I had attended every convention since 1976, but nothing compared to the feeling when I took center stage. I waited backstage in the dark, listening for the countdown: “Five, four, three, two, one.” Then out into the packed arena. At first the scene was disorienting. Light and sound exploded all around me. I could feel the body heat and smell the people. Then the faces came into focus. I saw Laura and the girls, Mother and Dad. All my life, I had been watching George Bush speak. I was struck by the reversal of roles.
“Our opportunities are too great, our lives too short to waste this moment,” I said. “So tonight, we vow to our nation we will seize this moment of American promise. We will use these good times for great goals. … This administration had its moment, they had their chance. They have not led. We will.”
Two months later the campaigns paused again, this time for the debates. Karen Hughes oversaw my preparation team, with Josh Bolten taking the lead on policy. Josh combines a brilliant mind, disarming modesty, and a buoyant spirit. I’ll never forget standing at the Ames, Iowa, straw poll in August 1999 watching several hundred motorcycles barrel into town. Among the riders were Governor Tommy Thompson of Wisconsin and Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell of Colorado. When the lead man hopped down from his shiny blue-and-chrome Iowa-made Victory bike and pulled off his helmet, I was stunned to see Josh, clad in a bandana with our campaign logo. “Governor,” he said, “meet the Bikers for Bush.”
The first debate was in Boston. In the holding room backstage, I called Kirbyjon Caldwell, and we prayed over the phone. Kirbyjon asked the Almighty to give me strength and wisdom. His voice gave me such comfort and calm that I made the telephone prayer with Kirbyjon a tradition before major events for the rest of the campaign and during my presidency.
The next voice I heard was that of the moderator, Jim Lehrer of PBS, introducing the candidates. We emerged from our respective corners and met at center stage. Gore deployed the ultra-firm handshake. I suspected he was trying to play a head game, just like Ann Richards had in 1994.
I concentrated on answering the questions, although at times I felt like I was on autopilot. By the time I glanced at my watch—which I had taken off and placed on the lectern to avoid repeating a debate mistake Dad had once made—we were almost done. We gave our closing statements, shook hands again—normal grip this time—and participated in the post-debate stage rush of family, friends, and aides.
Immediately afterward, Karen told me Gore had made a big mistake. He had repeatedly sighed and grimaced while I was talking. That was news to me. I had been so focused on my performance that I had not noticed.
The second and third debates had different formats but similar results. Neither of us made any quotable gaffes. There was one interesting moment in the third debate, at Washington University in St. Louis. The town hall format gave us the freedom to roam the stage. The first question was about the Patients’ Bill of Rights. I was giving my answer when I saw Gore heading toward me. He is a big man, and his presence filled my space quickly. Was the vice president about to deliver a chest bump? A forearm shiver? For a split second I thought I was back on the playground at Sam Houston Elementary. I gave him a look of amused disdain and moved on.
I felt good about the debates. I believed my performance had exceeded expectations, and I figured the dramatic moments of the campaign were behind me. I was wrong.
Five days before the election, at a routine campaign stop in Wisconsin, Karen Hughes pulled me aside. We walked into a quiet room and she said, “A reporter in New Hampshire called to ask about the DUI.” My heart sank. Such negative news at the end of a campaign would be explosive.
I had seriously considered disclosing the DUI four years earlier, when I was called for jury duty. The case happened to involve drunk driving. I was excused from the jury because, as governor, I might later have to rule on the defendant’s case as a part of the pardon process. As I walked out of the Austin courthouse, a reporter shouted, “Have you ever been arrested for DUI?” I answered, “I do not have a perfect record as a youth. When I was young, I did a lot of foolish things. But I will tell you this, I urge people not to drink and drive.”
Politically, it would not have been a problem to reveal the DUI that day. The next election was two years away, and I had quit drinking. I decided not to raise the DUI for one reason: my girls. Barbara and Jenna would start driving soon. I worried that disclosing my DUI would undermine the stern lectures I had been giving them about drinking and driving. I didn’t want them to say, “Daddy did it and he turned out okay, so we can, too.”
Laura was traveling with me the day the press uncovered the DUI. She called Barbara and Jenna to tell them before they heard it on TV. Then I went out to the cameras and made a statement: “I was pulled over. I admitted to the policeman that I had been drinking. I paid a fine. And I regret that it happened. But it did. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Not disclosing the DUI on my terms may have been the single costliest political mistake I ever made. Karl later estimated that more than two million people, including many social conservatives, either stayed home or changed their votes. They had been hoping for a different kind of president, somebody who would set an example of personal responsibility.
If I had it to do over, I would have come clean about the DUI that day at the courthouse. I would have explained my mistake to the girls, and held an event with Mothers Against Drunk Driving to issue a strong warning not to drink and drive. All those thoughts ran through my head as I went to bed that night in Wisconsin. So did one more: I may have just cost myself the presidency.
Five days later, the four-point lead I’d held before the DUI revelation evaporated. I campaigned frantically through the final week and went into election day in a dead heat with Gore. That night, our extended family gathered for dinner at the Shoreline Grill in Austin. Toasts flowed freely until the exit polls starting coming in. The networks called Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Florida for Gore. CBS anchor Dan Rather assured his viewers, “Let’s get one thing straight right from the get-go. … If we say somebody’s carried a state, you can pretty much take it to the bank. Book it!”
Our guests who did not know much about politics continued to babble away. “The night is young, anything can happen.…” Those who understood the electoral map recognized I had just lost. Jeb and I were furious that the networks had called Florida before the polls closed in the Panhandle, the heavily Republican part of the state that lies in the central time zone. Who knew how many of my supporters had heard that news and decided not to vote? Laura and I slipped out of the dinner without touching our food.
The car ride back to the Governor’s Mansion was quiet. There isn’t much to say when you lose. I was deflated, disappointed, and a little stunned. I felt no bitterness. I was ready to accept the people’s verdict and repeat Mother’s words from 1992: “It’s time to move on.”
Shortly after we got back, the phone rang. I figured this was the first of the consolation calls: “You gave it your best shot.…” Instead, it was Karl. He didn’t sound dejected; he sounded defiant. He was talking fast. He started spewing information about how the exit polls in Florida had overweighted this county or that precinct.
I cut him off and asked for the bottom line. He said the projections in Florida were mathematically flawed. He then got on the phone to the networks and screamed at the pollsters with the facts. Within two hours, he had systematically proved the major television networks wrong. At 8:55 p.m. central time, CNN and CBS took Florida out of the Gore column. All the others followed.