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 assumed 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.
Nobody 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 amass knowledge, he used it. He had studied 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 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 analysis 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. Nobody 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 assembled a skilled and able campaign team.**** I made two particularly important hires. First was 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. 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. 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.
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 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 coarsens the tone of the debate. The best rebuttal 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 pass 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 classic 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 weighed in on the race, endorsing Ann Richards. It didn’t bother me. I’ve always thought that endorsements 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
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:
He wrote about how proud he was, and how I could always count on his and Mother’s love. He concluded:
