It’s true that you remember exactly where you were at pivotal moments in history. On the day Superman died, I was in line.

I’d known this day was coming for months. It had been heavily promoted by Superman’s “owners” at DC Comics. There had been a whole storyline, crossing over into several of Superman’s titles about an unstoppable destroyer — a horrific and seemingly unkillable creature known only as “Doomsday.” Where Doomsday came from or how it got to Earth no one knew, but upon being unleashed it had left a trail of carnage and destruction everywhere it turned. The combined might of the Justice League had been powerless against it. Even Superman himself seemed only capable of slowing it down... until that fateful day in January 1993 when he gave his all to finally put Doomsday down.

That was the big day, the release of Superman #75. The Death of Superman. I’d reserved three copies – the maximum allowable—from my local comic shop, but I still had to wait in line. The news of Superman dying had hit the media a week earlier, and as a result comic shops around the country were mobbed. There were stories of people waiting hours to buy a single copy.

The crowd at my local shop wasn’t that big, but as I stood among them—almost all guys—there was plenty of time to soak in all the excited chatter about the significance of this event. Mostly, none of us could believe our luck.

Here we were with money in our pockets at a time in comic history that, surely, was rivaled only by the first appearance of Superman 55 years ago in Action Comics #1. Even in 1993 there were already stories of that book fetching more than $1 million. Now, for a mere $1.25, we could buy something that might one day be worth a small fortune too. The few of us who actually had girlfriends (or like me, had a wife) were thinking a single copy of Superman #75 might put our kids through college.

When my turn at the register came, I tried to be cool, but I think all that came out of my mouth was “Gimme!!” I’d reserved three of the special “Memorial” sets of the issue, which came with the comic, a memorial poster, commemorative stamps, a Daily Planet obituary, trading card and black armband. At least that’s what I was told was in it—I had no way of knowing for certain. The whole set was sealed in a black baggie with the iconic “bleeding” Superman “S” on it and, as everyone knew, only a world-class idiot would actually open the bag and render the entire thing worthless.

As a loyal customer, I also got to buy an individual copy of Superman #75 so I could read it. I walked out of the store holding all four items as if they were each an original Mona Lisa, drove straight home, locked the collector sets away, and read the single issue straight through.

It wasn’t the first comic book I’d ever bought, but back then it was certainly the most important. I wish I could say it was because of the story, but at the time I never really thought about “a world without Superman.”I didn’t give much thought to why we celebrate these fictional characters—these “superheroes”—or why the death of this one in particular should be so important. As I sit here 21 years later, I have my own philosophy about why we all need superheroes, or at least the ideals they represent and how they can inspire us to our own greatness, but back then it was only about the money.

Because of that, Superman #75 was the comic that turned me into a comic collector.

I thought I’d stumbled on to a very special collector’s item. That belief was something DC Comics exploited masterfully, in me and countless millions of others. Superman #75 was followed by a several-issue “Funeral for a Friend” storyline, which had to be part of the collection. That was followed by the launch of four new titles in the Superman franchise, packaged under the storyline “Reign of the Supermen.” Each of these new titles told the stories of superheroes trying to fill Superman’s shoes. Here was a chance to get an “Issue #1” of something, or in this case, four different Issue #1’s, so they too, were must have’s.

Not to be outdone, DC’s competitors got in on the action with their own special issues, storylines, and new characters. Marvel launched an entire “2099” series, giving us the superheroes of the next century, starting with Spiderman 2099 #1. I bought six copies.

Independent publishers followed suit and soon anyone who published comics was appealing to the “collector” mentality with variant covers, gimmick covers, sealed sets and so on. For a while it worked, and people like me launched the comic industry into a very prosperous season. If it was new, or seemed important in the life of a character, I had to have it. And not just one copy. Within a few weeks of Superman’s death I was spending more than $20 a week on comic books and the supplies to store them. I also read them all—very carefully—because the stories were actually interesting most of the time. And as I read them I saw ads for these so-called comic book “conventions.”

At the time, the role conventions could play in building a real collection was lost on me.The only word that came to mind back then was “sad.”It was one thing to spend a healthy chunk of disposable income on comics, but to pay good money to visit a convention about comics was another. I was 24 years old, married and a working professional, not some overweight, lonely, pimply-faced teenage nerd.

No, the line had to be drawn somewhere…