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Authors: Timothy Crouse
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down, Marty, calm down,” said Stewart.
“Look,” said Nolan. “I’ve taken three and a half years of this kind of shit from Nixon and those people, and I’m not gonna take it from you pricks.”
Muskie, who had known Nolan for many years, came over and put his hand on Nolan’s shoulder. “What’s the problem, Marty?” he asked in his gravest tones.
Nolan turned around and looked at him. “The bullshit you’ve been handing out—that’s the problem, Senator.”
Nolan then repeated to Muskie that he was tired of taking bullshit from Nixon and Agnew. “I expect much more of you and I intend to hold you to it,” he said sharply.
“Well, Marty,” said the Senator. “I guess you’re right.” For the next five minutes, he apologized for his outburst.
If the press had ever been more powerful than in 1972, nobody could remember when.
* Leo C. Rosten,
Journalism Quarterly
, June 1937.
† White’s emphasis on the vital importance of John F. Kennedy’s early start was the main reason for all this early coverage. There was also another factor. In 1961, a political amateur named Clifton White started assembling the political machine which eventually won the 1964 Republican nomination for Barry Goldwater. The press did not find out about Clifton White’s activities until early 1963. Many reporters later felt chagrin that they had taken so long to catch on to the Goldwater movement, and resolved not to let it happen again.
‡ He was also the Washington Bureau chief for Gannett, which meant that he was as powerful within the organization and as well-paid as many of the publishers of the chain’s newspapers.
§ Germond often talked like a hardhat and made a point of being equally cynical about all the candidates. However, when Washington liberals decided to help rehabilitate the poor black southwest section of town by buying homes there, Germond had been one of the first people to move in. He was one of the last to leave the area after it became clear that the project was a failure.
CHAPTER III
The Muskie Three
and Other Campaign
Reporters
The journalists on any campaign plane or bus were divided into two distinct types: the national political reporters, who were aboard for only a few days at a time and were free to go off and cover another candidate whenever they wished; and the campaign reporters, who were on board for the duration. The campaign reporters had been assigned to live with a single candidate for as long as he was in the race, or until further notice. They followed the candidate everywhere, heard his standard speech so many dozens of times they could recite it with him, watched his moods go up and down, speculated constantly on his chances, wrote songs about him, told jokes at his expense, traded gossip about him, and were lucky if they did not dream about him into thebargain. They ate and drank with his staff and, in some cases, slept with his lady staffers. At their best, they were his short-order biographers, experts on his positions, habits and character. At their worst—and the deadly fatigue of the campaign trail guaranteed that all but the hardiest of them were occasionally at their worst—they were like the foreign service officer who is sent abroad and goes native; they identified with the candidate and became his apologists.
In 1971, long before the primaries began, Jim Naughton of
The New York Times
and Dick Stout of
Newsweek
were assigned to cover Edmund Muskie. Later they were joined by Bruce Morton of CBS, * and together these three men made up the nucleus of the campaign reporters on the Muskie bus; they had been around the longest and had the best knowledge of the workings of the campaign. It was a great compliment to their abilities that they had been put on the front runner’s campaign, but with the decline of Muskie, which was accelerated when he placed fourth in the Florida primary in March, they found themselvesfurther and further from the center of the action. By
“Look,” said Nolan. “I’ve taken three and a half years of this kind of shit from Nixon and those people, and I’m not gonna take it from you pricks.”
Muskie, who had known Nolan for many years, came over and put his hand on Nolan’s shoulder. “What’s the problem, Marty?” he asked in his gravest tones.
Nolan turned around and looked at him. “The bullshit you’ve been handing out—that’s the problem, Senator.”
Nolan then repeated to Muskie that he was tired of taking bullshit from Nixon and Agnew. “I expect much more of you and I intend to hold you to it,” he said sharply.
“Well, Marty,” said the Senator. “I guess you’re right.” For the next five minutes, he apologized for his outburst.
If the press had ever been more powerful than in 1972, nobody could remember when.
* Leo C. Rosten,
Journalism Quarterly
, June 1937.
† White’s emphasis on the vital importance of John F. Kennedy’s early start was the main reason for all this early coverage. There was also another factor. In 1961, a political amateur named Clifton White started assembling the political machine which eventually won the 1964 Republican nomination for Barry Goldwater. The press did not find out about Clifton White’s activities until early 1963. Many reporters later felt chagrin that they had taken so long to catch on to the Goldwater movement, and resolved not to let it happen again.
‡ He was also the Washington Bureau chief for Gannett, which meant that he was as powerful within the organization and as well-paid as many of the publishers of the chain’s newspapers.
§ Germond often talked like a hardhat and made a point of being equally cynical about all the candidates. However, when Washington liberals decided to help rehabilitate the poor black southwest section of town by buying homes there, Germond had been one of the first people to move in. He was one of the last to leave the area after it became clear that the project was a failure.
CHAPTER III
The Muskie Three
and Other Campaign
Reporters
The journalists on any campaign plane or bus were divided into two distinct types: the national political reporters, who were aboard for only a few days at a time and were free to go off and cover another candidate whenever they wished; and the campaign reporters, who were on board for the duration. The campaign reporters had been assigned to live with a single candidate for as long as he was in the race, or until further notice. They followed the candidate everywhere, heard his standard speech so many dozens of times they could recite it with him, watched his moods go up and down, speculated constantly on his chances, wrote songs about him, told jokes at his expense, traded gossip about him, and were lucky if they did not dream about him into thebargain. They ate and drank with his staff and, in some cases, slept with his lady staffers. At their best, they were his short-order biographers, experts on his positions, habits and character. At their worst—and the deadly fatigue of the campaign trail guaranteed that all but the hardiest of them were occasionally at their worst—they were like the foreign service officer who is sent abroad and goes native; they identified with the candidate and became his apologists.
In 1971, long before the primaries began, Jim Naughton of
The New York Times
and Dick Stout of
Newsweek
were assigned to cover Edmund Muskie. Later they were joined by Bruce Morton of CBS, * and together these three men made up the nucleus of the campaign reporters on the Muskie bus; they had been around the longest and had the best knowledge of the workings of the campaign. It was a great compliment to their abilities that they had been put on the front runner’s campaign, but with the decline of Muskie, which was accelerated when he placed fourth in the Florida primary in March, they found themselvesfurther and further from the center of the action. By
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