So here’s something. February 29th is the rarest birthday on the calendar. Did you know that?

There is only a one in a 1,461 chance of being born on Feb. 29th. This means that a leap year baby is more rare than an albino peacock, or purple carrots, or a totoaba fish.

Feb. 29th babies are earthly rarities. And rare things are, by default, noteworthy. I know this to be true because Feb. 29th is Superman’s birthday.

Superman’s real name isn’t Superman, of course. It’s Clark Kent. And, actually, if you’re getting technical, his true name isn’t Clark Kent, either. It’s Kal-El.

Kal-El was born on Planet Krypton. When he was a baby, his birth parents sent him to Earth on an infant-sized spaceship shortly before the planet’s natural cataclysm. He was found by a farmer who named him Clark.

I know this because I am a huge Superman fan. And we Superman fans do not call him Superman, if you must know. We call him “Supes.” It is our way.

I am still a big fan. Currently, Superman comics litter my office. I have Superman statues everywhere. I collect Superman lunchboxes. I grew up wearing Superman underpants.

When I was a kid, every Feb. 29th, I’d sit before our Zenith console TV and watch reruns of the “Adventures of Superman” starring George Reeves, who looked like a regular person, not like a professional wrestler. George Reeves looked like a guy who had put in some time around the queso dip.

The local station broadcast Superman marathons all day on the 29th. I celebrated his birthday by watching each episode, clutching my figurines, dressed in my little Superman undies.

I had a crummy childhood. My home life wasn’t the stuff of dreams. Mine was an abusive home. My youth was painted with suicide and gun violence. I failed a grade. I was not a smart child. I had bad teeth. We were poor. My mom cut my hair with World War II clippers. Blah, blah, blah. None of that matters here.

What matters is that every year on Feb. 29th I was no longer a tragic kid. I was Superman’s friend.

Which leads me to you.

I can’t forget the day I met you, Becca. You were 10. And blind. You were born to drug-addicted parents who treated you poorly. You were a pinball in the Foster Machine before being adopted. You underwent open heart surgery, and more surgeries than I can count.

You wrote me a letter before you went to Saint Jude’s hospital for treatment. Your teacher emailed the letter. I read it.

And I knew I had to meet you.

I traveled to Boaz, Alabama, which isn’t the edge of the world, but you can see it from there. We met for lunch.

You were in a rocking chair outside the restaurant. White cane. Your little eyes closed. You were as big as a minute. Ponytail. Velcro shoes. Scar on your neck. And we hugged.

You didn’t know me. I didn’t know you. But we hugged. Long and hard. And somehow, I knew my life would never be the same.

And you probably don’t remember this. But as we ate our lunch, I asked when your birthday was.

You cheerfully replied, “I was born Feb. 29th.”

Well.

Move over, Supes.

– Sean Dietrich is a columnist, and novelist, known for his commentary on life in the American South.