It began like any other evening at the ballpark—an ordinary Pirates home game at PNC Park. The kind of night when the outfield grass is the color of nostalgia and the crack of the bat echoes across three rivers. But by the ninth inning, the joy of the game had given way to something more sobering. A 20-year-old fan, Kavan Markwood, fell 21 feet from the stands and suffered a fractured skull. He now clings to life in a Pittsburgh hospital. There are no highlights for this. No box score. Just a grim reminder that the safest-seeming moments can still harbor danger in places we trust most.

As we await news of Markwood’s recovery, we’re left to confront uncomfortable questions—ones that have surfaced before, but too often fade with time. Questions about design, oversight, and the responsibility that comes with inviting thousands to gather in shared joy. When a stadium becomes more than a venue—when it becomes a cathedral of the game—it cannot allow neglect to be its quiet usher. And yet, this isn’t the first time tragedy has struck. Nor, I fear, will it be the last unless the conversation continues in earnest.

Steve Adelman, a leading voice in event safety and vice president of the Event Safety Alliance, reminds us that enthusiasm and emotion are baked into the DNA of the sports fan. Stadiums must be built with that humanity in mind. “You don’t design a bridge assuming everyone will walk perfectly across it,” he said. “You build with margin for error.” It's an eloquent summation of what’s required—barriers and buffers that anticipate the rush of celebration, the misstep of distraction, or the impulse to reach for a souvenir falling just out of grasp.

The league has made strides—after the 2011 death of Shannon Stone in Texas and the 2015 fall of Gregory Murrey in Atlanta, there were changes. Railings were heightened. Warnings were posted. Protocols were reviewed. But like baseball itself, safety isn’t static—it requires constant adaptation. What was safe a decade ago may not suffice today. And while the average fan may not notice a few inches of railing, to someone like Kavan Markwood, that small measure could be the line between life and tragedy.

Of course, there’s a fine balance to strike. Too many barriers and the experience becomes sterile, distant. But we can no longer accept the idea that excitement must carry risk as its passenger. Baseball is a game of history and of memory—but it must also be a game of learning. For all its beauty and rhythm, it owes its spectators something that doesn’t show up in the standings: the assurance that their lives matter more than a souvenir or a split-second moment of elation.

​​We will pray for Kavan Markwood, and we will wait. But let us not wait to ask the necessary questions. If baseball is indeed America’s pastime, then its venues must remain America’s gathering places—not places where dreams fall, but where they rise. Because while the game on the field continues to evolve, so too must the care we give to those who come simply to watch it played.