An Ordinary Dad's Extraordinary Secret Identity

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MY dad was a mild-mannered reporter with a small metropolitan newspaper. His friends knew him as Corky, but to me he was Superman. He stood 6 feet 2 inches tall, was lanky, and had a shy demeanor. His fedora sat slightly tilted on his head; conservative, rounded eyeglasses perched on his nose; and gray and navy blue suits hung in his closet. But what really convinced me was his looking me straight in the eye and saying he was Superman. He swore to it.

I was six years old when my father shared his secret. My brother Joe didn't believe it. Being one year older, he had experienced my father's previous pranks. Joe had waited patiently, but in vain, for the baseball field …