By Brendan Sheehan
English 50
The old sticky pictures show my brothers fully decked out in their best costumes held together at the waist by their trusty utility belts that kept all their crime fighting essentials – you know, tissues, string, crayons and candy – standing with their best posture as if they were about to be inspected by Drill Sergeant Batman himself. The Station Mall had never seen such a pair. My mother must have looked batty marching around with these two hyper boys dressed for Halloween in June.
I am the youngest of three brothers in my family. Nowadays, all in our twenties, we get along quite well and enjoy one another’s company. But like most brothers growing up, we’ve each met in the ring more times than we could count on our stoved fingers. There was a solid period in my adolescent life where I was damn well sure I could expect some type of brawl to go down in the yard, basement, kitchen, etc. everyday.
Before I was around Ryan and Corey were crime fighters. They kept our hometown safe from wrongdoers while wearing homemade Batman and Robin outfits, courtesy of my mother. Literally every single day until they were about six or seven the pair of them would sport their masks, capes, Batman and Robin t-shirts, shorts and respective colored nylon (what they called “ny-yons”) leggings stuffed into their crime-fighting ass-kicking moon boots.
Their daily missions consisted of keeping the neighborhood safe from bad guys that were invisible to the parent’s eye, costume design sessions, studying the boss (Adam West) on VHS tapes, and keeping my mom safe while running errands. They loved running errands and my mom loved bringing them along because of the reactions she’d get after people with sane families would get a good look at Batman and Robin running around the grocery store with their crooked bowlcuts.
When they found out the real Batmobile was going to be making an appearance at the local mall all hell broke loose. They begged Mom and Dad over and over to take them to see Batman’s official whip. They argued for days over who would sit in what seat and what they would say when they met Batman himself, even though my mother perpetually reminded them that this visit wasn’t a package deal and “The Bat” wouldn’t be there.
There actually was a Batman look-alike at the show but the boys knew better. Realizing he hadn’t fooled them, the man told my brothers that he was a friend of Batman, who asked him to fill in because he was busy. They took the bait. He pretended to sneakily hand them both buttons. A Batman symbol for Ryan, a Robin symbol for Corey. They were in heaven.
A new piece for the uniform. A holy relic. These prized possessions made the boys feel one step closer to their heroes and they weren’t going to let anyone, especially me, forget it.
I later sold both buttons in a yard sale at our house without them knowing – for long, that is. Maybe that’s why I got my ass kicked so much.