting at…

Every year, my Dad would load us into his yellow Ford Granada and truck us down to his work's annual picnic. Now my Dad worked two jobs: he worked for the water & sewer department during the day and was a hospital orderly at night, and it was the latter who hosted the picnics every year. What I loved about going to them was being the son of the guy who everyone knew and liked and wanted to set-up around at the site…because my Dad was the kind of guy who made friends with anyone. Patient, nurse, doctor or administrator…young or old…no matter what your background…it didn't matter: they all knew Raymond ("Ray") Flook and enjoyed being around him. And that was never more evident than it was in the volleyball pit.

My Dad was a "golden god" when it came to picnic volleyball. Now to be clear…I wrote "picnic volleyball" and not "volleyball" for a reason: the man was not born with the basic athletic ingredients necessary to play volleyball professionally…the least of which were his height and bad knees. But put him in a volleyball pit with a decently propped-up net and seven-or-more to a side and the guy was Karch Kiraly. He was fun to play with: always cracking jokes and laughing, making sure everyone got a chance. Best part? Never had a bad thing to say about how anyone else played. Could he be real son-of-a-bitch to himself when he screwed-up? Oh yeah. He was always a little too tough on himself. But with others? He was always about emphasizing the positives and getting them psyched to try harder the next time.

My job as "prince" in "The Kingdom of the Family Picnic Golden God"? I hung-out in the creek that ran next to the volleyball pit and threw the ball back when it went in. I know what you're thinking: how did he get to be so damn lucky? Now in my defense, I was ten-years-old…and ten-years-old wasn't going to get me in the game. Still too young. Still too small. But if I couldn't play, at least I could help-out some other way. So that's who I was: the "creek rat" who kept the game moving. Except for that one time…

It started-off being the same scenario as usual: ball goes into creek, I grab it and throw it back, someone yells thanks and we all go about our business. So that was my go-to plan this time…except something happened. Reaching down for the ball, I felt my left foot suddenly sink down into the creek bed and a sharp pain shoot-up from the side of my foot. My foot isn't going anywhere, wedged beneath mud and rock with the water starting to turn red as I realize that the sharp pain on the side of my foot is from some type of cut that opened-up when it first sank. So I started to panic…big time. Pain and fear made it impossible for me to yell, so it felt like hours before someone finally leaned-over to see what was going-on. I couldn't tell who it was because the sun was directly in my eyes, blinding me to their identity. Clearly whoever that was could tell there was something wrong because the next thing I hear is, "Ray! Your boy!"

If you could realistically feel a millisecond, then that's the best way to describe the time it took for "…boy!" to ring-out before the sun in my eyes was eclipsed by a silhouetted figure who landed a few feet in front of me. I could feel the person reach down into the mud around my foot and try to move it. I let out a small yell and the person told me, "It's going to be okay. You're my Superboy. Nothing's going to happen to you." That's when I knew…even as my vision became clearer…who that person was. My Dad. And I knew everything was going to be okay.

So they eventually got my foot loose and were able to get me to dry land and taken care-of: severe ankle sprain and about a three-inch cut that required a decent amount of stitches in the eyes of a freaked-out ten-year-old. Once the drama settled-down, my Dad carried me over to the volleyball pit and set-up chairs and coolers on the sidelines for both of us to watch the game. After about ten minutes, a couple of the players tried to get my Dad to start playing again but he wasn't having any of it: if his boy couldn't play, then he wasn't playing. But he didn't stop there. He told them that from every year on that he's at these picnics, his boy got a chance to play or he wasn't playing. No discussion. And that's when things changed for me. Next year? No creeks, and I started to learn a pretty decent serve. Won't say I was ever as good as he was, but I held my own and did the family name proud. But it will always be that year that I remember most…because I knew what it was like to be the son of "Superman."

And that's where all of this ties into the Batman vs. Superman thing. Like I said several thousand words ago, it's a debate where there's never going to be a clear winner. For me, it's pretty simple: I'll take "hope" over "fear" any day of the week…twice on Sundays…and throw-in February 29th, too. Batman represents "fear" first-and-foremost; and while "fear" may be "cool" and effective in the short-term, it's also cheap and easy. Proof? I can walk into a crowded room with a baseball bat and make them afraid of me in about twenty seconds. No problem. But try walking into that same room and giving these people the hope they need to try a little harder…hold on a little longer…and never give-up even when all seems lost. It's not easy. We're wired now to default to the negative and doubt/question anything good or decent. To be able to get past that in some way…any way…and get people to see that they are truly "powerful beyond measure" is a special power that doesn't come easy. It takes a lifetime…like my Dad's: "leaping tall buildings in a single bound" during his time as military police and frontline medivac; going "faster than a speeding bullet" as he worked two job to raise six children; and being "more powerful than a locomotive" as he spent years helping and fighting for others, even if it cost him in the long-run. Because in the end, he showed everyone who was lucky enough to have him in their lives that "hope" was a light too bright for "fear" to withstand for too long. I hope I'm paying it forward the way he would want me to…that I grew-up to be the "Superman" he wanted his "Superboy" to be.

Ray Flook has been a contributing writer to Bleeding Cool since 2013. You can follow him on Twitter at @oldmangeek88; on Instagram at @oldmangeek; and soon through the Big Bad Geek podcast.