At 14-15, he seemed too old to be ready to cry. And it didn’t seem right to be crying anyway. The swirling, happy crowd at Coors Field was enjoying itself, happy to be there, happy to be with friends and family, happy it was Father’s Day.

And yet he stood, tears almost at the surface, alone – wait, not alone. An older man, not much taller than the boy, his father?, moved into his face, close, scowling, teeth almost bared. “What do you mean, you didn’t do it?” The venom poured into the boy’s red face. “Don’t tell me that! Where did it happen?”

The boy endured the assault; he was no stranger to this. The tears welled in his eyes. The man turned away, facing into the churning crowd, facing me, his face red, his eyes blazing. He turned back to the boy, muttered something in his low, threatening voice.

I stood, fixed. Suddenly there was no crowd. Just the boy, his tormentor and me, 5 feet away. I took a step towards the pair, my eyes glancing for a cop, when suddenly the man turned. With a long stride, he disappeared into the crowd, defiant and angry.

Caught off guard by the man’s leaving, the man was already swallowed by the crowd when the boy came too and raced after him. The crowd parted for a moment and I saw them, the man plowing through the crowd, the boy at his heels. The man shifted direction, the boy followed and they were no more.