Last Saturday morning, I was super slow getting out of bed. In fact, instead of getting up, I just turned  on the television. I kept it muted so I wouldn’t wake anyone else up and flipped through the channels: news, news, religious shouter, kiddie show, Batman…

Wait, Batman? It was the old Adam West Batman from when I was a little guy.

I jumped out of bed and ran to see who was awake. Only my oldest son was up, sprawled on the couch, reading a book.

“Come on,” I said, waving him to the bedroom. “Let’s go!”

“What? I’m reading!”

“Reading can wait. This is Batman!”

He jumped off the couch. “Batman?”

We ran back to my bedroom and stretched out on the bed in front of the television. “This is the Batman I grew up with,” I said, turning the sound back on.

The Penguin (Burgess Meredith) was quacking at his flunkies, explaining his dastardly plan to force  Barbara Gordon to marry him.

“That’s The Penguin,” I said.

My son looked at me, and then back at the television. “This is kind of funny.”

“Shh!”

A few moments later, Batman and Robin were on the screen. My son glanced at me again. “He’s kind of out of shape, isn’t he?”

“Shh! Just watch!”

The inevitable fight arrived. Batman  threw haymakers at the Penguin’s thugs, while Robin jumped around, swinging on things to kick them. Each time they hit, a giant onomatopoeia would appear across the screen, comic book style.

“BAM!” “WACK!” “SPLACKOW!”

My son laughed and shouted the words as they appeared. “This is cool,” he said.

“I know!”

“Watch out, Batman,” he yelled. “They’re behind you!”

Robin appeared out of nowhere, swinging a giant wooden stick he’d somehow found. “KRACCCKKKK!”

“YES!” my son and I shouted together.

Batman wins again.