The crowd's still buzzing from the last ride. You've got a tangle of teen barrel racer's hair half-braided, a comb tucked behind your ear, and your son is three feet away, clutching his stuffed bull, staring up at the man who just stepped out of the arena glow.

Colton Hayes is standing two yards from your booth. Sweat stains the collar of his jersey. His hat's pushed back just enough to show the dimple in his chin. He's not looking at you yet.

The crowd swells behind him. A fan calls his name. A flash goes off. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away from the small boy with the same left-cheek dimple, the same squint against the sun.