Sharp-eyed political operators saw right away what the Young Dems had accomplished: the spontaneous, overwhelming emotional outburst had been carefully prepared for. Screaming boys and especially girls—was this Sinatra?—roared without stopping, "We love yuh, Jack!" Just because their leaders had rehearsed them didn't mean it wasn't true.
"Where you want love," Bright McKay had said, quoting his father quoting John of the Cross, "put love and you will find love."
"We love yuh, Jack!"
The motorcade turned onto Causeway Street, but it was completely jammed, and the police were unable to clear the last several hundred yards even by bringing their clubs down on heads. For a few awful moments, it seemed Kennedy would not make it to the arena, not alive anyway. Was this South America?
But the drivers kept their cars inching forward. In that last stretch, the look of the crowd changed, for in front of the Garden itself, it was entirely college kids swarming around the vehicles. The Young Dems had turned them out from campuses all over New England, afraid they would be the only ones in the street.
And none of the spirited students was waving flowers, no long-stemmed carnations, no palm branches either.
Inside the Garden, twenty thousand people let up a roar when Kennedy appeared. Party hacks from all across the state; ward heelers from Springfield, Worcester, New Bedford, Fall River, Cambridge, and Boston; machine pols and state committeemen and volunteers from the suburbs—all had been transformed, by the mere sight of Kennedy, into holy-roller worshipers, worshiping him. Cameras filmed the scene as the crowd continued clapping, stomping its feet, blustering approval for nearly ten minutes.
Kennedy waved back at first, but then he let his arms hang as he stood immobile on that platform, taking all that they were giving him. He displayed a preternatural calm which, amid that pandemonium, made him seem even more dignified, even more unlike them. He received the outpouring as if it were appropriate, but he had not expected it.
Then he was speaking. "And in a free society the chief responsibility of the president.. Now he was hitting the crest of his speech. He stabbed his finger at them as the waves of his voice rose into the high reaches of the Garden, above all those rapt Irish faces, above the red-white-and-blue bunting, the huge photographs of himself, the banners emblazoning his name, the flags. The throng sat absolutely silent now, each person leaning forward, ready to leap and move, listening as intently as before they had cheered. "...is to set before the American people the unfinished public business of our country ..."
His words soared above the black superstructure from which the clocks, scoreboards, and nests of loudspeakers hung. His words carried all the way to the narrow catwalks, the network of girder bridges and klieg lights up near the roof. "...that this is a great country. But I think it can be greater ..."
Terry Doyle was perched on one of the catwalks in the shadows above the lights, his legs dangling. Didi Mullen was beside him. Other Young Dems sat like crows along the rafters. Doyle wasn't sure about Didi, but he had a had case of the whim-whams up here. Given what had happened that morning, Terry might well have been dizzy and afraid in any case, but the height sure wasn't helping. His left arm was in a cast and sling. His ribs were wrapped with a broad elastic bandage that bulked under his shirt He wore a white bandage on the side of his head.
Didi wasn't hurt, thank God. She'd stayed with the truck. Her brother and Squire were beat up about like Terry, but Bright—oh, Bright! He was in the hospital, and would be for a while. Terry wouldn't have come here without him, even to see Kennedy, but Bright had insisted. Now Terry was trying to concentrate on the speech, to hear every word, to know each nuance, so that he could tell his friend all about this climax of their effort.
"... can do better
"Where you want love," Bright McKay had said, quoting his father quoting John of the Cross, "put love and you will find love."
"We love yuh, Jack!"
The motorcade turned onto Causeway Street, but it was completely jammed, and the police were unable to clear the last several hundred yards even by bringing their clubs down on heads. For a few awful moments, it seemed Kennedy would not make it to the arena, not alive anyway. Was this South America?
But the drivers kept their cars inching forward. In that last stretch, the look of the crowd changed, for in front of the Garden itself, it was entirely college kids swarming around the vehicles. The Young Dems had turned them out from campuses all over New England, afraid they would be the only ones in the street.
And none of the spirited students was waving flowers, no long-stemmed carnations, no palm branches either.
Inside the Garden, twenty thousand people let up a roar when Kennedy appeared. Party hacks from all across the state; ward heelers from Springfield, Worcester, New Bedford, Fall River, Cambridge, and Boston; machine pols and state committeemen and volunteers from the suburbs—all had been transformed, by the mere sight of Kennedy, into holy-roller worshipers, worshiping him. Cameras filmed the scene as the crowd continued clapping, stomping its feet, blustering approval for nearly ten minutes.
Kennedy waved back at first, but then he let his arms hang as he stood immobile on that platform, taking all that they were giving him. He displayed a preternatural calm which, amid that pandemonium, made him seem even more dignified, even more unlike them. He received the outpouring as if it were appropriate, but he had not expected it.
Then he was speaking. "And in a free society the chief responsibility of the president.. Now he was hitting the crest of his speech. He stabbed his finger at them as the waves of his voice rose into the high reaches of the Garden, above all those rapt Irish faces, above the red-white-and-blue bunting, the huge photographs of himself, the banners emblazoning his name, the flags. The throng sat absolutely silent now, each person leaning forward, ready to leap and move, listening as intently as before they had cheered. "...is to set before the American people the unfinished public business of our country ..."
His words soared above the black superstructure from which the clocks, scoreboards, and nests of loudspeakers hung. His words carried all the way to the narrow catwalks, the network of girder bridges and klieg lights up near the roof. "...that this is a great country. But I think it can be greater ..."
Terry Doyle was perched on one of the catwalks in the shadows above the lights, his legs dangling. Didi Mullen was beside him. Other Young Dems sat like crows along the rafters. Doyle wasn't sure about Didi, but he had a had case of the whim-whams up here. Given what had happened that morning, Terry might well have been dizzy and afraid in any case, but the height sure wasn't helping. His left arm was in a cast and sling. His ribs were wrapped with a broad elastic bandage that bulked under his shirt He wore a white bandage on the side of his head.
Didi wasn't hurt, thank God. She'd stayed with the truck. Her brother and Squire were beat up about like Terry, but Bright—oh, Bright! He was in the hospital, and would be for a while. Terry wouldn't have come here without him, even to see Kennedy, but Bright had insisted. Now Terry was trying to concentrate on the speech, to hear every word, to know each nuance, so that he could tell his friend all about this climax of their effort.
"... can do better
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