Read Online What It Takes by Richard Ben Cramer - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Ben Cramer
Ads: Link
Steely waiting at the chopper stairs. Jack Steel! Known him for—God! Twenty-five years? And so he’s got to goose Steely, let him know he’s glad to see him, and he’s making a face at Bar about the way the photographers are shouting, and he twists around to see if the agent’s seen him, oughta ask him, but the engine’s so loud, and the wind’s whipping his hair in his face, which he’s screwing up to yell, as he pauses—gotta ask him—trying to balance, crouching in the engine wind, one foot up on the stairs: “Hey! How’s your son ? ... YOUR SON? ...”
And at any one moment, as the shutter clicks, Bush looks like a dork.
So now, he gets to the mound and turns, and stands center stage in the great canyon, stands full frame on the nation’s TV screens, stands alone before the forty-four thousand, and the fifty million. And yet there is not one instant when Bush is at rest, smooth, balanced, his hands easy at his sides. Hell, he can’t drop his hands to his sides: they’ve got him bundled up like a kid in a snowsuit!
He’s got his blue blazer, and a silver tie, and the blue shirt stuffed with him and the vest, and gray flannel slacks, and a brown belt that doesn’t match the lace-up shoes, which he’s now inching backward at the crest of the mound, feeling tentatively for the rubber, as he balances with baby steps on the slippery dirt. And at last, he looks up ... and there’s the grin!
But, alas, no one gets to see the grin. Because as Bush looks up, what he sees is a person, Alan Ashby, the catcher, right there in front of his face, albeit sixty-and-a-half feet away. So Poppy’s got to have a thing with him—gonna be a friend, see. So he lifts up his right hand in front of his face, palm up, and with his wrist limp, flaps his fingers up together, as if he wants Ashby to come closer. A joke, see, just between Al and Poppy. But Ashby doesn’t know him, and he thinks it’s serious, so then Bush has to raise both hands, quick, palms out, with the ball flashing white in his left hand, to keep Ashby where he is, at the plate. By this time, there’s fifty million people who don’t know what’s going on with Bush, why he’s flapping his hands in front of his face.
By this time, ABC has cut to the center-field camera, and the nation has a view of the Vice Presidential back and backside. In this cruel shot, there is none of the athlete a fan might have seen up close, on the field. There is just the squarish silhouette of an aging white man, thick through the middle like any guy at sixty-something, looking every bit the interloper, like any guy in a jacket and tie who walks onto a ball field. Just a pol muscling in on a game that isn’t his—Hey, watch this ... think he can throw?
This is it: the moment, the glorious nexus. Poppy is winding up—well, sort of. He can’t really get his arms above his head, so they end up together in front of his face, and he sort of swivels to his left, and his left arm flies back—but it won’t go back, so he gets it back even with his shoulder, and starts forward, while his right lace-up feels for the dirt on the downslope, and he can tell it’s short while the throw is still in his hand, and he’s trying to get that little extra with his hand, which ends up, fingers splayed, almost waving, as he lands on his right foot, and lists to his left, toward the first-base line, with the vent of his blazer aflap to show his gray flannel backside, with his eyes still following the feckless parabola of his toss, which is not gonna ... oh, God! ... not gonna even make the dirt in front of the plate, but bounce off the turf, one dying hop to the ... oh, God!
And as he skitters off the mound toward the first-base line, and the ball on the downcurve of its bounce settles, soundless, into Ashby’s glove, then George Bush does what any old player might do in his shame ... what any man might do who knows he can throw, and knows he’s just thrown like a girl in her first
And at any one moment, as the shutter clicks, Bush looks like a dork.
So now, he gets to the mound and turns, and stands center stage in the great canyon, stands full frame on the nation’s TV screens, stands alone before the forty-four thousand, and the fifty million. And yet there is not one instant when Bush is at rest, smooth, balanced, his hands easy at his sides. Hell, he can’t drop his hands to his sides: they’ve got him bundled up like a kid in a snowsuit!
He’s got his blue blazer, and a silver tie, and the blue shirt stuffed with him and the vest, and gray flannel slacks, and a brown belt that doesn’t match the lace-up shoes, which he’s now inching backward at the crest of the mound, feeling tentatively for the rubber, as he balances with baby steps on the slippery dirt. And at last, he looks up ... and there’s the grin!
But, alas, no one gets to see the grin. Because as Bush looks up, what he sees is a person, Alan Ashby, the catcher, right there in front of his face, albeit sixty-and-a-half feet away. So Poppy’s got to have a thing with him—gonna be a friend, see. So he lifts up his right hand in front of his face, palm up, and with his wrist limp, flaps his fingers up together, as if he wants Ashby to come closer. A joke, see, just between Al and Poppy. But Ashby doesn’t know him, and he thinks it’s serious, so then Bush has to raise both hands, quick, palms out, with the ball flashing white in his left hand, to keep Ashby where he is, at the plate. By this time, there’s fifty million people who don’t know what’s going on with Bush, why he’s flapping his hands in front of his face.
By this time, ABC has cut to the center-field camera, and the nation has a view of the Vice Presidential back and backside. In this cruel shot, there is none of the athlete a fan might have seen up close, on the field. There is just the squarish silhouette of an aging white man, thick through the middle like any guy at sixty-something, looking every bit the interloper, like any guy in a jacket and tie who walks onto a ball field. Just a pol muscling in on a game that isn’t his—Hey, watch this ... think he can throw?
This is it: the moment, the glorious nexus. Poppy is winding up—well, sort of. He can’t really get his arms above his head, so they end up together in front of his face, and he sort of swivels to his left, and his left arm flies back—but it won’t go back, so he gets it back even with his shoulder, and starts forward, while his right lace-up feels for the dirt on the downslope, and he can tell it’s short while the throw is still in his hand, and he’s trying to get that little extra with his hand, which ends up, fingers splayed, almost waving, as he lands on his right foot, and lists to his left, toward the first-base line, with the vent of his blazer aflap to show his gray flannel backside, with his eyes still following the feckless parabola of his toss, which is not gonna ... oh, God! ... not gonna even make the dirt in front of the plate, but bounce off the turf, one dying hop to the ... oh, God!
And as he skitters off the mound toward the first-base line, and the ball on the downcurve of its bounce settles, soundless, into Ashby’s glove, then George Bush does what any old player might do in his shame ... what any man might do who knows he can throw, and knows he’s just thrown like a girl in her first
Similar Books
