Do kids even have favorite superheroes anymore? Although the li'l ones of my acquaintance seem happy enough to pass an idle summer afternoon at the latest superhero flick, the exploits of costumed crime-fighters just don't fill them with the kind of manic fervor that long ago seized an 8-year-old me. (And never fully let go.)

If, as I suspect, kids no longer tear across each other's backyards with beach towels around their necks, the world is an emptier place for it. I once asked my nephew, then 8 years old himself, to name his favorite superhero. I still remember the way he looked up slowly from his game of Madden, his small round face a mask of confusion and -- I really don't think I imagined this -- pity.

Might as well have asked him to tell me which Katzenjammer Kid he preferred.

But back when I was a lad, a kid's favorite superhero told you a lot about him. It was a kind of playground shorthand that conveyed to other kids exactly what you thought you were about -- and helped you size them up at the same time. It's what we used before adolescence set in, when taste in music took over the job.

The seven most popular playground choices, and what they really said about the chooser, after the jump ...

• Superman: Every kid wanted to be Supes, because in both number and sheer variety, he outpowers other heroes by a mile. (Super-ventriloquism? Seriously?) Plus, playing Superman meant you got to run around with your arms thrust out in front of you, making the loud shh-shh sounds of wind shear. This was, if we are truthful with ourselves, the best part of the gig.

But let's face it. Superman's the safe choice, the obvious choice, the choice of the teeming masses. Even in young children, it smacks of a certain lack of imagination.

As for the kind of kid drawn to the Big Red S -- well look at the guy's classic stance: Chest thrust out, arms akimbo, chin high. Extroverts, optimists and Hey-Gang-Let's-All-Pull-Together types chose Superman. The kinds of kids who'd later get themselves elected to student council and make Wacky Hat Day a staple of School Spirit Week.

Children who always chose Superman grew up to become politicians. And cable news anchors.

• Spider-Man: Kids who chose Spidey weren't about the overt application of force. Ol' Webhead's real strengths, after all, are his agility, which allows him to dodge blow after blow, and his webbing, which merely immobilizes his opponents. He relies on cleverness and misdirection because, at the end of the day, Peter Parker's just another nerd, albeit a nerd who can toss off a witty put-down with ease.

Kids who always chose Spider-Man grew up to become defense attorneys and print journalists.

• Batman: This one's more complicated. When I was growing up, there were two flavors of Batman that kids could choose from: They could choose the goofy, Adam West TV-rerun Batman, who was preferred by most of the kids in my neighborhood. Or they could choose the grim, strike-from-the-shadows, lone-avenger-of-the-night comic book Batman, who eschewed things like sunshine and Shark-Repellent Bat Spray in favor of instilling terror in the hearts of criminals. My friend Eric preferred this latter Batman.

The kids who chose the Adam West Batman were all about recreating the TV show, down to its least detail -- catchphrases, stylized fight scenes, everything. "To the Batpoles!" they'd shout without provocation, if they weren't grunting "Biff! Pow! Zap! Biff! Pow! Zap!" endlessly, tediously, to themselves.

These kids grew up to become newspaper feature editors.

Kids like Eric, who chose instead to crouch behind Mrs. Taggart's rhododendron and leap, hissing, upon their hapless victims in a flurry of fists and teeth, grew up to edit magazine copy.

• Robin: Kids who chose Robin were happiest in the role of dutiful follower. They were and remain Milhouses to the world's Barts.
They just wanted to join in, to lend their support, knowing that if things got too hairy they could hide behind the cape of the bigger kid playing Batman.

Like their friends who chose TV-Batman, they rarely went off-script, much preferring to repeat the same hackneyed catchphrases -- Holy this and Holy that -- over and over, with little variation.

Kids who always played Robin grew up to become White House spokespeople.

• Thor: Well, he's a god, isn't he? Haughty, imperious, given to intoning commands in a densely convoluted, nigh-impenetrable language ("Have at thee, villain! I say thee nay!") of his own?

These kids grew up to be your office's I.T. guy.

• The Hulk: P.E. teachers, duh. Also: Laura Ingraham.


• Aquaman: Those few, courageous young souls who chose Aquaman were of a hardy, far-sighted breed, willing to brave the puerile jeering of their fatuous fellows ("He just talks to FISH!") to emerge ever stronger, ever more determined, battered but unbowed.

Even at so tender an age, these young stalwarts were possessed of the penetrating intellect to spurn such garish outward trappings as flight, x-ray vision and the hurling of lighting bolts for the deeper, more esoteric pleasures of communing with the creatures of the deep. Plus there was the whole riding on a giant seahorse thing, which, how freaking cool is that?

Kids who played Aquaman grew up to become statesmen. Captains of Industry. Leaders of men. Philanthropists. And NPR comic-book bloggers.

--Glen Weldon