He lay on his back in the dirt of the Pittsburgh ballpark. His neck hurt. Striking his face on the crushed rock along the first-base side felt like breaking through glass. He was bloodied. And the foul ball was gone. He had missed it, missed his one chance to grab a game ball for his son on the boy's 21st birthday.

Tim Tepas, a retired schoolteacher, wanted only to climb over the short railing and sit back down next to his son. Disappear. Forget the whole thing. But the television cameras were on him. The stadium seemed to gasp in unison at his fall along the sidelines of that Pirates-Cardinals game in early August.

Tepas struggled to stand. He heard a voice behind him, felt hands on his back.

Please lie down, sir. Don't try to get up, sir.

The hands, huge meaty mitts, eased him to the ground, held him still.

Don't try to get up, sir.

Tepas was struck by the voice, its confidence, its calm, the way he was called "sir" again and again.
He looked up at the sky and struggled to focus on the face above him. He studied the man's ballcap. He could make out the number 5 written under the bill.

Albert Pujols. The father just knew. This is Albert Pujols.