The body slam that shook the world

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Casey Heynes has become an Internet sensation, not a bad feat for a teenage Australian boy who told a television reporter that he has been bullied most of his life.

But that life is over. No one will ever bully Casey Heynes again. Not unless that person wants to be body slammed, I should say.

Casey was in a courtyard at school in Sydney one day last month when Richard Gate, a younger and smaller boy, started punching him as some friends egged him on.

Casey took several of the punches before reaching his limit. He picked up Richard and body slammed him into the concrete. Richard stumbled away, avoiding serious injury. In situations involving physical altercations like this, seeking advice from a personal injury lawyer can provide legal guidance and support, especially if injuries occur. Injured in New York? Call a New York personal injury lawyer from Cellino Law.

The scene was caught on a grainy 40-second video — presumably a cell phone, according to several accounts on the web — that went viral. He’s all over the Internet now, and even had a Facebook page dedicated to him that had 65,057 people who “liked” it as of Sunday night.

Predictably, most of the comments support Casey. He was merely defending himself and had every right to fight back, people are saying. They are living vicariously through Casey, and rejoicing that someone had the nerve to stick up to a bully.

A big part of me agrees with that sentiment. People have a right to defend themselves, and that 40-second video clip clearly shows a boy doing just that. Both boys are lucky that Casey did not seriously injure Richard with that body slam.

But I’m most interested in what the video does not and cannot show — the fathering of both boys.

I don’t know either father or families, and have only seen them on television interviews I found online.

Still, I wonder what roles both fathers played.

In one interview, Casey’s father said he didn’t know about the bullying even though his son said he had been bullied most of his life. How could the father not know? Does he not ask his son about his school day? Does he not talk to his teachers?

In another interview, Richard’s father said he knows his son is “no angel, but this is out of character for him, really.” Well, if he knows his son is no angel, how is bullying not out of character.

I have never had to deal with a child who is, or who has been a victim of, a bully. Most bullying surfaces in middle school, and my children are in elementary school.

I’m sure the reasons why kids become bullies are many and varied. Some probably learn it at home. Perhaps they have an abusive parent, and they are merely mimicking in the hallways what they see in their family room. Others probably learn it from other kids and copy it so they can fit in.

Either way, the majority of bullying seems to have a common thread — the desire to tear other people down because the bully does not feel good about himself.

In other words, it’s a lack of self-esteem. I doubt children who feel good about themselves bully other kids.

So what’s a father to do? The Internet is full of articles that give advice on ways parents can teach their children self-esteem.

But it starts with being a decent role model and playing an active role in your child’s life. Ask them how their day was, and how they are doing in school. Talk to their teachers. See how they interact with other kids.

Praise them when they do well, and correct them when they do wrong, but the former should far outweigh the latter. Hold them up high where they belong and hold them responsible.

And it doesn’t hurt to teach a little self-defense, just in case your child is the one who is bullied.

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My puppy-dog eyes

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Celeste (9) stands in front of me with her arms open wide.

Me: Oh, baby, I’m too tired to carry you upstairs.

Celeste: But you carried Gavin all day, and you didn’t carry me once.

Me: Gavin’s half your size!

She stares at me with puppy-dog eyes.

Me: Oh, all right.

Celeste, once she’s in my arms: Yes! I knew it would work.

Me: You knew what would work?

Celeste: My puppy-dog eyes.

Yup. I’m in trouble.

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An afternoon at the arcade isn’t necessarily a waste of time

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I grew up in a generation that embraced arcade games, but never came down with a full-fledged case of Pac-Man Fever.

Not that I didn’t try, mind you.

I blew my share of quarters on Pac-Man, Galaga, Centipede, Donkey Kong, and Missile Command, but I wasn’t good at any of them.

I eventually gave up, and came to see arcade games for what they were: a waste of money. I just couldn’t understand the purpose of pouring quarters into a game that I was going to lose, and sooner more so than later.

I carried that belief into fatherhood, and did my best to avoid the kiddie rides at the mall that act like magnets to the brain of a 3-year-old. But when I failed, my kids would run to those rides, hop on the fire truck or airplane, and beg me to slide in a dollar bill so it would go up and down for a minute or so.

I’d rather they use my money for a tissue than for those cheap rides, and usually found a way to weasel out of it.

So I winced earlier today when my 9-year-old daughter, Celeste, asked me to take her to what is essentially an arcade on steroids while her younger brother attended a birthday party for one of his friends.

But she asked nicely, and I wanted to do something she considered fun since her brother was having fun. I still thought it was a waste of money, but I took her with a smile on my face.

For the next two hours, we played air hockey, Skee-Ball, Pac-Man, Galaga, and a few other silly games so she could win tickets to trade in for cheap prizes — plastic trinkets I could have bought her for a fraction of the money I spent playing those arcade games.

We left, and I lamented the money I spent because we had little to show for it, and certainly nothing of value. Yet in the middle of that thought, Celeste said, “Thank you, Daddy. That was fun.”

And that’s when I realized I didn’t waste money on arcade games. I spent an afternoon with my daughter, and didn’t waste a dime.

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My Sweet 16 is a pound of chocolate with ears

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 I feel like an outsider this time of year.

Everyone is talking about how their bracket is doing, and I sit silently wondering why they are worried about a small piece of medal that supports a bookshelf.

I hear the term “March Madness” and figure it’s what happens to a person who doesn’t seek proper medical treatment for a raging case of spring fever.

Facebook only makes it worse. I scratch my head at some of the status updates: “go heels! turn it blue! And thanks for the win. See you in newark!”

What is “it” and why do you want it blue? Does Newark have some fascination with somber colors?

And when someone posts, “come on Huskies, you can do it!!” I picture a cheerleader giving moral support to the kitchen staff whose sole job is to prepare corn on the cob at the all-you-can-eat crab buffet on Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

Oh, I know they’re talking about the NCAA tournament, but I’m just not into it. To me, Sweet 16 refers to the number of ounces I like to see in my chocolate Easter bunnies.

The Elite Eight is the minimum number of Hershey’s Kisses I prefer to eat at one time. And the Final Four is number of chocolates that come in the heart-shaped boxes I buy every Valentine’s Day for my children.

It’s the same feeling I have every January when the NFL starts playoffs, and even every August when those same teams start practicing for the upcoming season.

It seems every guy in America, and a good number of women for that matter, gear up to watch men they don’t know play a game better than they themselves could ever dream of playing.

I’ve tried to understand the fascination at different points in my life. I’ve been to my share of Super Bowl parties, and have watched a game or two of college and professional basketball on TV.

Neither took a hold on me.

My wife and I went to many Baltimore Orioles games in the mid-1990s, and even had a season ticket package for several years before our daughter was born nearly 10 years ago.

We haven’t been to a game since, and I haven’t missed it.

Still, I feel like an outsider whenever a sports season peaks. Guys bond over sports. Sometimes it’s the only topic they can talk about, and I have little to say on the matter, which can cut a conversation short.

But that’s OK. It’s hard to talk with all that chocolate in my mouth anyway.

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Sorry Charlie, fatherhood is more than a signature on a check

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I told myself I was not going to do this.

I was not going to spend any time writing a single word about the nearly incoherent ranting of a misguided and overpaid actor.

I was not going to dwell on the damage he must be doing to his five children by being such a poor father and role model because I can do nothing about it.

What more could I add to the conversation? The world does not need yet another writer sitting in his PJs at his computer wagging his virtual finger at a spoiled Hollywood star.

But every time I placed my fingers on this keyboard in the last couple of weeks, I felt the urge to write something, anything, about the sad state of Charlie Sheen’s life. It was like a zit on the tip of my chin, and I wouldn’t be able to write anything else until I popped it.

So here goes: I pity Charlie Sheen.

He thinks he is living a glamorous life that every man in America would want, but he is delusional. I don’t want his life. He made more money taping one episode of the sitcom from which he was just fired than I have earned in my entire life, but I wouldn’t trade mine for his.

He doesn’t understand what fatherhood is about, and his children are the ones who will suffer.

At one point in the interviews, ABC News’ Andrea Canning on “20/20” asked him about his children, to which he responded: “They’ll wake up one day and realize how cool dad is, and you know, he signs all the checks on the front, not the back, and, you know, we need him and his wisdom and his bitchingness.”

Children need a lot of things from their fathers, but I’m fairly certain that “bitchingness” is not one of them, even though I’m not quite sure what that is.

But what struck me most is how Charlie Sheen did not respond. He did not say how much he loves his children and how they know he loves them, how he shows them his love.

Granted, I didn’t see every interview he has given in the last month, so he might have said it elsewhere, but still. Andrea Canning gave him the perfect opening, and he did not take it.

So I pity Charlie Sheen and feel sorry for his children.

He doesn’t understand that fatherhood is not about a signature on a check. It’s about loving your children unconditionally and spending time with them.

It’s about jumping out of bed and running to them when they wake up screaming at 3 a.m. because a dream scared them. It’s about helping them with their homework, teaching them the difference between right and wrong, picking them up when the fall, and holding them accountable when they make a mistake then forgiving them in the next breath.

It’s about being the kind of person you want your children to become one day.

And none of it costs a penny.

This is a repost of a blog entry I wrote for www.dadtrends.com on March 8.

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Steven Tyler needs a new look

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“American Idol” is on television.

Celeste (9): Who’s that????

Me: Steven Tyler.

Karen: The lead singer of a famous rock band, Aerosmith.

Celeste: Wow. He needs a new look.

Me: Like what?

Celeste: I don’t know … like, a normal guy.

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Jimmy Buffett or Boba Fett?

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Karen was driving Gavin to school the other day and changing radio stations.

Gavin (5): Who’s this?

Karen: Jimmy Buffett.

Gavin: Boba Fett?

Think he’s been watching too much “Star Wars?”

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How much ‘Star Wars’ is too much?

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The 8-year-old in me will never grow tired of “Star Wars.”

He will always remember standing in long lines during the summer of 1977 to watch the greatest hero in movie history save the galaxy from the evil clutches of the wretched Empire.

He will applause, even if only in his mind, every time Luke Skywalker uses the Force to help him blow up the Death Star, and Princess Leia bestows medals upon him, Han Solo and Chewbacca.

The 11- and 14-year-old in me will always be somewhat envious of that 8-year-old because they never feel quite the same magic from the two sequels as he felt from the original.

They waited in the same long lines in the summers of 1980 and ’83 and longed for that same magic, but something was different.

Was it the sequels themselves? They never are as good as the original. Was it the shadow of adolescence? Everything changes once pubescent hormones awaken.

But they never answer those questions, and don’t think about it much, but if you have some questions on how long are all 9 star wars movies combined, this time they will answer your questions. “The Empire Strikes Back” and “Return of the Jedi” simply become part of the “Star Wars” magic.

The 23-year-old in me will always rejoice as the price of the “Star Wars” trilogy on VHS drops to less than $40, and he rushes to buy it. He smiles as he relives the magic he felt 15 years earlier, and nearly wears out the tapes.

The 29-year-old in me will always look for the differences between the original movies and the re-released versions with added scenes and characters. He still doesn’t see anything wrong with the originals, and wonders why George Lucas would go back and redo his masterpieces.

The 30-year-old in me will always be disappointed in “The Phantom Menace,” and doesn’t place the blame solely on the shoulders of Jar-Jar Binks. The movie, while clearly still part of the “Star Wars” universe, is by far the weakest story of the lot.

The 33-year-old in me simply can’t wait until his newborn daughter is old enough to watch “Star Wars,” though he isn’t certain what that right age would be. He was 8 when he first saw it, and his younger brother was 7, so it will be a few years at least.

The 36-year-old in me knows he has a son on the way, and figures he should wait to show both his children “Star Wars” at the same time, so he has several years to wait.

The 42-year-old in me was looking for something to do on New Year’s Day this year, and figured his children (now 5 and 9) were ready.

I showed them both “Star Wars” for the first time, and they had a million questions: Who’s Darth Vader? Is that a good guy or a bad guy? Are those aliens? Why is that light saber blue?

I smiled at every one of the questions, knowing I had been waiting for this moment most of my life. They clearly loved “Star Wars” as much as me.

Over the next several weekends, I showed them all the “Star Wars” movies, though regretted exposing them to “Revenge of the Sith.” It’s the only PG-13 movie of the series, and though I skipped over the worst parts to make it more or less PG, they did not like the basic story line.

After all, the movie is about evil winning, and they shouldn’t worry about such things at their age.

We’re just about in March, and every Friday and Saturday night since New Year’s Day has been consumed by one of the “Star Wars” movies (with the exception of “Revenge of the Sith,” of course).

I never thought I would have my fill of “Star Wars,” but I’m there. I don’t want to see another android, Ewok, or Jedi for the rest of the year.

But come Friday I’m certain my kids will want to pop in the next movie — I can’t remember which one, but I’m sure they do — and I’ll be right there with them, reliving the magic of “Star Wars” through their eyes.

This is a repost of a blog entry I wrote for www.dadtrends.com on Feb. 28.

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I speak kid

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Gavin (5): Where was Han Solo before?

Me: Excuse me?

Gavin: Where was Han Solo before at the time in the ship?

Me: Before when?

Gavin, slightly agitated: Don’t you understand my question? Where was Han Solo before?

Me: No, I don’t understand, Gavin. Before when?

Gavin, more agitated: Daddy! I mean, where was Han Solo before he came back?

Me: Came back when? To help Luke destroy the Death Star?

Gavin, still more agitated: No, Daddy! That’s not what I mean! I mean, where was Han Solo before?

Me: I don’t understand the question, Gavin.

Celeste (9): He means where did Han Solo and Chewbacca live before Obi-Wan and Luke hired them to fly them to Princess Leia?

Gavin: Yeah! That’s my question, Daddy. Don’t you understand?

Me: ??????

Celeste: I speak kid.

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Pink is for girls

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I don’t wear pink.

There, I said it. Judge me if you will, but I feel better just saying it. Pink is for girls. Plain and simple.

Oh, fashion designers can take a men’s dress shirt, dye it pink and say it’s for men, but I won’t wear it. I think it looks feminine. Same goes for a pink tie.

And nothing screams “Miami Vice” louder than a pink polo shirt. Unless I’m mistaken, Sonny and Tubbs went the way of parachute pants and leg warmers 20 years ago.

Does that make me judgmental of men who wear pink? I hope not because I think nothing of other men who choose to don the color of the fairer sex. I probably wouldn’t even notice, which in part led me to ask my Facebook friends last week if any guys among them had a pink shirt.

The topic came up during dinner that evening when for some reason my wife and 9-year-old daughter said I would look good in pink. My daughter actually thought magenta would be a good color for me, but I doubt it.

So I put the question to my Facebook friends, and several guys said they did own a pink shirt or two. My wife’s cousin went so far as to say that only a real man can wear pink, so he obviously has one.

Does that mean I’m not a real man? I know that’s not what he meant (I took no offense to his reply and even “liked” it), but does my attitude toward pink somehow mean that I fear it? That I somehow fear other guys will judge me if I wear pink? That I won’t fit in?

I don’t think so because I don’t care what other guys think, and don’t try to fit in. I couldn’t care less about football. I don’t drink beer (these days, I should say). I don’t ogle women as they pass by. I don’t scratch myself in public. I don’t do many things people would associate as being a “stereotypical guy.”

Still, I would not wear pink. It’s just not for me. It’s a feminine color, and for anyone who thinks otherwise I ask this question: Would you put your newborn son in a pink Onesie? Didn’t think so.

Pink is for girls. But guys, if you want to wear it, go right ahead. Live and let live, I say. Just don’t expect me to wear it alongside you.

This is a repost of a blog entry I wrote for www.dadtrends.com on Feb. 24.

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