🎥 260310 #셔누# #민혁# 💪 BIG GUY 💪 #SHOWNU# #MINHYUK# #몬스타엑스# #Unfold# #언폴드# #MONSTAX# #MONSTA_X# ▶ ▶ ▶

LEAVE A MAN PINNED UNDER THE BAR FOR VIEWS AND FIND OUT!! Did the big guy go too far putting the prankster on the floor, or was that the cleanest lesson in the whole gym? Two guys offer a lifter $1000 if he can hit his max, then walk off and leave him stuck under the bar. Another gym member has seen enough and puts one of the pranksters on the ground. I've got zero sympathy for the pranksters. Leaving someone pinned under a loaded bar isn't a joke. That's how people get seriously hurt, and doing it for content makes it worse. For our family the line is simple: when the joke depends on someone else's safety, it isn't funny. That said, I don't love answering stupid with violence, even satisfying violence. The right move was getting the bar off the guy first and having the gym kick them out for good. Our boys are going to be tempted to swing first someday, and I'd rather they learn that stepping in to help counts for more than getting even. In the big guy's defense, sometimes the only language a prankster understands is consequences. And it's possible the whole thing is staged, which would be its own kind of dumb. Spot your neighbor. Don't strand him.

On a flight from Dallas to Tokyo, the man next to me cried over a children's picture book. It was falling apart. Taped spine. Crayon on the cover. He was a big guy. Forties. Work boots. Reading it very slowly, like it was a letter. Somewhere over the Pacific, he noticed me noticing. "It's my dad's," he said. His name is Ryan. He's from Arkansas. He told me the whole story in the dark of the cabin, with the window shades down and everybody else asleep. His father, Dwight, was a welder. Ryan said that when he was little, his dad was a superhero. He could fix anything. Lift anything. He knew everything. Every question Ryan ever asked, his dad had an answer. And every night, Dwight read him a bedtime story. He was incredible at it. He did all the voices. He knew exactly when to turn the page. Ryan said nobody in the world could read a story like his dad. It was always the same seven books. Ryan didn't notice. He was a little kid. He loved those seven books. When he was eight, he brought home a new one from the school library. "Read this one, Dad." Dwight looked at it for a long time. "Tomorrow, buddy. My eyes are tired." The next night, the same thing. And the next. For a week. Ryan remembers being hurt. It was the first time his hero ever seemed a little smaller. Here is what Ryan didn't know. His father couldn't read. Dwight quit school in seventh grade to work. He spent his whole life hiding it. When Ryan was born, he asked his wife to read him those seven books. Over and over. Hundreds of times. Until he had memorized every word, and exactly where each page turned. For five years, he "read" to his son from memory. And then Ryan brought home a book he had never heard. So that winter, Dwight signed up for the adult reading class at the public library. Tuesday nights. He told the family he'd joined a bowling league. He did not own a bowling ball. Ryan's mother knew. She went out and bought him a bowling shirt, so the lie would look better. It took him six months. One night in June, Dwight walked into Ryan's room with the library book. Ryan had forgotten all about it. He read it. Slowly. Stumbling. His big finger under every single word. Ryan thought his dad was doing a funny slow voice on purpose. He laughed so hard he fell off the bed. So Dwight laughed too. Ryan says he remembers his dad was sweating. He thought it was just hot. Dwight died last year. He was 67. After the funeral, Ryan's mother handed him a bowling shirt that had never been to a bowling alley. And a stack of old workbooks from the library. On the inside cover of the very first one, in huge, shaky pencil, was the first sentence his father ever wrote. "I want to read to my boy." Ryan said he had to sit down on the kitchen floor. On the last page of the last workbook, in the margin, was a note. "Ryan asked me what 'courage' means. Told him to look it up. Had to look it up first." Ryan has a seven-year-old son now. He travels a lot for work. So every night, from hotel rooms all over the world, he reads to his boy on a video call. From those same seven books. From his father's copies. Somewhere over the Pacific, he closed the book and wiped his face. "My dad wasn't a hero because he knew everything," he said. "He was a hero because he was scared to death, and he went on Tuesday anyway."