The Loneliest Face in the Crowd

By MARGARET CARLSON

Few moments are more emblematic of the quixotic campaign of Bill Bradley than his ride aboard a commuter ferry across Puget Sound on the final day of a poignant effort to win a primary somewhere, anywhere. With one hand clutching a cup of coffee, the other jammed into his pocket, he faced straight ahead like any other harried commuter hoping to get to his office without having to make eye contact so early in the morning.

This loneliness in a crowd was part of the Bradley mystique. Sheathed in bubble wrap so that nothing touched him, Bradley successfully fashioned himself an uncompromising outsider. Measured against political blue bloods like the son of a President, this son of a town banker so crippled by arthritis he had to be dressed in the morning looked like a character out of Horatio Alger. Bradley didn't cosset himself in a limo but drove his own battered Oldsmobile, wore the same no-designer tie day after day and had shoes so worn that a Congressman said someone should steal them off his feet while he was asleep and shine them.

Middle-aged Wall Street bankers and Hollywood moguls went all gooey in the presence of a basketball star from the days before obscenely high salaries and trash talk, and Bradley got them to open their wallets wide. He didn't tell anyone what they wanted to hear. First, he wanted to take voters on a spiritual journey, one that would address their "deeper yearning for love and hope." His announcement in front of his high school was magical, hitting all the right notes about small towns and sacrifice and responsibility. Here was the perfect antidote to Clinton fatigue and Mr. No Controlling Legal Authority. He was pure. He was authentic. And he led Al Gore by 17 points in some polls.

So how did someone so full of promise, set aloft by luminaries like Daniel Patrick Moynihan, Bob Kerrey and Michael Jordan, stall in midair? There were tactical mistakes, like spending too much time in Iowa, but there was a bigger problem. If you are going to run on personality, you'd better have one that wears well. Bradley talked about love and hope with the warmth of a telemarketer. He respected "the people," but not one by one. If the premise of a question was wrong, he would correct it even if the question was posed by a kid. His high school coach once said he played basketball grimly, as if you were supposed to suffer for the game, and he stumped for votes the same way. Even when he was having fun, he didn't look as if he was, with his chin tugging his face down and his eyebrows perpetually raised. It was hard not to get Bradley fatigue in the middle of an event. Senator Paul Wellstone, the feisty Minnesota liberal so bouncy he seemed about to leap into Bradley's arms, would work the crowd into a lather only to have Bradley take the podium and douse the room with ice water. Occasionally he was the Pied Piper in a room full of children, but on a visit to a school gym last month, even that gift failed him: he went 2 for 9 shooting baskets. His side lost.

Bradley didn't foresee that he would be competing not only against Gore for votes but also against John McCain for attention. On one front, he was fighting a guy who was overcaffeinated, changing his style overnight from stiff incumbent to small-market talk-show host. On the other, he was up against a genuine hero with the ability to mainline his unique story into the psyche of voters, who knew they would have buckled after one arm was broken--and after five days, not five years. Perhaps Bradley traveled a road too high. Show too much ethical superiority, too much condescension, and voters wonder whether you have what it takes to do business with Trent Lott and Tom DeLay, who wheel and deal on the low road with gusto.

As pictures of McCain on his Straight Talk Express jawing with reporters flooded the airwaves, Bradley looked desolate, riding at one point on a nearly empty bus with a few aides, while a dwindling press corps was sequestered in its own bus behind him. He could be grumpy. Sure, reporters can be superficial and pesky with their ridiculous hypotheticals, and it's hard to scrunch your six-foot-five frame into a coach seat knowing your opponent is stretched out on a soft mattress on Air Force Two, but who said campaigning was a rose garden? One night when the oven wasn't working on his charter plane, Bradley lost his usual composure. When Gore heard about it, he put a white napkin over his arm and served the press dinner on his flight. You've arrived at a very bad pass when Gore comes across as the warm and playful guy.

Yet when he finally switched from Oxford don to Hulk Hogan, Bradley went too much against type. He and Gore both looked like the Bickersons, but Bradley was judged by a higher standard. Instead of concentrating on issues ("I did vote for flood relief"), he went personal ("My opponent is a liar, and he hit me first").

In last week's debate, Bradley appealed to our better angels with his soft-spoken, lofty aspiration to do big things in a time of plenty. He even brought out the best in Gore. Some people are at their highest when their fortunes are lowest. Face to face with the first defeat in his golden life, Bradley was dignified, thoughtful and, yes, happy. When he was at the top of his game, he showed us there could be a better way, even if it wasn't a winning one.