
Bill Kristol begins trotting out the usual GOP acid test, in the hallowed pages of the NYT no less, about "likeability". You know, which of the candidates would you most like to go hang out with. Drink a beer or two.
Well surprisingly, I know you're shocked, it's that holiest of holies, Huckabee himself, who passes the Bill Kristol likeability test.
After all, nothing probably sounds more fun to a regular guy like myself than going to luncheons with a bunch of conservative evangelical Christians who think gays and lesbians are going to hell, or chumming around with a bunch of average Joes who believe in beating their kids into submission. That sounds way more fun, than say, this:
Here's the beauty of pickup basketball: You may be a U.S. senator, a living symbol of racial healing and perhaps even the next President of the United States, but if you're gliding in for an easy layup and each point is precious, I've got no choice then, do I? You're getting hacked. So, yes, I'm hammering that arm and crashing headlong into your whippet-thin frame; and, yes, it's a foul so flagrant, so absurdly desperate, that all you can do, body buckling, is laugh. Hey, it's pickup. Everyone, even you, uses whatever he's got to win.
"Believe me," Barack Obama says, walking to the top of the key, "you can get shot for doing that."
He's not serious. I think. But he wants me off his back, and invoking jumpy Secret Service men is a wise ploy. With the race for the Democratic presidential nomination whisker-close, Obama can't afford to show up for some Dubuque meet-and-greet with a mysterious fat lip. His wife, Michelle, warned me, "Don't break his nose, give him a black eye or knock his teeth out. Or I'll have to come find you."
Actually, Michelle understands. She hails from a Chicago family that believes the game -- when you pass, when you call fouls, how you check the ball -- reveals character. Once her romance with Barack got serious, she pressed her brother, Craig Robinson, to conduct the acid test: Go play. Robinson tried to duck it; he had starred at Princeton, and Barack had been a benchwarmer for his Hawaiian high school team. "All I could think was, This guy's going to be terrible, and I have to report that back," says Robinson, who's now the coach at Brown. "And you can't fudge it, because if he turns out to be a jerk and you knew but didn't say it, you're in trouble."
Now, some of you, I'm sure would read that and think, "Wow, Obama sounds like a pretty likeable guy." I'm sure you might even like basketball, and be impressed by someone who can hold their own on the basketball court.
Not me. When I'm not out pandering to child beaters, there's nothing more fun than hanging a few dogs that had it coming to 'em.
Besides, Obama sounds like kind of a show off.
Obama hits two jumpers to go up 3-2, and I remember what Michelle told me: "He's very good at the last minute."
"All right," I say coyly, flipping him the ball. "This is for the presidency...."
He drills a 19-footer, heels barely leaving the ground. "Did you hear me?" I say.
"Why do you think I hit it?" he says.
I back him down twice to tie 4-4. He drains two more, but I swish one to cut it to 6-5. Now Obama closes in, blocks my last shot, grabs the ball. He shuffles out wide, turns and sets, face blank. I thunder toward him, arm outstretched, feeling suddenly like Hillary and Edwards and anyone else in Iowa trying desperately to stop Obama's rise.
The ball drops through the net like a stone.
Read More...
Summary only...