A Fighting Chance

The tracker seemed to appear at every event. I’d come to understand that this was standard political fare, and I know a similar tracker followed Scott Brown, but I never got used to it. When people whispered to me about losing their homes or having a dad at home who was dying of cancer, I learned to look around for the tracker, worrying that a video of their private moment could end up in some political ad.

With the days ticking by, it was now all hands on deck. Legendary civil rights leader and longtime congressman John Lewis gave moving speeches about the power of the vote. Singer James Taylor and his wife, Kim, put on an amazing concert. John Kerry rallied the troops. Max Cleland brought together vets from across the state to underscore the importance of honoring our promises. Governor Deval Patrick had generously endorsed me back before the state convention, and he gave powerful speeches at some great rallies, accelerating the momentum of the campaign.

And then there was Boston mayor Thomas Menino. By this point he had been the city’s mayor for nineteen years, making him the longest-serving mayor in any major US city. He knew every inch of Boston, and he loved his city passionately—and his city loved him just as much. He was a Democrat, but he was also fiercely independent, and there was regular speculation in the press that he might endorse Brown or, almost as telling, stay neutral in the race. For over a year, I’d telephoned the mayor regularly, and he had asked me questions and given me advice—but no endorsement. In mid-September, he called to say: “I’m ready.” He told me he was convinced that I would fight for working people, and for him, that’s what public service should be all about.

Once he was in, Mayor Menino jumped into the deep end of the pool—a huge rally, speeches, signs, and even his own TV commercial. His signature line—“She’s good people”—was all over Boston. He brought along his ally from many battles, Michael Kineavy, who worked his magic and pulled in hundreds more helping hands. The mayor was a powerhouse, and the boost he gave the campaign was strong enough to taste.

After months of hard work, we finally seemed to be gaining ground against Senator Brown. The polls started to show real movement. I didn’t think it was possible for the campaign staff to get even more excited, but they did.

Contrary to all the predictions back in January, the People’s Pledge was still holding and Karl Rove was off the airways. I give Senator Brown a lot of credit: he held to the People’s Pledge. As I started catching up to him in the polls, he may have been tempted to back out and hope that outside money could swing things in his favor. But he stayed true to his promise.

One afternoon in mid-September, Roger Lau called. Get to Dorchester, he said. Right now.

So Adam turned the Blue Bomber around, and we headed off to Florian Hall in Dorchester. It’s a plain redbrick building with a flag waving out front, the kind of solid place that has been home to a million potluck dinners and retirement parties for firefighters and their families in eastern Massachusetts.

Firefighters had been a particular flash point in the Brown–Coakley race two years earlier. Although the union leadership officially endorsed Coakley, the rank and file were reported to have voted for Brown in big numbers. I’d been visiting fire stations for nearly a year, and it wasn’t lost on me that a lot of the cars and pickups parked near the firehouses still bore Scott Brown stickers.

Roger met me in the parking lot at Florian Hall. We went inside and shook hands with Ed Kelly and Mike Mullane. Eddie, one of the youngest presidents in the history of the state firefighters’ union, grew up tagging along behind his father, Jack, who served as a Boston firefighter for thirty-five years. He inherited his dad’s black hair and intense blue eyes. Now in his thirties, he has a pretty wife and two active children (“future firefighters,” as he likes to say). He also has the kind of solid build that leaves no doubt that he could throw someone over his shoulder and run full tilt out of a burning building.

Mike Mullane, a veteran firefighter with white hair and a little-boy smile, is a generation older. His wheezing breath and rattling cough are painful reminders of a life spent running into chemical fogs and toxic smoke.

Eddie and Mike brought Roger and me into a little office. As we took our seats, I noticed a photograph on the wall that showed one of the union leaders posing with Scott Brown.

With no preliminaries, Eddie started in. “Look, if this election is about who you want to have a beer with, Brown wins.” He paused. “Hell, no offense, but I’d rather have a beer with him.”

He looked pained. I looked at the photo on the wall and thought, Here it comes. He’s going to tell me he’s sorry, but the firefighters feel more comfortable with Brown and they’re going to support him. At least he’s got the guts to tell me face-to-face.

I looked back at Eddie, and he held my gaze with his piercing blue eyes. “But—f**k it—we gotta raise our families. And you are the best shot we’ve got.”

I blinked.