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In the end, he'd just traded one mantle for another.
He had been raised to become The Sword of St. Dumas, a knight on a holy Crusade. He had chosen to be an Agent of the Bat, an instrument of fear to be wielded against the cowardly and superstitious. But neither answered the question that had tugged at his heart for so long.
Who was Jean-Paul Valley? What did he want to do?
"How's the hot dog?"
The voice, high with youth but heavy with wisdom, shook Jean-Paul from his reverie. He took another tentative bite of the ballpark delicacy, and chewed thoughtfully.
"It is very juicy," he said.
"Right?" Tim grinned. "Hot dogs at the game are the best."
Tim and Dick, Jean-Paul's erstwhile sons and brothers, had decided that morning--without stopping to consult with him--to take Jean-Paul to his first baseball game. Now he was sitting on uncomfortably hot metal benches, watching the Gotham City Eagles through a chain link fence behind the catcher at home plate.
"I still think we should have asked Bruce if we could use his box seats," Dick, the older one, sighed. He wiped his forehead with the back of his left sleeve and grunted at the spreading stain of sweat.
"No way," Tim said. "How was Jean-Paul gonna experience the game up there? We got the best seats in the house."
John-Paul couldn't help but give a small smile at the boy's enthusiasm, though he felt it might be misplaced. So far, all he had experienced was a sore backside and a wish to be out of the unseasonably warm Gotham sun.
He was about to tell Tim that perhaps Dick was right, perhaps baseball wasn’t for everyone...when there was a sharp splitting crack, and suddenly everyone around him was on their feet, hands in the air, waving, screaming. Jean-Paul bolted up, his reflexes honed by years of torturous study, and reached up and out with instinctive skill to catch the projectile before it crashed into the innocents around him.
The crowd exploded. There were acclamations and thunderous applause, slaps on the back and shouts of congratulations. Jean-Paul gripped the sphere in shocked, numb fingers and gave Tim a blank look.
"Hey, good job, man!" Dick yelled over the din.
"Dude! You caught a foul ball! That's so cool, we should try to get it signed after the game!" Tim cheered.
Then the roar of best wishes died, as Keystone City's pitcher wound up for the next throw. Jean-Paul plopped back to his seat, dazed. He cradled the ball that, he guessed, was his now, in his calloused palm.
"What's up, JP?" Dick asked, fishing in his jacket pocket for a hanky.
"I...I guess I don't understand," Jean-Paul said. "Their team's player fouled the ball, which counts the same as a strike, but they cheered when I took possession of it. Shouldn't they be angry the batter might strike out?"
"Well, yeah, but one of us caught the foul," Tim said as the crowd stood and roared again. Johnson had just landed a solid double, giving Kowalski time to slide home. "They were excited that a Gotham supporter got a trophy."
"Probably a little jealous, too, "Dick chimed in with a knowing grin.
"But...why?" he asked again.
"Well...'fan' is short for 'fanatic', y'know?" Tim shrugged. "Pack mentality."
"If one of us wins, all of us win," Dick agreed.
Jean-Paul gave a slow nod. Fanaticism. That was a concept he understood, to which he could relate. Perhaps…
Perhaps he might take the mantle of Gotham City Eagles supporter.
He adjusted his seat on the bench, and shaded his eyes to enjoy the game.