Billy Batson Journalism

In the busy heart of a city called Fawcett City, there is a tall building with a glowing sign on top that reads WHIZ RADIO.

If you walked inside, took the elevator up to the seventh floor, and pushed open the heavy soundproof door of Studio B, you would find a small dim room with microphones and headphones and shelves of old reel-to-reel tapes. And sitting in the swivel chair, wearing headphones that are slightly too big for his head, you would find a young boy.

His name is Billy Batson. He is one of the city's brightest young reporters.

He is also, when no one is looking, Shazam.

Billy started at WHIZ Radio almost by accident. He had wandered in one rainy afternoon looking for shelter, and the kind old station manager, Mr. Morris, had taken pity on him and let him sit in the corner. Billy had been so quiet, so polite, and so very curious about everything — the dials, the meters, the on-air light — that within a week Mr. Morris had handed him a clipboard and said, "Kid, you've got a knack for this. Want to learn?"

Billy said yes.

And now, years later, Billy Batson is a real reporter. He sits at the microphone with his clear young voice, and he tells the people of Fawcett City the stories that matter. The new community garden behind the old library. The schoolteacher who has been there for forty years. The corner bakery that almost closed down but was saved by a neighborhood that loved it.

Billy believes, deep in his heart, that the power of INFORMATION is just as important as the power of the lightning.

His mentors at WHIZ have taught him the rules of journalism. Always check your facts twice. Always speak with kindness. Never write a story to hurt someone — only to help. Always remember that the people in your stories are PEOPLE, not characters. Mr. Morris has gray hair and reading glasses and a habit of clearing his throat before every important sentence. He treats Billy like a young colleague, not a child. And Billy adores him.

Of course, there is a small problem with being a reporter and a superhero at the same time.

Sometimes a story breaks in the middle of a broadcast — a fire, a robbery, a crisis. Billy has to slip away. Fast. He has perfected the art of being mild-mannered. He uses self-deprecating jokes. He pretends to fumble his papers. He blends into the chaos. And then, in a quiet stairwell or behind a parked car, he whispers the word.

SHAZAM.

KRA-KOW. The lightning hits. The boy is gone. In his place stands the grown-up hero in the red suit with the golden bolt, who streaks up into the sky to help.

The really funny part is that often, by the time Billy slips back into the WHIZ studio with his hair mussed and his cheeks pink, the breaking story is about — Shazam! He sits down at the microphone and reports on his OWN heroics, trying very hard not to grin. The other reporters never quite figure out how Billy always seems to have the freshest details about Shazam stories. They just shake their heads and say, "Lucky kid."

His journalism makes him a BETTER hero, too.

He has learned how to ask the right questions. He has learned how to listen, really listen, when someone is scared. He has learned how to evaluate evidence, how to spot a lie, how to read between the lines. When he is in the great Rock of Eternity arguing with ancient deities, or mediating between magical creatures, those skills matter just as much as his strength. Truth, Billy has come to believe, is one of the most powerful weapons in the universe.

His perspective as a kid helps too. Grown-up reporters sometimes get cynical. They start to see the world as a long sad parade of bad news. Billy still sees the wonder. He reminds his listeners, in his clear young voice, that even on a dark day there are people doing kind things — a stranger holding a door, a teacher staying late to help a student, a firefighter risking everything to rescue a cat. He tells those stories too. He tells them the way they deserve to be told.

The people of Fawcett City love listening to him. The voice of "young Billy Batson on WHIZ Radio" has become a small daily comfort, a sound that means: there is still good in the world. There is still truth. There are still people trying.

Late one evening, after a long broadcast about a city park that had been saved by neighborhood volunteers, Billy switched off the microphone and pulled off his oversized headphones. The ON AIR light blinked off. The studio went quiet except for the soft hum of the equipment.

Billy sat for a moment in the dim room. He could hear, very faintly, the city outside — a siren in the distance, the rumble of a bus, somebody whistling a tune.

He was just a kid in a chair, in a small radio booth, in a big city full of strangers.

And yet he had told their stories. He had reminded them they were not alone.

He smiled, gathered up his notes, and slipped out into the night. There was, after all, a city to watch over.

In two different ways.

KRA-KOW.