“Superman Doesn’t Wear Medals”

June 8, 2026

The symbol on Superman’s chest may be the most recognizable brand in the world.

Children know it.

Adults know it.

People who have never read a comic book know it.

Entire generations have recognized that simple “S” as a sign of hope, strength, and rescue.

Yet what is remarkable about Superman is not the symbol itself.

It is what the symbol points to.

The symbol is famous, but fame is not his mission.

The brand is powerful, but power is not his purpose.

Superman does not rise each morning asking how many people noticed him.

He rises asking who needs him.

The distinction is everything.

*

The year is 1988.

A Sergeant throws car keys to two young police officers in Brooklyn: Guy Defonzo and Tommy Burns. He tells them to forget standing for Roll Call and, “Just go.”

The worst kind of call had come over: “Man with a gun.”

That’s the call that accelerates the heart and focuses the soul. Because wherever it is, people are running, or ducking…the people. And in this particular case, the people include children.

A gunman was spotted in the lobby of a public housing building on Surf Ave in Brooklyn in the late afternoon - right after school dismissal.

Someone saw the gun in his waistband and the look in his eye.

Someone called 911.

When Guy and Tommy arrived, there was the real possibility they might have to be faster than a speeding bullet…or, at the very least, faster than the gunman.

In those moments, a cop lives between the ticks of a second.

Tick…

Tock.

So Guy and Tommy arrive.

It’s them.

The gunman.

The residents of the building going into and out of their home.

And the children.

They see him in his bright yellow jacket, exactly as described to 911. He sees them. His hand moves toward his waist. Of his two options, he had just chosen “the hard way.” Faster than a speeding bullet…they’re on him. New York’s Finest collide with New York’s most deranged.

But the gun is out. The people are screaming. The horrifying waltz has begun. No one is letting go. They slam into the walls of the vestibule. They crash out the front door. Now they’re out of the building. Then suddenly, they’re on the sidewalk.

No release.

Not the wide-eyed wanna-be shooter.

Not the narrowed-eyed men of steel.

They had already called for help. Almost immediately upon confirming the threat.

But something was wrong. No one was coming. No bugle from the cavalry. No sirens from responding units. Just grunts, gritted teeth, and the gasps of the people…the people.

“Good morning, recruits. Please raise your right hand and repeat after me. I do hereby pledge and declare that I will support the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of the State of New York, and that I will faithfully discharge the duties of the position of Police Officer… according to the best of my ability. So help me God.

So help them God.

Most people imagine heroism arrives wearing a cape.

It usually arrives wearing a uniform.

Or a nurse’s badge.

Or a teacher’s nameplate.

Or no recognition at all.

The world is quietly held together by ordinary people who keep showing up when someone else is having the worst day of their life.

Now they’re at an impossible angle. Twisted limbs, a gun, a snarling madman and blue muscle. Guy’s right wrist was not in a good position. He felt it. At this angle, he’s no good in the fight. He looks at Burns; “You got him?” Burns looks back; “Yeah” Defonzo lets go. The momentum flings Tommy and the gunman, still fighting over the gun, over the hood of a car and into the street. Bodies hit the ground.

Burns’ only thought: “The people…I do hereby pledge and declare…best of my ability.”

A second is all it took.

Defonzo felt the circulation return to his arms. “Please raise your right hand…” The hand of the oath. The hand of the promise to the people. Strength renewed, he leapt back into the heap of friend and foe. Don’t need the cavalry. He is the cavalry now.

Finally, mercifully, in the distance, the “bugle” sounds.

Sirens.

The “cavalry” comes.

Responding units arrive.

Then the arrest.

The bad guy went to jail.

The good guys went home.

So did the people.

So did the children.

To flourish.

I remember the day I heard that story. Straight from Guy Defonzo himself. It’s June 1991. I’m a recruit in the Academy. Company 91-41. He’s one of my three training instructors. This is the caliber of the officers I was privileged to learn from.

And he spoke of the incident like he had done nothing.

As though Tommy was a god.

“Tommy never let go.”

And to Guy, the whole point of the story was this:

“If possible, never call for help between tours. Your help might still be in the locker room, in their underwear.”

Fast forward to 2017.

I had long forgotten Defonzo’s partner’s name. The cop that would not let go.

Not sure I ever knew it.

But I’m sitting in my office at Employee Relations; the unit charged with handling all line-of-duty incidents - death and otherwise. The head of the unit is Chief Thomas Burns. When a cop goes down, he arrives with us in tow, stars a-glittering, to bring comfort. A very humble, reflective and quiet man. I had worked with him and for him since 2002. Thought I knew everything about him. Then one day I overhear him say to another person: “Oh Guy Defonzo? What an incredible man. A cop’s cop.” That is the highest compliment one cop can give another. They keep talking. I freeze.

My head leans out of my office.

“Excuse me, Chief. Did you just say Guy Defonzo?”

Burns replies, “Yes. Did you know him?”

I explain that he was one of my instructors.

Burns says, “Incredible guy. He was my partner at one time.”

I still hadn’t connected the dots.

It had been twenty-six years since I heard the story.

Twenty-nine years since it happened.

Children born the year of the incident had been adults for almost a decade.

With children of their own.

But it kind of slips out:

“You know, Defonzo once told us a story…”

And I begin.

Burns smiles sheepishly.

Oh God.

The partner?

The other man of steel?

Was my mild-mannered Chief.

When the realization finally struck, it felt more powerful than a locomotive.

*

In our age, much is written about leadership. Even more is written about branding. Entire industries exist to help people become more visible, more recognizable, more influential, and more admired. Visibility has become a currency unto itself.

Yet visibility is merely a tool.

Or should be.

A lighthouse is not valuable because it is seen.

It is valuable because it helps others reach shore.

The same is true of leadership.

The same is true of branding.

The same is true of influence.

A leader may become famous.

A leader may become celebrated.

A leader may become decorated.

But if the people are not flourishing, what exactly has been accomplished?

This is why Superman remains such a compelling figure.

He possesses every reward that modern culture tells us to seek. Recognition. Influence. Reputation. Visibility. Yet none of these things define him.

What defines him is service.

If tomorrow Superman stopped rescuing anyone, the symbol would eventually become hollow. The brand would remain recognizable, but it would no longer mean anything.

Its power comes not from being seen.

Its power comes from what it signifies.

The world does not need more symbols.

It needs symbols that still mean something.

Perhaps that is the challenge facing every leader.

Not whether people know our name.

Not whether people recognize our accomplishments.

Not whether we receive applause.

But whether our work improves the lives of those we serve.

Leadership means little.

Branding is incomplete.

Unless the people flourish.