I've taught photography to more students than I can count, and, by now, some are living all over the world, and quite a few are making their mark in the business, while I sit on the sidelines, unemployed. And if I was working for The NY Post, on assignment, and this "photo" was playing out in front of me? I would have dropped whatever Canon I was carrying, on the concrete and, after three lumbar surgeries, one cervical discectomy, and a four-disc fusion in my neck (C4-5-6-7), I would have summoned every nano-ounce of strength I never had and pulled this man up with all my scoliatic and arthritic might. But I suppose for this photographer (and you can bet I'll out you later on), he only had the strength to use his trigger finger. Remember Kevin Carter and the starving baby and the vulture lurking in the background? He killed himself over that photograph. Or do you even know anything about that? Or are you just drooling for the damned judges who would award you the Pulitzer? This is one fucked. up. world.
I'd have saved the man, disappeared into the crowd, gone home, taken a hot shower, and, truth be told, downed a few shots of Tequila. Or whiskey.
And The Post wouldn't have to fire me, because I'd've quit, and I'd've also dealt with busted equipment and gone about repairing it.
Or replacing it, if it was stolen in the ruckus.
And then, I'd disappear.