The television was flickering, illuminating my young and impressionable eyes with a pale glow. A boy of 8 years at the time, I was doing my best to be rebellious by watching television after my bedtime.The whole world was asleep save for me, my Sanyo 20-inch tube, and a certain Australian adventurer in skin-tight cargo shorts.
This was a snapshot of much my third-grade school year, a pajama-clad figure cloaked in darkness with nothing but a bag of potato chips and the Australian Outback to keep him company.
This was the way our generation’s heroes were born, not via radio waves or comic-book pages, but over television frequencies across great expanses to be consumed by the hungry eyes of sleep-deprived elementary-aged blokes the world over. Make no mistake. Steve Irwin was my hero, if only for a little while.
I suppose I identified easily with the world-famous Crocodile Hunter due to the fact that he himself never grew up. Wild-eyed and bushy-haired, he was the perfect antidote to everything else I grew up watching. From disingenuous politicians to fear-mongering news anchors and spin-artists, seeing someone as real as Steve Irwin was a drop of humanity and passion in a pool full of corporate-funded doom and gloom.
Wolf Blitzer had never jumped for joy when the Dow Jones industrial average spiked up two points, nor had Katie Couric shown even a hint of real emotion in all her years of plastic interviews and phony essays. But when The Crocodile Hunter came across the last vestiges of a komodo dragon’s nest, he would raise his fists in victory, and every single person within 50 feet of a television could feel it.
I, too, could feel the sorrow on that couch in my basement as Steve cried while lamenting the death of a 100-year-old crocodile named Mary at his zoo. He was an open book, a slice of life strewn in cross-sections across the table of America and abroad.
Needless to say, I was almost crushed when I heard the news of his untimely demise. Apparently he had been stung by the unlikeliest of killers, a lowly stingray off the coast of Australia.
I find a good bit of irony in the fact that the man was stung through his heart by one of the many animals he cared for with every inch of. He regarded them not as a means to fame, or something to be exploited . He treated them with the respect and dignity that many feel they should be treated with, and it stands as a testament to the cold world we live in that this urge to study and marvel at nature’s wonder turned out to be his undoing. Steve simply stood too close to the fire, a place he’d been all his life.
Too often our cynical culture is quick to poke fun when others, like Mr. Irwin, have made themselves vulnerable in the eyes of the world. Our brave ‘hunter’ indeed wore his heart on his sleeve, and I find him admirable for the simple fact that he was one of the few personalities left with a heart at all.
Exploring, sailing, hiking, wrestling and wrangling, he was a modern-day Peter Pan. He made no apologies for being different, and it would serve us all well to remember the fact that this is what made him so special.
Since his passing, I’ve heard his name brought up again and again, and I’ve yet to accept the fact that he’s really gone.
Perhaps it’s too painful for me to think that the man I once idolized for his daring exploits in the quiet of my basement so many years ago is no longer adventuring. Or perhaps I’m afraid to face a far more painful fact.
It could be that I’ve never really grown up. When I hear the name of my friend who’s gone, I’m back in those pajamas, potato chips in hand, exploring endless jungles and staring death in the face every nite at 11 p.m. But maybe, just maybe, that’s how the Aussie man-child would have wanted it.
Either way, Steve Irwin was and still is a reminder to us all to never forget the sense of wonder, the sense of excitement, and the sense of adventure we once embraced as children.
Yes. Steve Irwin was my hero, if only for a little while. And in a great many ways, I hope he’ll always be.

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