YOU NEVER KNOW
Remembering my ‘How about that?’ sit-down with late President Bush
B ECAUSE you never know …
In the summer of 1989 we vacationed in Kennebunkport, Maine, near the jetty compound of late President George H.W. Bush and his family.
One day, after playing golf at Cape Arundel Golf Club, a nothing-fancy semi-private track also near the Bush estate and often played by the 41st President, I was in the pro shop where I picked up a local activities magazine to see the suspect:
An advertisement for one of those new, long-shafted, back-saving putters, this one sold in that shop. The ad included a photo of Bush putting with it, as if the President of the United States were providing his commercial endorsement.
That seemed impossible, so I took the magazine with the far-flung notion to investigate, not as if I could just phone the president or run into him at Wawa. But you never know.
The magazine made its way toward the bottom of the bright-ideas-in-waiting pile on my desk. Until Curt Smith called.
Smith, a Bush speechwriter who I knew and still admire and rely upon as a baseball broadcasting historian and author, asked if I’d like to come to Washington, the following week, Oct. 2, for a sitdown with the president as a prelude to the World Series. “Seriously?” “Seriously.” I told Smith to wait while I checked my calendar, then told him I thought I could squeeze in a few minutes for the president.
On my way out, headed to D.C., it hit me that I should bring the ad from that magazine, not that I planned to pester the president with it, but because you never know …
Once through security, I entered a White House conference room to see that the other invitees, among about eight, included — wow — Jack Buck, Tim McCarver and famous Chicago columnist Jerome Holtzman.
Anyway, the session was fun. The post-World War II Yale first baseman encouraged us to continue to stoke his and the nation’s love of baseball, then it was time to go. As we filed past the president to shake hands, I couldn’t resist.
“I want to show you something, Mr. President.” I reached into the inside breast pocket of my blazer and pulled the ad from that magazine.
The president’s eyes widened. He shook his head while frowning, and asked, “Where did you get this?” I told him.
“May I keep it?” he asked. “No,” I said, “get your own.” He shot me a surprised stare then smiled, then laughed.
“I brought it for you,” I said. “I wasn’t even sure if I should bother you with it.”
“I’m glad you did,” he responded, “This is not right. I’m going to take care of this. Thank you.”
He placed it in his inside breast pocket of his suit jacket and away I went.
The moral to the story? There is none, except that you never know.