The real benefits of selecting Dick became clear fourteen months later. On a September morning in 2001, Americans awoke to an unimaginable crisis. The calm and quiet man I recruited that summer day in Crawford stood sturdy as an oak.
The vice presidential selection came at the end of a grueling primary season. The campaign process has a way of stripping the candidates to the core. It exposes strengths and weaknesses to the voters. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the grind of the campaign helps a candidate to prepare for the pressures of the presidency. Those intense days also revealed the character of the people around me and laid the groundwork for the personnel decisions I later faced in the White House.
The campaign kicked off with the Iowa caucus, the ultimate grassroots experience. Laura and I traveled the state, shook thousands of hands, and consumed untold gallons of coffee. For all our meticulously planned events, one of the most revealing moments of the campaign came unscripted.
In December 1999, I attended a Republican debate in Des Moines. The moderators were Tom Brokaw of NBC and a local anchor, John Bachman. After covering some predictable topics, Bachman let loose a surprise: “What political philosopher or thinker do you most identify with and why?”
I was third in line to answer. I thought about citing someone like Mill or Locke, whose natural law theory had influenced the Founders. Then there was Lincoln; hard to go wrong with Abe in a Republican debate. I was still thinking when Bachman turned to me: “Governor Bush?” No more time to weigh my options. The words tumbled out of my mouth: “Christ,” I said, “because He changed my heart.”
Everybody looked stunned. Where had that come from? On the car ride back to the hotel, Mother and Dad checked in. They almost always called after major events. “Fine job, son,” Dad said. “I don’t think your answer will hurt you too much.” “Which answer?” I asked. “You know, that one on Jesus,” he said.
At first I hadn’t thought about the answer hurting me. I had just blurted out what was in my heart. Upon reflection, however, I understood the note of caution. I was skeptical of politicians who touted religion as a way to get votes. I didn’t believe in a Methodist or Jewish or Muslim approach to public policy. It was not the role of government to promote any religion. I hadn’t done that as governor of Texas, and I certainly didn’t intend to do it as president.
Sure enough, my words prompted an outcry. “There is something unholy about this,” one columnist wrote. “W. is just checking Jesus’ numbers, and Jesus is polling well in Iowa,” another concluded.
The reaction wasn’t all negative. My response had connected with many people who had had similar experiences in their own lives and appreciated my speaking openly about faith.
On caucus night, I won Iowa with 40 percent of the vote. After a brief victory celebration, we made the trek to New Hampshire. I knew that the Granite State could be treacherous for front-runners. New Hampshire voters have a history of knocking down the favorite. I felt good about our operation in the state, led by my friend Senator Judd Gregg. I had spent a lot of time in New Hampshire, marching in parades and perfecting my pancake-flipping skills. On primary day, Laura and I settled into our hotel in Manchester to watch the returns. Early in the afternoon, Karl came by with the first exit polls: I was going to lose, and lose badly.
Laura spoke up. “George, do you want to be president?” she asked. I nodded. “Then you’d better not let yourself get defined again,” she said.
She was right. I had made the classic front-runner mistake. I had let Senator John McCain of Arizona, the other top contender for the nomination, take the initiative in New Hampshire. He had run an energetic campaign that attracted a lot of independents, which overcame my solid support from fellow Republicans. McCain, a member of Congress since 1983, had managed to define himself as an outsider and me as an insider. He talked about reform at every campaign stop, even though I was the one who had reformed a school system, changed the tort laws, and revamped Texas’s approach to welfare. I had to give John credit for a smart, effective campaign. And I had to learn from my mistake.
I went to the gym for a hard workout. On the treadmill, I thought about what to do next. I faced the biggest personnel decision of my young campaign. The conventional playbook called for me to fire a few people and claim a fresh start. I decided to go in the opposite direction. I got the senior staff together and told them I refused to chuck anyone overboard to satisfy the loud voices on TV. One person deserved blame, and that was me. Win or lose, we would finish this race as a team. Then I gave everybody an assignment. Karl called the political directors in upcoming primary states. Joe reassured the campaign staff. Karen reached out to key members of the media. Don Evans bucked up the fundraisers.
I called Policy Director Josh Bolten, who was with the majority of our staff back at campaign headquarters in Austin. “How is everyone holding up?” I asked.
“Most people are in shock,” he admitted.
I knew the team would be looking to me for a signal. “Get them together and tell them they ought to hold their heads high because we’re going to win this thing,” I told Josh.
Looking back on it, the loss in New Hampshire created an opportunity. Voters like to gauge how a candidate responds to adversity. Reagan and Dad showed their resilience after losing Iowa in 1980 and 1988, respectively. Bill Clinton turned his campaign around after defeat in New Hampshire in 1992, as did Barack Obama in 2008. In 2000, I looked at the defeat as a chance to prove I could take a blow and come back. The lesson is that sometimes the best personnel moves are the ones you don’t make.
In South Carolina, we picked a new theme to highlight my bipartisan accomplishments in Texas: Reformer with Results. We set up town hall events, where I fielded questions until the audience ran out of things to ask. I worked the phones, enlisting the support of leaders across the state. Then McCain ran an ad questioning my character by comparing me to Bill Clinton. That crossed a line. I went on the air to counterpunch. The response, combined with a well-organized grassroots campaign, paid off. I won South Carolina with 53 percent of the vote, took nine of thirteen primaries on Super Tuesday, and rode the momentum to the nomination.
In early May, John and I met for an hour and a half in Pittsburgh. He was justifiably upset about insulting language some of my supporters had used in South Carolina. I understood his anger and made clear I respected his character. After our meeting, he told reporters I could restore integrity to the White House “more than adequately.”
That wasn’t the most scintillating endorsement I’ve ever received, but it was the beginning of reconciliation between John and me. In August, John and his wife, Cindy, hosted us at their beautiful ranch in Sedona, Arizona. It was fun to see Chef McCain behind the grill, relaxed and barbecuing ribs. We campaigned together in 2000 and again in 2004. I respect John, and I was glad to have him at my side.
Al Gore was a talented man and an accomplished politician. Like me, he had graduated from an Ivy League school and had a father in politics. But our personalities seemed pretty different. He appeared stiff, serious, and aloof. It looked like he had been running for president his entire life. He brought together a formidable coalition of big-government liberals, cultural elites, and labor unions. He was plenty capable of engaging in class-warfare populism. He was also vice president during an economic boom. He would be tough to beat.
When I look back on the 2000 campaign, most of it collapses into a blur of handshaking, fundraising, and jousting for the morning headlines. There were two moments when the political merry-go-round stopped. The first came at the Republican National Convention in Philadelphia, which was managed well by Dad’s former deputy chief of staff and transportation secretary, Andy Card.