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Action Man

Action Man By Mike McGinty Would my youngest nephew, Brian, actually believe I was studly and athletic enough to be a superhero named Action Man? I dreamed of having abs of death. His innocent yells of admiration drowned out my inner shrill of ineptitude. “He thinks I’m who?” “Action Man.” “Who’s Action Man?” “A cartoon superhero,” my mom chuckled. “He’s telling everybody. His friends, his teachers. He really thinks you’re him.” “But why?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Because while you were on vacation in France, Action Man’s show wasn’t on TV like it usually is, and when you got back, the show came back on.” “Oh,” I murmured. I remembered the way my own mind worked when I was five years old. I could kind of see it. “So,” Mom said, “when you come for Spring Break are you gonna play along?” Good question. I was astounded that my youngest nephew, Brian, would actually believe I was studly and athletic enough to be a superhero named Action Man. It was one of the best compliments I had ever received. But how in the world could I ever live up to the standards? What if he asked me to pop a wheelie on his bike or – horror of horrors – throw a football? “Do you think I should?” I asked my mother. “Yeah! You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?” Two weeks later, I sat in my mother’s kitchen in a white t-shirt, a crudely drawn rendition of the Action Man logo stuck to my left sleeve. I had studied the logo in the action figure aisle of the local Toys ‘R Us, then recreated it on an unused name sticker. Brown, red and black lines from pastel colored pencils scratched out an anemic “A.M.” A pseudo-lightning bolt of pale orange quasi-blazed through the middle, and an off-kilter black circle outlined the whole blob. Not only was I no superhero, I was no artist either. I heard car doors slam in the driveway. Seconds later Brian came bounding through the door with a brown paper sack. “Uncle Michael! Uncle Michael! I want to show you my toys.” He dropped to the floor, opened his bag and pulled out a play figure: a tall, muscular man with short, dark hair, and abs of molded plastic death. Action Man. Actually, I could see the resemblance. I was tall. I had short, dark hair. I dreamed of having abs of death. Brian looked me square in the eyes, his blue to my brown, as he gestured to his doll and blurted out, “Are you Action Man?” In as serious a tone as I could muster, I replied with a barely audible, “Yes.” His eyes flew open. “I knew it! Is Max Steele your sidekick?” Brian asked. I glanced at his mother, who nodded almost imperceptibly. “Uh huh,” I said. “Look!” Brian continued. “Here you are in your jungle uniform for when you go to Africa.” He handed me a khaki-clad Action Man. “And here’s you scuba diving.” He handed me a scuba-gear Action Man. “How deep can you go in the ocean?” Stumped already. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.” I said. “I’m on vacation.” Please buy it, I pleaded silently. I couldn’t bear the thought of crashing and burning a mere seventeen seconds into my superhero career. “Action Man! You wanna play soccer?” Eager for a diversion, I said, “Sure!” I walked onto my mother’s tiny front yard with the same trepidation as I had the whole Action Man charade. The last time I had been considered an asset to a soccer game was 1972. Luckily, my lack of prowess didn’t faze Brian in the least. It must have been my superhuman drive to try. “Action Man! Kick it over here!” “Get it, Action Man!” “All right, Action Man!” His innocent yells of admiration drowned out my inner shrill of ineptitude. Until the ball darted into the street, where it was promptly run over by a car. I didn’t know which was more deflated, the soccer ball or my ego. Action Man would never have let such a thing happen. He catches balls. He stops cars. He dries tears. Miraculously, my inability to prevent the soccer tragedy made no difference to Brian. For the rest of my four-day visit, his belief remained strong and unshakable – even on the next day, when he noticed I had forgotten the most important part of my uniform. “Action Man, where’s your patch?” Brian asked. “I’m on vacation,” I answered quickly. “Let’s color.” “Okay!” he beamed, running off to get his crayons. My quick thinking had just saved the day, but I wasn’t really surprised. That’s what superheroes do, you know. About the author: Mike McGinty is a Clio Award-winning ad copywriter who lives in Noe Valley, California. He is just starting to branch out in his writing beyond riveting corporate brochures and fascinating fine print. Find out more about him at www.mikemcginty.com. His email is: mike2106@pacbell.net. Editor’s note: we’re still waiting for the studly photo you promised Mike. The moms are getting frisky!

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