I can remember sitting with Bill Bradley in his bare campaign office just after his withdrawal speech in 2000. Everyone was already gone except for a few loyal staff members and the last two Secret Service agents guarding the door. All the noise from all the rallies had subsided, and all that remained were a few empty cubicles and the occasional unanswered phone. I will never forget how one of the agents, checking his watch, offered the candidate a ride home before the final shift came to an end.
It’s not just the candidate, though, who suffers the trauma. For all the people who work on a campaign, who share cramped apartments with other true believers and keep most of their belongings in a car, the end really does feel like The End. I stood in the Ohio headquarters of America Coming Together, the massive Democratic voter turnout operation, as John Kerry and John Edwards gave their concession speech the day after the 2004 election. A smart young organizer was weeping on her boss’s shoulder. I knew that if she lived to be 90, no matter what else she did or how successfully, the memory of that moment would probably still feel like a kick in the gut.
Du jour au lendemain, passer de carburer au café, aux mises à jour de sites de nouvelles aux cinq minutes, aux gestions de crise continuelles, à l'excitation générale d'être continuellement en train de courir, passer de ce mode d'existence trépidant à la routine habituelle, ça fesse. Je n'ose même pas imaginer ajouter une défaite là-dessus.
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