Decision Points Part 3

I was impressed with Dad's sense of timing. He had managed to navigate perfectly the transition from loyal vice president to candidate. He left the convention leading the polls and charged down the home stretch. On November 8, 1988, the family watched the returns at our friend Dr. Charles Neblett Charles Neblett's house in Houston. I knew Dad had won when Ohio and New Jersey, two critical states, broke his way. By the end of the night, he had carried forty states and 426 electoral votes. George H.W. Bush, the man I admired and adored, was elected the forty-first president of the United States.

Laura and I enjoyed our year and a half in Washington. But when people suggested that I stay in Washington and leverage my contacts, I never considered it. I had zero interest in being a lobbyist or hanger-on in Dad's administration. Not long after the election, we packed up for the trip back to Texas.

I had another reason for moving home. Near the end of Dad's campaign, I received an intriguing phone call from my former business partner Bill DeWitt Bill DeWitt. Bill's father had owned the Cincinnati Reds and was well connected in the baseball baseball community. He had heard that community. He had heard that Eddie Chiles Eddie Chiles, the princ.i.p.al owner of the Texas Rangers Texas Rangers, was looking to sell the team. Would I be interested in buying? I almost jumped out of my chair. Owning a baseball team would be a dream come true. I was determined to make it happen.

My strategy was to make myself the buyer of choice. Laura and I moved to Dallas, and I visited Eddie and his wife Fran frequently. I promised to be a good steward of the franchise he loved. He said, "You've got a great name and a lot of potential. I'd love to sell to you, son, but you don't have any money."

I went to work lining up potential investors, mostly friends across the country. When Commissioner Peter Ueberroth Peter Ueberroth argued that we needed more local owners, I went to see a highly successful Fort Worth investor, argued that we needed more local owners, I went to see a highly successful Fort Worth investor, Richard Rainwater Richard Rainwater. I had courted Richard before and he had turned me down. This time he was receptive. Richard agreed to raise half the money for the franchise, so long as I raised the other half and agreed to make his friend Rusty Rose Rusty Rose co-managing partner. co-managing partner.

I went to meet Rusty at Brook Hollow Golf Club in Dallas. He seemed like a shy guy. He had never followed baseball, but he was great with finances. We talked about him being the inside guy who dealt with the numbers, and me being the outside guy who dealt with the public.

Shortly thereafter, Laura and I were at a black-tie charity function. Our plans for the team had leaked out, and a casual acquaintance pulled me aside and whispered: "Do you know that Rusty Rose is crazy? You'd better watch out." At first I blew this off as mindless chatter. Then I fretted. What did "crazy" mean?

I called Richard and told him what I had heard. He suggested that I ask Rusty myself. That would be a little awkward. I barely knew the guy, and I was supposed to question his mental stability? I saw Rusty at a meeting that afternoon. As soon as I entered the conference room, he walked over to me and said, "I understand you have a problem with my mental state. I see a shrink. I have been sick. What of it?"

It turns out Rusty was not crazy. This was his awkward way of laying out the truth, which was that he suffered from a chemical imbalance that, if not properly treated, could drive his bright mind toward anxiety. I felt so small. I apologized.

Rusty and I went on to build a great friendship. He helped me to understand how depression, an illness I later learned had also afflicted Mother for a time in her life, could be managed with proper care. Two decades later in the Oval Office, I stood with Senators Pete Domenici Pete Domenici and and Ted Kennedy Ted Kennedy and signed a bill mandating that insurance companies cover treatment for patients with mental illness. As I did, I thought of my friend Rusty Rose. and signed a bill mandating that insurance companies cover treatment for patients with mental illness. As I did, I thought of my friend Rusty Rose.

With Rusty and Richard as part of our ownership group, we were approved to buy the team.** Eddie Chiles Eddie Chiles suggested that he introduce us to the fans as the new owners on Opening Day 1989. We walked out of the dugout, across the lush green gra.s.s, and onto the pitcher's mound, where we joined Eddie and legendary Dallas Cowboys coach suggested that he introduce us to the fans as the new owners on Opening Day 1989. We walked out of the dugout, across the lush green gra.s.s, and onto the pitcher's mound, where we joined Eddie and legendary Dallas Cowboys coach Tom Landry Tom Landry, who threw out the first pitch. I turned to Rusty and said, "This is as good as it gets."

Over the next five seasons, Laura and I went to fifty or sixty ball games a year. We saw a lot of wins, endured our fair share of losses, and enjoyed countless hours side by side. We took the girls to spring training and brought them to the park as much as possible. I traveled throughout the Rangers' market, delivering speeches to sell tickets and talking up the ball club with local media. Over time, I grew more comfortable behind the lectern. I learned how to connect with a crowd and convey a clear message. I also gained valuable experience handling tough questions from journalists, in this case mostly about our shaky pitching rotation.

In the Rangers' dugout with our girls. Owning a ballclub was my dream, and I was certain it was the best job I'd ever have.

Running the Rangers sharpened my management skills. Rusty and I spent our time on the major financial and strategic issues, and left the baseball decisions to baseball men. When people did not perform, we made changes. It wasn't easy to ask decent folks like Bobby Valentine Bobby Valentine, a dynamic manager who had become a friend of mine, to move on. But I tried to deliver the news in a thoughtful way, and Bobby handled it like a professional. I was grateful when, years later, I heard him say, "I voted for George W. Bush, even though he fired me."

When Rusty and I took over, the Rangers had finished with a losing record seven of the previous nine years. The club posted a winning record four of our first five seasons. The improvements on the field brought more people to the stands. Still, the economics of baseball were tough for a small-market team. We never asked the ownership group for more capital, but we never distributed cash, either.

Rusty and I realized the best way to increase the long-term value of the franchise was to upgrade our stadium. The Rangers were a major league team playing in a minor league ballpark. We designed a public-private financing system to fund the construction of a new stadium. I had no objection to a temporary sales tax increase to pay for the park, so long as local citizens had a chance to vote on it. They pa.s.sed it by a margin of nearly two to one.

Thanks to the leadership of Tom Schieffer Tom Schieffer-a former Democratic state representative who did such a fine job overseeing the stadium project that I later asked him to serve as amba.s.sador to Australia and j.a.pan-the beautiful new ballpark was ready for Opening Day 1994. Over the following years, millions of Texans came to watch games at the new venue. It was a great feeling of accomplishment to know that I had been part of the management team that made it possible. By then, though, a pennant race wasn't the only kind I had on my mind.

Shortly after we bought the Rangers in 1989, the campaign for the 1990 Texas gubernatorial election began. Several friends in politics suggested I run. I was flattered but never considered it seriously.

Most of my political involvement focused on Dad. Within months of taking office as president, he was confronted with seismic shifts in the world. With almost no warning, the Berlin Wall came down in November 1989. I admired the way Dad managed the situation. He knew grandstanding could needlessly provoke the Soviets, who needed time and s.p.a.ce to make the transition out of communism peacefully.

Thanks to Dad's steady diplomacy at the end of the Cold War-and his strong responses to aggression in Panama and Iraq-the country had tremendous trust in George Bush's foreign policy judgment. But I was worried about the economy, which had started to slow in 1989. By 1990, I feared a recession could be coming. I liquidated my meager holdings and paid off the loan I had taken out to buy my share of the Rangers. I hoped any downturn would end quickly, for the country and for Dad.

Meanwhile, Dad had to decide whether to stand for reelection. "Son, I'm not so sure I ought to run again," he told me as we were fishing together in Maine in the summer of 1991.

"Really?" I asked. "Why?"

"I feel responsible for what happened to Neil," he said.

My brother Neil had served on the board of Silverado, a failed savings and loan in Colorado. Dad believed Neil had been subjected to harsh press attacks because he was the president's son. I felt awful for Neil, and I could understand Dad's anguish. But the country needed George Bush's leadership. I was relieved when Dad told the family he had one last race in him.

The reelection effort got off to a bad start. The first lesson in electoral politics is to consolidate your base. But in 1992, Dad's base was eroding. The primary reason was his reneging on his vow not to raise taxes-the infamous "Read my lips" line from his 1988 convention speech. Dad had accepted a tax increase from the Democratic Congress in return for reining in spending. While his decision benefited the budget, he had made a political mistake.

Pat Buchanan, the far-right commentator, challenged Dad in the New Hampshire primary and came away with 37 percent-a serious protest vote. To make matters worse, Texas billionaire Ross Perot Ross Perot decided to mount a third-party campaign. He preyed on disillusioned conservatives with his anti-deficit, anti-trade rhetoric. One of Perot's campaign centers was across the street from my office in Dallas. Looking out the window was like watching a daily tracking poll. Cadillacs and SUVs lined up to collect Perot b.u.mper stickers and yard signs. I realized Dad would have to fight a two-front battle for reelection, with Perot on one flank and the Democratic nominee on the other. decided to mount a third-party campaign. He preyed on disillusioned conservatives with his anti-deficit, anti-trade rhetoric. One of Perot's campaign centers was across the street from my office in Dallas. Looking out the window was like watching a daily tracking poll. Cadillacs and SUVs lined up to collect Perot b.u.mper stickers and yard signs. I realized Dad would have to fight a two-front battle for reelection, with Perot on one flank and the Democratic nominee on the other.

By the spring of 1992, it was clear who that nominee would be, Governor Bill Clinton Bill Clinton of Arkansas. Clinton was twenty-two years younger than Dad-and six weeks younger than me. The campaign marked the beginning of a generational shift in American politics. Up to that point, every president since Franklin Roosevelt had served during World War II, either in the military or as commander in chief. By 1992, Baby Boomers and those younger made up a huge portion of the electorate. They were naturally drawn to support someone of their own generation. Clinton was smart enough to steer away from Dad's strengths in foreign policy. He recognized the economic anxiety in the country and ran on a disciplined message: "It's the economy, stupid." of Arkansas. Clinton was twenty-two years younger than Dad-and six weeks younger than me. The campaign marked the beginning of a generational shift in American politics. Up to that point, every president since Franklin Roosevelt had served during World War II, either in the military or as commander in chief. By 1992, Baby Boomers and those younger made up a huge portion of the electorate. They were naturally drawn to support someone of their own generation. Clinton was smart enough to steer away from Dad's strengths in foreign policy. He recognized the economic anxiety in the country and ran on a disciplined message: "It's the economy, stupid."

I stayed in close touch with Dad throughout the election year. By the early summer of 1992, the campaign hadn't gained traction. I told Dad he ought to think about a bold move to shake up the dynamics of the race. One possibility was to replace Vice President Dan Quayle Dan Quayle, whom I liked and respected, with a new running mate. I suggested to Dad that he consider Secretary of Defense d.i.c.k Cheney d.i.c.k Cheney. d.i.c.k was smart, serious, experienced, and tough. He had done a superb job overseeing the military during the liberation of Panama and the Gulf War. Dad said no. He thought the move would look desperate and embarra.s.s Dan. In retrospect, I don't think Dad would have done better with someone else as his running mate. But I never completely gave up on my idea of a Bush-Cheney ticket.

An Oval Office meeting with Dad and (from left) Andy Card, John Sununu, and Lee At.w.a.ter in 1989. Two days earlier, Dad had ordered American troops into Panama.

One change Dad did make was to bring Secretary of State James Baker James Baker back to the White House as chief of staff. The campaign ran more smoothly with Baker at the helm. Voters began to focus on Bush versus Clinton. The polls narrowed. Then, four days before the election, back to the White House as chief of staff. The campaign ran more smoothly with Baker at the helm. Voters began to focus on Bush versus Clinton. The polls narrowed. Then, four days before the election, Lawrence Walsh Lawrence Walsh, the prosecutor investigating the Iran-Contra scandal Iran-Contra scandal of the Reagan administration, dropped an indictment on former defense secretary of the Reagan administration, dropped an indictment on former defense secretary Caspar Weinberger Caspar Weinberger. The indictment dominated the news and halted the campaign's momentum. Democratic lawyer Robert Bennett Robert Bennett, who represented Cap, later called the indictment "one of the greatest abuses of prosecutorial power I have ever encountered." So much for the independence of the independent counsel.

In the final days before the election, my brother Marvin suggested that I campaign with Dad to help keep his spirits high. I agreed to do it, although I was not in the most upbeat mood. I was especially irritated with the press corps, which I thought was cheerleading for Bill Clinton Bill Clinton. At one of the final campaign stops, two reporters from the press pool approached me near the steps of Air Force One. They asked about the atmosphere on the plane. The politically astute response would have been some ba.n.a.lity like "He feels this hill can be climbed." Instead, I unleashed. I told the reporters I thought their stories were biased. My tone was harsh, and I was rude. It was not my only angry blurt of the campaign. I had developed a reputation in the press corps as a hothead, and I deserved it. What the press did not understand was that my outbursts were driven by love, not politics.

Election night came, and Dad did not win. Bill Clinton won 43.0 percent of the vote. Dad ended up with 37.4 percent. Ross Perot Ross Perot took 18.9 percent, including millions of votes that otherwise would have gone for George Bush. Dad handled the defeat with characteristic grace. He called early in the evening to congratulate Bill, laying the foundation for one of the more unlikely friendships in American political history. took 18.9 percent, including millions of votes that otherwise would have gone for George Bush. Dad handled the defeat with characteristic grace. He called early in the evening to congratulate Bill, laying the foundation for one of the more unlikely friendships in American political history.

Dad had been raised to be a good sport. He blamed no one; he was not bitter. But I knew he was hurting. The whole thing was a miserable experience. Watching a good man lose made 1992 one of the worst years of my life.

The morning after the election, Mother said, "Well, now, that's behind us. It's time to move on." Fortunately for me, baseball season was never too far away. In the meantime, I trained for the Houston marathon, which I ran on January 24, 1993-four days after Dad left office. I was holding my 8:33-per-mile pace when I pa.s.sed Mother and Dad's church around mile 19. The 9:30 a.m. service had just ended, and my family was gathered on the curb. I had a little extra spring in my step for the gallery. Dad encouraged me in his typical way. "That's my boy!" he yelled. Mother had a different approach. She shouted, "Keep moving, George! There are some fat people ahead of you!" I finished in three hours, forty-four minutes. I felt ten years younger at the finish line and ten years older the next day.

Just as I had once run to rid my body of alcohol, the marathon helped purge the disappointment I felt about 1992. As the pain began to fade, a new feeling replaced it: the itch to run for office again.

It started gradually. When Laura and I moved back to Texas in 1988, I became more aware of the challenges facing the state. Our education system was in trouble. Children who couldn't read or do math were shuffled through the system without anyone bothering to ask what, or if, they had learned.

The legal climate in our state was a national joke. Texas personal injury lawyers were ringing up huge jury verdicts and driving jobs out of the state. Juvenile crime was growing. And I worried about a culture of "if it feels good, do it" and "if you've got a problem, blame somebodyelse."

The dividends of that approach were troubling. More babies were being born out of wedlock. More fathers were abdicating their responsibilities. Dependence on welfare was replacing the incentive to work.

My experiences on Dad's campaigns and running the Rangers had sharpened my political, management, and communications skills. Marriage and family had broadened my perspective. And Dad was now out of politics. My initial disappointment at his loss gave way to a sense of liberation. I could lay out my policies without having to defend his. I wouldn't have to worry that my decisions would disrupt his presidency. I was free to run on my own.

I wasn't the only one in the family who reached that conclusion. In the spring of 1993, Jeb told me he was seriously considering running for governor of Florida. In an ironic way, Dad's defeat was responsible for both our opportunities. What had first seemed like the sad end to a great story now looked like the unlikely beginning of two new careers. Had Dad won in 1992, I doubt I would have run for office in 1994, and I almost certainly would not have become president.

The big question was how to get involved. I asked for advice from a close friend, political strategist Karl Rove. I first met Karl in 1973, when Dad was chairman of the Republican National Committee and Karl was the head of the College Republicans. I a.s.sumed he would be another one of the campus politician types who had turned me off at Yale. I soon recognized that Karl was different. He wasn't smug or self-righteous, and he sure wasn't the typical suave campaign operator. Karl was like a political mad scientist-intellectual, funny, and overflowing with energy and ideas.

With Karl Rove, my political mad scientist. White House/Eric Draper White House/Eric Draper n.o.body I know has read or absorbed more history than Karl. I say that with confidence because I've tried to keep up. A few years ago, Karl and I squared off in a book reading contest. I jumped out to an early lead. Then Karl accused me of gaining an unfair advantage by selecting shorter works. From that point forward, we measured not only the number of books read, but also their page count and total lateral area. By the end of the year, my friend had dusted me in all categories.***

Karl didn't just ama.s.s knowledge, he used it. He had studied William McKinley William McKinley's 1896 election strategy. In 1999, he suggested that I organize a similar front-porch campaign. It turned out to be a wise and effective approach. I regretted not working with Karl during my congressional run in 1978. I never made that mistake again.

In 1993, Karl and I both saw a political opportunity. The conventional wisdom was that Texas Governor Ann Richards Ann Richards was guaranteed reelection the next November. Texas's first woman governor since the 1930s, Ann Richards was a political pioneer. She had a large following among national Democrats and, many believed, a chance to be president or vice president someday. was guaranteed reelection the next November. Texas's first woman governor since the 1930s, Ann Richards was a political pioneer. She had a large following among national Democrats and, many believed, a chance to be president or vice president someday.

Everyone said the governor was popular, but Karl and I didn't think she had actually accomplished much. Karl told me his a.n.a.lysis showed that many Texans-even some Democrats-would be open to a candidate with a serious program to improve the state. That was exactly what I had in mind.

In a spring 1993 special election, Governor Richards placed a school funding measure on the ballot. Derisively dubbed "Robin Hood," her plan redistributed money from rich districts to poor ones. The voters defeated it by a healthy margin. As Laura and I watched election returns that night, we listened to an interview by Ann Richards. She was frustrated by the defeat of the school funding measure and said sarcastically, "We are all, boy, eagerly awaiting any suggestions and ideas that are realistic."

I turned to Laura and said, "I have a suggestion. I might run for governor." She looked at me like I was crazy. "Are you joking?" she asked. I told her I was serious. "But we have such a great life," she said. "You're right," I replied. We were very comfortable in Dallas. I loved my job with the Rangers. Our girls were thriving. Yet I had the political bug again, and we both knew it.

When I brought up the governor's race, I always heard the same thing: "Ann Richards sure is popular." I asked some of Dad's former political strategists for advice. They politely suggested that I wait a few years. When I made up my mind that I was running, Mother's response was to the point: "George," she said, "you can't win."

The good news was that the Republican field was wide open. n.o.body wanted to challenge Richards, so I could immediately turn my attention to the general election. I took a methodical approach, laying out a specific, optimistic vision for the state. I focused on four policy issues: education, juvenile justice, welfare reform, and tort reform.

We a.s.sembled a skilled and able campaign team.**** I made two particularly important hires. First was I made two particularly important hires. First was Joe Allbaugh Joe Allbaugh, an imposing six-foot-four man with a flattop and the bearing of a drill sergeant, who had served as chief of staff to Oklahoma Governor Henry Bellmon Henry Bellmon. I brought Joe in to run the campaign, and he did a superb job of managing the organization.

We also hired a new communications director, Karen Hughes Karen Hughes. I had first met Karen at the state party convention in 1990. "I will be briefing you on your duties," she said crisply. She then delivered my marching orders. There was no doubt this woman was in charge. When she told me her father was a two-star general, it made perfect sense.

With Karen Hughes, my indispensable counselor from Texas. Wite House/Paul Morse Wite House/Paul Morse I stayed in touch with Karen after the convention. She had a warm, outgoing personality and a great laugh. As a former TV correspondent, she knew the media and how to turn a phrase. It was a good sign when she came to hear my announcement speech in the fall of 1993. She was easy to spot because her son Robert was sitting on her shoulders. Karen was my kind of person-one who put family first. The day she signed on with the campaign was one of the best of my political career.

As my campaign started to generate excitement, the national news media got interested. Reporters knew my hothead reputation, and there was a running discussion about when I would finally explode. Ann Richards Ann Richards did her best to set me off. She called me "some jerk" and "shrub," but I refused to spark. Most people failed to understand that there was a big difference between Dad's campaigns and mine. As the son of the candidate, I would get emotional and defend George Bush at all costs. As the candidate myself, I understood that I had to be measured and disciplined. Voters don't want a leader who flails in anger and coa.r.s.ens the tone of the debate. The best reb.u.t.tal to the barbs was to win the election. did her best to set me off. She called me "some jerk" and "shrub," but I refused to spark. Most people failed to understand that there was a big difference between Dad's campaigns and mine. As the son of the candidate, I would get emotional and defend George Bush at all costs. As the candidate myself, I understood that I had to be measured and disciplined. Voters don't want a leader who flails in anger and coa.r.s.ens the tone of the debate. The best reb.u.t.tal to the barbs was to win the election.

In mid-October, Ann Richards and I met for our one televised debate. I had studied the briefing books and practiced during mock debates. A week before the big night, I imposed an advice blackout. I had witnessed some of Dad's debate preps. I knew the candidate could easily get overwhelmed with last-minute suggestions. My favorite old chestnut was "Just be yourself." No kidding. I ordered that all debate advice be filtered through Karen. If she thought it was essential, she would pa.s.s it on. Otherwise, I was keeping my mind clear and focused.

On debate night, Karen and I were in the elevator when Ann Richards entered. I shook her hand and said, "Good luck, Governor." In her toughest growl, she said, "This is going to be rough on you, boy."

It was the cla.s.sic head game. But its effect was opposite to what she intended. If the governor was trying to scare me, I figured she must feel insecure. I gave her a big smile, and the debate went fine. I had seen enough politics to know you can't really win a debate. You can only lose by saying something stupid or looking tired or nervous. In this case, I was neither tired nor nervous. I made my case confidently and avoided any major gaffes.

As usual, the final weeks brought some surprises. Ross Perot Ross Perot weighed in on the race, endorsing Ann Richards. It didn't bother me. I've always thought that endors.e.m.e.nts in politics are overrated. They rarely help, and sometimes they hurt. I told a reporter, "She can have Ross Perot. I'll take Nolan Ryan and Barbara Bush." I didn't add that Mother still didn't think I could win. weighed in on the race, endorsing Ann Richards. It didn't bother me. I've always thought that endors.e.m.e.nts in politics are overrated. They rarely help, and sometimes they hurt. I told a reporter, "She can have Ross Perot. I'll take Nolan Ryan and Barbara Bush." I didn't add that Mother still didn't think I could win.

When the results came in on election night, I was elated. We had pulled off what the Dallas Morning News Dallas Morning News called "once unthinkable." The called "once unthinkable." The New York Times New York Times deemed it "a stunning upset." Dad called me at the Austin Marriott, where my supporters had congregated. "Congratulations, George, on a great win," he said, "but it looks like Jeb is going to lose." deemed it "a stunning upset." Dad called me at the Austin Marriott, where my supporters had congregated. "Congratulations, George, on a great win," he said, "but it looks like Jeb is going to lose."

I felt bad for my brother, who had worked so hard and deserved to win. But nothing could dim the thrill I felt as I went to the Marriott ballroom to deliver my victory speech.

Inauguration Day was January 17, 1995. As I was getting ready in the hotel room before the ceremony, Mother handed me an envelope. It contained a pair of cufflinks and a letter from Dad: Dear George,These cufflinks are my most treasured possession. They were given to me by Mum and Dad on June 9, that day in 1943 when I got my Navy wings at Corpus Christi. I want you to have them now; for, in a sense, though you won your Air Force wings flying those jets, you are again "getting your wings" as you take the oath of office as our Governor.

He wrote about how proud he was, and how I could always count on his and Mother's love. He concluded: You have given us more than we ever could have deserved. You have sacrificed for us. You have given us your unwavering loyalty and devotion. Now it is our turn.

Mother helping me put on the cufflinks from Dad. Dallas Morning News/David Woo Dallas Morning News/David Woo Dad is not the kind of guy who would say something like that in person. The handwritten note was his style, and his words meant a lot. That morning I felt a powerful connection to the family tradition of service that I was now continuing in my own way.

As governor, I didn't need time to plan my agenda. I had spent the last year telling everyone exactly what I wanted to accomplish. I have always believed that a campaign platform is not just something you use to get elected. It is a blueprint for what you do in office.

I had another reason to move fast. In Texas, the legislature meets only 140 days of every two years. My goal was to get all four of my policy initiatives through both houses in the first session.

To make that happen, I needed good relations with the legislature. That started with the lieutenant governor, who serves as president of the state senate, seats committees, and decides on the flow of bills. The lieutenant governor is elected separately from the governor, meaning it is possible for the two top officials to be from opposite parties-as Lieutenant Governor Bob Bullock Bob Bullock and I were. and I were.

Bullock was a legend in Texas politics. He had served in the powerful post of state comptroller for sixteen years before his election as lieutenant governor in 1990. He ran the senate with a very strong hand. And he had former employees and friends embedded in agencies throughout the government, which allowed him to stay well informed. Bullock had the potential to make my life miserable. On the other hand, if I could persuade him to work with me, he would be an invaluable ally.

With Bob Bullock, my unlikely Democratic partner in Austin. a.s.sociated Press/Harry Cabluck a.s.sociated Press/Harry Cabluck A few weeks before the election, Joe Allbaugh Joe Allbaugh had suggested that I meet secretly with Bullock. I slipped away on a quiet afternoon and flew to Austin. Bullock's wife, Jan, opened the door. She is a pretty woman with a warm smile. Then Bullock emerged. He was a wiry man with a weathered look. He had been married five times to four women. Jan was his last wife and the love of his life. He had married her only once. At one time, Bullock had been a heavy drinker. In a famous story, he got drunk and fired his gun into a public urinal. He smoked incessantly, despite the fact that he had lost part of one lung. This was a man who had lived life the hard way. He stuck out his hand and said, "I'm Bullock. Come on in." had suggested that I meet secretly with Bullock. I slipped away on a quiet afternoon and flew to Austin. Bullock's wife, Jan, opened the door. She is a pretty woman with a warm smile. Then Bullock emerged. He was a wiry man with a weathered look. He had been married five times to four women. Jan was his last wife and the love of his life. He had married her only once. At one time, Bullock had been a heavy drinker. In a famous story, he got drunk and fired his gun into a public urinal. He smoked incessantly, despite the fact that he had lost part of one lung. This was a man who had lived life the hard way. He stuck out his hand and said, "I'm Bullock. Come on in."

He took me into his study. The place looked like a research library. He had stacks of doc.u.ments, reports, and data. Bullock dropped a huge file on the desk in front of me and said, "Here is a report on juvenile justice." He knew my campaign was based partially on juvenile justice reform and suggested I think about some of his ideas. Then he banged down similar reports for education and welfare reform. We talked for three or four hours. Bullock supported Ann Richards Ann Richards, but he made it clear he would work with me if I won.

The other key legislative player was the speaker of the house, Pete Laney Pete Laney. Like me, Pete came from West Texas. He was a cotton farmer from Hale Center, a rural town between Lubbock and Amarillo that I had visited in my 1978 campaign. Pete was a low-key guy. While Bullock tended to show his cards-and occasionally throw the whole deck at you-Laney kept his hand close to his vest. He was a Democrat with allies on both sides of the aisle.

Shortly after I took office, Pete, Bob, and I agreed to have a weekly breakfast. At first, the meals were a chance to swap stories and help me learn about the legislature. As bills started to wind their way through the system, the breakfasts became important strategy meetings. A couple of months into the session, Bullock had moved a number of important bills through the senate. Most of them were still waiting in the house.

Bullock wanted action, and he let Laney know it. As I ate my breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and coffee, Pete calmly told the lieutenant governor the bills would get done. Bullock was simmering. Before long, he boiled over. He looked straight at me and yelled, "Governor, I am going to f-- you. I am going to make you look like a fool."

I thought for a moment, stood up, walked toward Bullock, and said, "If you are going to f-- me, you better give me a kiss first." I playfully hugged him, but he wriggled away and charged out of the room. Laney and I just laughed. We both understood Bullock's tirade was not aimed at me. It was his way of telling Laney it was time to get his bills out of the house.

Whether Bullock's message had an impact on Laney, I'll never know. But with all three of us pushing hard, legislation on education, juvenile justice, and welfare reform started moving quickly. The most complicated item on the agenda was tort reform tort reform. Reining in junk lawsuits was crucial to stopping jobs from leaving the state. But there was strong opposition from the trial lawyers' bar, which was influential and well funded. I had an ally in David Sibley David Sibley, a Republican state senator from Waco and the committee chairman who oversaw the issue.

One night early in the session, I invited David over for dinner. We had just started to eat when he got a phone call from Bullock. I listened as a one-way conversation unfolded. David alternated between nodding and staring in stone-faced silence as the lieutenant governor unloaded. Then he said, "He is sitting right here. Would you like to speak to him?" Bullock wanted to have a word. I took the phone.

"Why are you blocking tort reform? I thought you were going to be okay. But no, you're a s-- governor." Bullock fired off a couple of f-bombs and hung up. David knew what had happened. He had seen it before and wasn't sure how I would respond. I laughed and laughed hard. Bullock was tough and earthy, but I had a feeling this would be a pa.s.sing storm.

Once David realized that I would tolerate the blast, we turned to the tort reform bill. The main difference of opinion was on the size of the cap on punitive damages. I wanted a $500,000 cap; Bullock wanted $1,000,000. David told me that if he could get agreement on this legislation, the other five tort bills that were part of the reform package would move quickly. He suggested a compromise: How about a bill with a $750,000 threshold? No question that would improve the system. I agreed.

David called and told Bullock about the deal. This call was shorter, but once again ended with Sibley pa.s.sing the phone to me. "Governor Bush," Bullock started in his formal way, "you're going to be one h.e.l.luva governor. Good night."

In 1996, Laura surprised me with a fiftieth birthday fiftieth birthday party at the Governor's Mansion. She invited family and friends from Midland, Houston, and Dallas; cla.s.smates from Andover, Yale, and Harvard; and political folks from Austin, including Bullock and Laney. Laura wasn't the only one with a surprise in store. As the sun set, the toasts began. Bullock headed to the microphone. "Happy birthday," he said with a smile. "You are one h.e.l.luva governor." He went on, "And Governor Bush, you will be the next president of the United States." party at the Governor's Mansion. She invited family and friends from Midland, Houston, and Dallas; cla.s.smates from Andover, Yale, and Harvard; and political folks from Austin, including Bullock and Laney. Laura wasn't the only one with a surprise in store. As the sun set, the toasts began. Bullock headed to the microphone. "Happy birthday," he said with a smile. "You are one h.e.l.luva governor." He went on, "And Governor Bush, you will be the next president of the United States."

Bullock's prediction shocked me. I had been governor for only eighteen months. President Clinton was still in his first term. I had barely thought about my reelection in 1998. And here was Bullock bringing up 2000. I didn't take him too seriously; Bullock was always trying to provoke. But his comment inspired an interesting thought. Ten years earlier, I had been celebrating my fortieth birthday drunk at The Broadmoor. Now I was being toasted on the lawn of the Texas Governor's Mansion as the next president. This had been quite a decade.

Meanwhile, there was an actual presidential campaign going on. The Republican Party had nominated Senator Bob Dole Bob Dole, a World War II hero who had built a distinguished legislative record. I admired Senator Dole. I thought he would make a good president, and I campaigned hard for him in Texas. But I worried that our party had not recognized the generational politics lesson of 1992: Once voters had elected a president from the Baby Boomer generation, they were not likely to reach back. Sure enough, Senator Dole carried Texas, but President Clinton won reelection.

I went into 1998 feeling confident about my record. I had delivered on each of the four priorities I had laid out in my first gubernatorial campaign. We had also pa.s.sed the largest tax cut in the history of Texas and made it easier for children in foster care to be adopted by loving families. Many of these laws were sponsored and supported by Democrats. I was honored when Bob Bullock Bob Bullock, who had supported Democratic candidates for almost a half century, publicly endorsed my reelection. I was also a little surprised. Bullock was the G.o.dfather of one of my opponent's children.

I was determined not to take anything for granted, and I campaigned hard. On election night, I received more than 68 percent of the vote, including 49 percent of Hispanics, 27 percent of African Americans, and 70 percent of independents. I was the first Texas governor elected to consecutive four-year terms.

I also had my eye on another race that night. Jeb became governor of Florida by a convincing margin. I went to his inauguration in January 1999, making us the first pair of brothers to serve at the same time as governors since Nelson and Win Rockefeller more than a quarter century earlier. It was a wonderful moment for our family. It was also a time to think about the future. And I had a big question on my mind.

Running for president was a decision that evolved over time. Many urged me to run-some for the sake of the country, others because they hoped to ride the race to glory. I often heard the same comment: "You can win this race. You can be president." I was flattered by the confidence. But my decision would not turn on whether others thought I could win. After all, everyone told me I could never beat Ann Richards. The key question was whether I felt the call to run.

As I pondered the decision, there was a dilemma. Because of the size and complexity of a presidential campaign, you have to start planning early, even if you are not sure whether you want to run. I authorized Karl to start preparing paperwork and recruiting a network of people who would raise money and tend to the gra.s.sroots political operation. Once the process started, it created a sense of inevitability. In October 1998, I told Washington Post Washington Post columnist columnist David Broder David Broder that I felt like "a cork in a raging river." When I won reelection the next month, the rapids grew even stronger. that I felt like "a cork in a raging river." When I won reelection the next month, the rapids grew even stronger.

I was determined not to get swept away. If I was going to get into the race, I wanted it to be for the right reasons. I can't pinpoint exactly when I made up my mind, but there were moments of clarity along the way. One came during my second inauguration as governor. The morning of the ceremony, we attended a service at First United Methodist Church in downtown Austin. Laura and I had invited Reverend Mark Craig Mark Craig, our friend and pastor from Dallas, to deliver the sermon.