poor georgie’s almanack.
June 25, 2020
This is a nice little story. It has a touch of politics, baseball, basketball, one French word, history, and a urinal in the National Press Club.
I am not addicted to George Will, the conservative political columnist. He has a highfalutin way to say simple things. Each column seems to have one word that needs to be looked up to figure out what the devil he is trying to say.
However, I am addicted to George Will’s alter-ego, a sports columnist and author. Yesterday he wrote about America’s addiction to Baseball. As expected it had one of those hifalutin words, “aperçus.”
That, if you Will, in a very convoluted way made me think of President John F. Kennedy’s political counselor, Lawrence F. O’Brien, a truly nice man from Massachusetts. He was one of the three Postmasters General for whom I worked as director of special projects.
I learned he, too, had an alter ego. The other Larry O’Brien was addicted to basketball.
Most people might have thought politics was Larry’s vocation and basketball his avocation. For a while they were right. Then his vocation and avocation flipped.
Background: I forget why Larry left his job at the White House dealing with politicians. But, there were a lot of perks as a cabinet officer. For instance, he had the biggest most elegantly wood-paneled office in Washington.
One of my tasks was to be an advance-man. A few of us on O’Brien’s staff took turns setting-up and shepherding his many business trips around the country.
Each of us would devote a lot of time preparing. We would be coordinating with folks in Washington and wherever he was going. Then we would fly to the site or sites, arriving two or three days in advance to coordinate with the hotel, the venue, the police, the news media, local politicians, and the undertaker who usually supplied the black cars for the “caravan” that sped us from one speech or meeting to another.
Once I forgot to check-out the trunk of the limo. The luggage compartment popped open and, with Larry standing next to me, I began loading his suitcase. Oops, the trunk was full of the phony grass used around graves at burial ceremonies. Fortunately, the PMG knew more about advancing than I did. He shrugged it off.
Usually, the trip back to Washington was the best part of the job. Almost always the flight home was just Larry and Georgie chatting, in first-class no less, sort of unwinding and getting to know each other.
We both had other jobs not related to public appearances. Larry was running the largest civilian government agency, as well as still doing liaison work between the White House and Congress.
I was mostly tied-up with the introduction of ZIP Code to the nation’s letter writers and explaining to reporters why and how the postal cops (The Inspection Service) just busted some really bad guys.
Larry obviously adored his only son, “Young Larry,” who around that time was an Army First Lieutenant in Vietnam, at the height of the fighting. A very vulnerable position. Meanwhile, the senior O’Brien was working for a president (Lyndon Johnson) who powerfully backed the devastating Southeast Asian battles. Larry’s concerns were an occasional topic of our conversations.
“Bam,” right in front of his already impaired eyes would be the intense, almost disabling lights set up by the TV crews.
Then came the speech in Springfield, Mass, his home town. It doesn’t matter that I can’t remember a word or the theme. The event was in a high-school gym … the very basketball court where he grew up loving the game.
It was off-the-cuff, humorous, sad (bringing a tear to the eye), informative and one of the best speeches of the hundreds I’ve heard throughout the years. He didn’t have to look down and readjust his eyes.
At least in my presence, O’Brien was not one to show much emotion or even enthusiasm. He was just sort of an even presence, accepting life as it flowed over and around him.
Once, long after the Post Office days, while standing at a urinal at the National Press Club in Washington doing what one does in those situations, I looked up and who should be at the urinal to my immediate right, but Larry O’Brien.
By then he was well settled-in as Commissioner of the National Basketball Association, which logic said should be an ideal place for him to work.
“Larry,” I asked, “how’s the new job?” wondering if his dreams had been fulfilled or shattered.
I never saw such a joyous, animated O’Brien. He loved it, I learned. Not just the basketball stuff, but the whole package.
He could go to any game he wanted. And he worked in an environment in which he could enjoy and contribute so much that now The Larry O'Brien NBA Championship Trophy each year goes to the winner of the NBA Finals. It is a biggie.
This, curiously, brings me back to columnist George Will and the confusing word “aperçus” in his recent column on sports obsessions.
Apparently, that word is the past participle of the French verb apercevoir. Something most of us would be afraid to speak, let alone write.
I learned from Professor Google that among other things it is a synonym for “synopsis.”
Every synopsis of obituaries about O’Brien that I’ve seen, emphasizes Larry’s obsession with politics.
Thank you, Mr. Will, for reminding me again that there is more to just about everything than meets the eye, and especially in this case, the “ç”. Whatever that is.
