FOREWORD

Growing up we didn’t have any superheroes dressed in capes, wearing spandex and a pair of freshly skid-mark-free underwear, who looked like us. The caped heroes weren’t saving brown people in their movies, comics, or cartoons. Superman came all the way from Planet Krypton to save white folks. Spiderman has never swung through the hood, hanging from his web to scoop a family in the projects from a burning building just before it collapsed. Batman has never rolled through Section 8 in his Batmobile to save anyone. There’s a ton of little Black girls who could’ve used Wonder Woman and that lasso of hers. Unfortunately, they’re still waiting. Shit, you would’ve thought that Aquaman had gotten the memo that “Black people can’t swim” and came to the hood in the summer to hang out by the pool and save lives. He probably would be more popular these days. But he didn’t, and people drowned.

Superheroes don’t come to underserved communities. Superheroes aren’t on earth to save minorities. Superheroes are here to save white America.

Knowing this, as kids, the superstar athletes became our superheroes. They didn’t leap over tall buildings, they leaped from the free throw line. They ran faster than speeding bullets through the finish lines, breaking records. They didn’t have superhuman strength to break through walls, but they did break down barriers. They didn’t come through the hood in the Batmobile, but they did come through in Bentleys. They came to our communities, unlike the spandex-wearing heroes on our televisions. They brought hope, change, turkeys, educational programs, toys, and wisdom with them. Rather than hearing stories through scripts, we heard stories from our heroes’ lips in person. Stories that we could connect to, told by heroes who looked like us.

Superheroes we felt we could be. We bought jerseys instead of capes. Gym shoes instead of the required superhero boots. Headbands instead of masks.

These were our truths.

The guys flying across the screen weren’t going to save us; it was up to athletes soaring through the sky and slam-dunking. Athletes became our superheroes, and it was up to them to save us. Protect us. Give us a voice. Muhammad Ali, John Carlos, Colin Kaepernick, Tommie Smith, and Jim Brown, to name a few.

So when an athlete protests the state of the world he’s seen by many as an ungrateful dumb jock, lucky to be a millionaire for playing a stupid sport. But when we look at an athlete protesting, what we see is our superhero attempting to save us again. My brother Michael is continuing the battle of the supers before him.

WOW! My brother is a superhero. That’s some pretty cool shit to say out loud. I am proud to know that my brother is one of the supers that the minority youth and communities can trust to fight their fights, give them voices, and do his best to protect them.

I always knew Mike would be a superhero because, for as long as I can remember, he’s been my personal hero. Saving me so many times over the thirty years we have spent together. I’m old enough to fight my own battles now, and I’ve discovered my own superpowers, thanks to him, so I don’t mind sharing him with the world now. I mean, who couldn’t use their personal superhero?

A couple things you should know about this superhero, if you dare choose him to be yours, as I did for most of my life: He can’t fly or hold his breath for extremely long periods of time (although he can swim). He doesn’t drive an invisible plane or have x-ray vision. He can’t disappear, turn big and green, or shoot spider webs from his wrist. Shit, I am starting to rethink this whole thing. I mean, what can he do? He’s more of a Blankman than Batman.

To be honest, Mike had no choice but to be a superhero because our dad was the original Mr. Incredible, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

So what is Mike’s superpower? It’s his unfiltered voice and ability to make people uncomfortable. If you ever sat at a table with Mike, you’d begin to feel uncomfortable before the waiter could deliver the appetizers. I mean, the guy wastes no time. He’s the dude you have to warn your guests about before coming over, like, “Hey, my bro Mike is a great guy, but there’s no telling what the fuck he is going to say. But if you listen, he has a lot of great thought-provoking things to say, in between the jokes about your hair, shoes, or teeth.” So guess what? This is your warning. Ain’t no telling what the fuck he’s about to say. Enjoy being uncomfortable!

(Waiter…?)

Martellus Bennett
January 2018