pilots had been just that -- fighter pilots, test pilots -- before being selected for the space program. Suddenly, they were something else. People would see them and begin crying. Wolfe came up with the one ideal analogy to portray the phenomenon: The boys would n't have minded the following. They would n't have minded appearing once a year on a balcony over a huge square in which half the world is assembled. They wave. The world roars its approval, its applause, and breaks into a thirty-minute storm of cheers and tears.... A little adulation on the order of the Pope's; that's all the True Brothers at the top of the pyramid really wanted. But humility is not required of fighter pilots and astronauts. Nor is it required of rock stars or professional athletes or any of the many other public performers, in disparate venues, who are regularly introduced with carefully planned and marketed majesty designed to elevate them in the eyes of their audiences. A pope is different, and his introduction to the world is like no other. When Wednesday morning dawned in Rome, a man named Jorge Mario Bergoglio was one of millions of people preparing to commence the new day. By the time the day was over, he was no longer Jorge Mario Bergoglio, and he was no longer one of millions. As Pope Francis, he stepped onto that balcony and was greeted by that sight. From behind his eyeglasses, he took