Hangin' with the Prez

I picked out my seersucker suit, appropriate for the Atlanta heat, along with a white shirt and a blue tie. I took particular care, which is unusual for me. In the taxi out to Kennedy, I told the driver I wanted to be dropped off at hangar 12. It crossed my mind that he might be impressed by this--perhaps presuming me to be a passenger on a private aircraft, surely a big tipper. We stopped at a checkpoint. Air Force One loomed in front of us, blue and white, mammoth. My driver, being a New Yorker and impervious to anything that might strike wonder, seemed hardly to notice. I gave him a hefty tip nonetheless.

I went through a search. A bomb dog put his nose in my tote bag. "How do you train these dogs?" I asked a Secret Service agent.

"Repetition," he said.

"How has he done on finding things?"

"Well, that depends."

I hoped the president was going to be more forthcoming about his sports career and the Olympics.

We waited by the airplane for almost three hours. The president was in a nearby motel talking to the families of those lost on TWA flight 800. He appeared finally, dressed in a severe blue suit, and spoke from behind a podium to a bleachers-like stand of photographers and reporters. Hillary Clinton stood off to one side. The president's remarks were somber and moving. I kept thinking that the plane we were about to board was the same model that had gone down off Moriches Inlet.

My seat on Air Force One was in a small compartment reserved for Secret Service agents. They took off their coats and hung them over the backs of their seats. Their pistols and what looked like small flashlights in black cases rode on their belts. My seat companion told me that her pistol was of German make--a Sig Sauer, a 9mm weapon with 16-shot capacity. She professed not to know how many of her fellow agents were on Air Force One, but I would have guessed a dozen or so, certainly enough firepower to rival Tombstone in the old days.

We were served lunch. As I gazed at it, the president appeared at the side of my seat. I tried to shoot to my feet, impeded by a tray that had on it a pepperoni pizza, a glass of lemonade, a salad, a small wafer, napkin and cutlery. And then there was the problem of my secured safety belt. A piece of tomato landed in my lap, on my seersucker trousers. The president was saying, "No, no, don't get up."

"A wrenching morning, sir," I said.

A curious, glazed look crossed his face, as if I had said something distasteful. I thought how compartmentalized the mind of anyone in high political office must be--able to dismiss one problem, however despairing, and then move on.

"Yes, wrenching," he said. Then he smiled, an abrupt shift in his facial expression. "We're going to have a great time," he said.

"Absolutely, sir," I said.

A steward gave me a tour of Air Force One. Impressive enough. Various compartments--the press sits in one (in the rear), the special agents in another, the White House staff in a third. There was also a conference room, two galleys (one amidships, one aft), a communications center in the upper-level bubble, another room that can be turned into a hospital, and washrooms with a selection of toiletries on the shelves. Forward, with the door to it closed, were the president's quarters--a sitting room, I was told, and a bedroom in the nose of the plane. President Bush kept a pair of furry bedroom slippers aboard, with the presidential seal embroidered on the toes. President Clinton keeps a pair of cowboy boots, I was informed, also embossed with the presidential seal.

The president suddenly materialized opposite the forward galley. He was in shirtsleeves. I remarked that I hoped to spend some time alone with him to chat about sports. He nodded and then urged me to have a piece of peach cobbler ("after all, we're headed for the Peach State") and leaned in a kind of teller's window to order it for me, joshing with the kitchen staff within. He turned to me and said again, "We're going to have a great time."

The cobbler, topped with sorbet, was brought to my seat. I offered to share it with my agent friend, since apparently no desserts were forthcoming from the aft galley, certainly not peach cobbler. She shook her head politely. I was to learn from the press afterward that the fare aboard Air Force One is notoriously sparse. No outcry from the taxpayers in this department!

Back at my seat, I was given a little souvenir packet containing a few small boxes of M&M's along with a half-dozen matchbooks, both items fixed with the presidential seal and the candy boxes bearing Bill Clinton's signature. I was told that originally packs of cigarettes were in the gift packet; those went, but not the matches. An odd juxtaposition--candy and matches.

We landed at Dobbins Air Reserve Base in Marietta, Georgia. The president stepped off the plane wearing a blue blazer and olive slacks. Brown suede shoes. No cowboy boots. Mrs. Clinton was wearing a tan pantsuit. Both of them worked the fence, shaking hands as flashbulbs popped. The motorcade set out for the Georgia Dome, headed by a phalanx of motorcycle cops, their blue strobe lights flickering far ahead. I was in a van with five reporters, all longtime White House hands. Behind us was a van identified as the valet car. We moved swiftly, the on-ramps dense with cars waiting for us to pass, long lines snaking back into the countryside. The drivers closest often stood on the roadside to watch us go by. I imagined that some of them were not very pleased, especially those with pressing appointments--a golf date, a contract signing, a clandestine lunch date. I wondered how many Democrats waiting impatiently became independents and independents Republican.

We disembarked. A lot of milling around. A stranger came up and said, "Hey, it's nice to see someone wearing a seersucker suit. Not too many of those around--only the very old Atlanta gentry wear them."

"Is that so," I said.

We caught up with the president. He was walking out of a reception room where he had congratulated the women's basketball team, which had just walloped Zaire. We walked down a corridor together. He mentioned that he had met the team members previously and had taken them out on a jog from the White House, during which--he told me with a grin--two of the players appeared quite out of shape and couldn't keep up. I asked how far he had run them, and the president told me five miles, which is his normal distance. He runs the last mile in the quickest time because he suffers from mild asthma that clears up after four miles. He said he wished we had seen them play Zaire, and mentioned with considerable enthusiasm Pam McGee, who had come back from serious injuries to make the team. He obviously admires those who survive adversity: He also mentioned Kerri Strug, the gymnast who had sprained her ankle minutes before she nailed her last vault. "I invited her to the White House," he said. "She was kind of disarming. She said that was all right but would she be able to see the president!"

The corridors in the Georgia Dome seemed endless. I walked for a while with Hillary Clinton; in front of us were photographers moving backward and a television crew, a clotlike group scuttling like a rapidly retreating rugby scrum. She took no notice, chatting easily about her basketball-playing days at school outside Chicago, in particular about a maneuver in women's basketball back then called juggling, which I understood to be a move allowing a player to continue a dribble.

The First event we attended was women's gymnastics. I was stationed immediately behind the Clintons, between two Secret Service agents. My notebook was at the ready, but trying to carry on a conversation with the Clintons in the next row down, or even to overhear what was being said, turned out to be almost impossible unless I leaned forward and hung my head between them like a balloon. So I chatted with the Secret Service people on either side, who seemed self-absorbed. I kept an eye on the Clintons, including Chelsea and a girlfriend from Little Rock. Chelsea, teeth braces gone, appeared truly out of the awkward stage--self-possessed, slim, long-legged and with a passion, I was to hear from her friend, for the ballet, both as student and scholar. She had been to the Games from opening day and knew what was what. She was explaining the finer points of the competition to her parents. I strained to overhear. Watching the four-ring circus of women's gymnastics, I found it difficult to figure out the various permutations. The midget size of the performers didn't help. One ached for television to make sense of it. Or Chelsea. I leaned forward and asked:

"Which are the Chinese?"

She looked back over her shoulder. "They're dressed in yellow and red."

Hillary Clinton was summoned to do an interview with gymnast Mary Lou Retton, the talkative star of the games in Los Angeles. She came back grinning broadly and reported to the president that Retton had asked her if she felt there were any similarities between gymnastics and politics. She had thought a bit and replied that indeed there were similarities--that she'd seen a lot of tumbles out on the floor that afternoon, costly to the performer, and that it was the same in politics: one mistake, one error in judgment, and disaster! Retton had then asked Hillary which gymnastic event paralleled her own political career. "The balance beam," Hillary had replied, and the president bent over in laughter.

Next we traveled in the motorcade to the swimming competition at the Georgia Tech Aquatic Center, a beautiful open-air arena. The place was packed. I looked around for anyone wearing a seersucker suit. Nope. The swimmers were seated together in the (continued on page 100)Hangin' With The Prez(continued from page 92) closed side of the arena, cheering on their teammates. Again I sat behind the Clintons with the "guns" on either side. Chelsea knew the swimmers by name. "Come on, Beth!" she cried. She was carrying a little American flag.

The president moved back a row and sat next to me. Big chance! I asked him, if he could have been an Olympian, which sport would he have picked.

"The decathlon and swimming," he replied. "I like the feel of swimming and the idea that you're out there against yourself as much as against others, pushing the limits. I like the decathlon because it rewards balance--you don't have to be the best at everything. It tests one's ability to develop in an area where one might not have much natural ability. You're forced to do this because you're competing in ten events. It's fascinating. I have no idea whether I could have succeeded if I'd started working on it as a young man. But the event has always captured my imagination."

He mentioned Al Oerter, the famous discus thrower who never did well in track and field meets until it came time for the Olympics. He won four golds, one of them (in Tokyo in 1964) when he was injured--yet another example of overcoming adversity.

"Do you know about Robert Garrett?" the president asked. Garrett had gone to the first Olympics in Athens in 1896 as a member of the American team without having seen a proper discus. In the U.S. he had practiced with something that weighed about 27 pounds. In Athens Garrett was astounded at the distances the Greeks were throwing the discus until he discovered that what he had been throwing was about 23 pounds too heavy.

"So he stepped up and threw one of these little discuses just about out of the stadium," the president said.

What he was telling me was by no means in an uninterrupted flow. There were constant demands on his attention--the introduction of an athlete, often from a foreign country, always with a beaming coach equipped with a big handshake, a translator hovering behind, the offering of the country's Olympic pin, the pop-flash of a camera to record the event.

One of the president's staff members leaned over us and murmured that the victorious American swimmers were about to receive their gold medals. The national anthem would be played, the cameras would search out Clinton for a photo op--the president standing at attention, facing the flag with a hand over his heart. I had to assume that the staff member was telling the president it would be preferable if he were flanked by his family rather than picked out by the cameras standing next to a stranger wearing a seersucker suit.

When the swimming award ceremony was over, the president visited the U.S. team. A photo was suggested. The swimmers reminded me of slightly unruly high schoolers as they jostled to position themselves for the photographers. They wanted the president in the middle of the picture. He preferred to stand on the side so he wouldn't block out anyone. "Can't you duck?" one swimmer called out. "I do that every day," Clinton replied.

In the corridors of the aquatic center the crowds collected in entryways to wave and cheer. A small boy raised a camera, and when it didn't work he first shook and then pummeled it in despair. The president noticed this and reached out to shake the boy's hand. I was close enough to the president to overhear odd bits of information--including the fact that Atlanta was his first Olympics, though he had jogged around the Olympic track in Seoul before the Games opened in 1988.

On the way to the airport the president stopped at the Georgia International Convention and Trade Center for an interview with Bob Costas of NBC--supposedly a 15-minute halt. Time droned on. An hour. Someone in the press van remarked that once Clinton starts talking, he rarely stops. Another suggested that he, Hillary and Chelsea were in the pool with the synchronized swimming team. Yet a third commented that Clinton could be eating. "Dangle an onion ring anywhere near Clinton and he'll go for it." The card game Hearts was also mentioned--the president's favorite, especially on trips. Occasionally, one of the old-timers said, the press corps has to stand by for long periods of time until he finally calls it quits and comes down the ramp of Air Force One.

"Hey, if you have your talk with him," someone said, "get him to stop when we reach Washington. If we have to hang around for an hour, we'll storm the plane."

"Absolutely," I said.

When Air Force One was about halfway to Washington I was informed that the president wished to see me. The aide led me forward to the conference room. The president, again in his shirtsleeves, was playing a lively game of Hearts with three members of his staff. The first-class galley had provided him with a sandwich and a bowl of pretzels. A glass of ginger ale stood by his plate. He looked up and nodded. I sat down at the far end of the table. A steward appeared and I ordered a scotch and water.

I don't play Hearts and could make out little of what was going on, except that the games went by quickly, the participants seeming only to glance at their cards before passing on the discards. It was apparent that the president wasn't doing well. He moaned at one point and flipped his cards over before jotting down the score on a pad.

After a few games, keenly conscious that we were closing in on Washington, I joined Mrs. Clinton, who was sitting on a couch with a friend. We chatted amiably. She talked about how much she had enjoyed Martha's Vineyard, where the Clintons had vacationed two years before and where we had friends in common. Another moan went up from her husband at the table.

"Do they play for money?" I asked.

She said she didn't think so, and suspected her husband keeps score only for bragging rights.

We were talking about Russia--she was saying that she could never think of Kiev without remembering its multitude of trees--when the president finally threw down his cards. He motioned to me and we went forward, through a sitting room where Chelsea and her friend were curled up asleep on a room-length sofa, into the bedroom in the nose of Air Force One.

I asked about the card game. "I'm in a slump," the president said. "Lost four games in a row." He went on to say that Hillary's brothers had taught him how to play pinochle. At Oxford two girls had taught him bridge, but he hasn't played since. He enjoyed a game called Spades, but Hearts--he couldn't remember where he had learned it--is his true passion. "The nice thing about Hearts is that it's a different game every time you play with different people, and whether you're playing with three, four or five friends. The more people playing, the more difficult it is to control the game. Lots of fun, really a great game."

Our talk ranged over a number of topics. He reminisced about his earlier trip to the opening-day ceremonies. (continued on page 206)Hangin' With The Prez(continued from page 100) "This guy from Palestine was really touching. He came up and said, 'The Palestinians are an old people, but we never had an Olympic team before we made peace with Israel.' Then he thanked me for my part in it. He said he hoped we could keep the peace. He gave me a team pin. A young Irish athlete came up and said they had made great progress toward peace, that no one wanted to go back to war, and that he hoped we could get the peace back. Very touching.

"What I thought was especially remarkable about our own athletes in the Olympics," the President said, "was how often we won the relay races--swimming, track and field. Our team races we win, both men and women. The older I get, the more I appreciate the team efforts as opposed to individual races." He regretted that the women gymnasts had not been able to repeat their team triumph, and then he grinned and repeated what Hillary had said about her interview with Mary Lou Retton. "Gymnastics is a lot like politics. You can do everything right for a long time, but if your concentration breaks for just a moment you can sort of go down in flames."

I asked him about his own athletic career. The president said that in high school he chose to join the band (on saxophone, of course) rather than play a sport. Though he hadn't played competitive sports at Georgetown, he had started running regularly in his junior year ("I'd gotten into kind of bad shape") and had been doing that for more than 25 years.

"I was never good at baseball," the president said, "because I don't have fusion vision."

"Fusion vision?"

"You have problems if you don't have it. Most people do. It's when both eyes naturally come together at a common point. To be good at baseball or tennis, you have to focus on the ball without shifting which eye you're looking at it with. So I was never very good at baseball, but I always loved it."

At Oxford he had played for a year as a reserve on the university basketball team. He grinned and suggested this indicated how weak basketball was at the university. What he really came to enjoy was rugby. "I didn't know much about it, but I was bigger than most of the people on the team, so I kind of got in the way."

The president said that at Oxford he had been fascinated by rowing; though he'd never tried it himself, he had often gone down to the river and watched the crews go by. "I wish I'd done it. I got interested in it at Georgetown because I had a lot of friends who rowed. A fabulous sport. Great for your body--shoulders, abdomen, legs."

Air Force One touched down. Outside it was raining hard. The president was talking baseball. Willie Mays was his favorite athlete, he said, because of the obvious pleasure Mays got from playing.

He told me that the Chicago Cubs were now his favorite team. Growing up he had followed the St. Louis Cardinals--the teams of Stan Musial and Red Schoendienst--until he married Hillary, whose family were all Cubs fans. He had liked baseball from his early days as a fan of the Little Rock Arkansas Travelers. "Nothing more fun than a minor league game," he said, "to just go out and sit there and put your feet up."

I mentioned that I had recently been to Columbia, Tennessee, to watch a Big South league team, the Columbia Mules, play a game.

"Columbia is the mule capital of the world," I said.

A slightly glazed look again came over the president's eyes, as if to signal me that the less said the better about the Columbia Mules, at least on this occasion.

So I asked if he continued to follow baseball, and he said enthusiastically that he did, especially after the All Star break when the pennant races began to heat up. "I'll come in late--a lot of nights I work until real late--and I'll flip on ESPN and get a rundown of the day's baseball scores."

Air Force One taxied to a stop. We were interrupted by a staffer at the door of the compartment. She reminded the president that the wife of one of the crew members was about to give birth.

The president nodded. He said he was having a good time, leaned back in his chair and started talking about basketball in Arkansas. From there he moved on to golf and the details of a golf match he had played at the Congressional with some sports editors. The aide appeared once again, Hillary Clinton just behind her, and the president nodded with a slight sigh.

I went back to my seat to collect my things. The plane seemed empty. The agents had gone. No sign of the press. I recalled their threat to storm the plane if the president had kept talking. It would have been hard to blame them; it was one o'clock in the morning and the rain was coming down hard.

I stood at the open rear door at the top of the ramp. Outside, the rain had formed puddles on the tarmac. I watched the presidential party leave by the forward ramp and under a dark cluster of umbrellas head for the helicopter. I watched it take off, the red tail-light blinking in the darkness. I stood at the top of the ramp, hoping the rain would lessen and that someone would come out with an umbrella so I could protect my seersucker suit.

I asked about the card game. "I'm in a slump," the president said. "Lost four games in a row."