Let's see, where to start? Clinton plays golf, but when he shot a round in Little Rock last Saturday, he wore jogging shoes, and his shirt was hanging out over painter's pants. Golf needs Clinton like it needs a case of ringworm. One friend revealed that Clinton likes to post up in basketball. "Very tough under the boards," the friend said. This could be good. Clinton could show up at the D.C. Y at lunchtime and pound on the locals. Secret Service guys could set some serious picks.
The President-elect also has two aces up his sleeve he probably hasn't even considered:
1) As you may know, Clinton played rugby at Oxford. Word is, he tackled more guys without the ball than with it, but rugby was nonetheless his best sport. And a very manly sport it is. Hoover threw the medicine ball on the South Lawn. Ike hit golf balls there. But that was all girlie-man stuff compared with pick-up rugby. O.K., me, Al and Tipper will take on y'all. Then it's everybody inside for fish and grits! Very Kennedyesque. Besides, everybody orders those rugby shirts from Lands' End; now here's a reason to wear them.
Can't you see it? Clinton makes rugby a No. 1 priority in his administration, and you can bet it will catch on in Washington like a rash. Fine presentation, Finkwater. Would you mind waiting outside a minute while we scrum on this?
2) Nancy Kelly, the sister-in-law of Clinton's stepfather, says that Clinton likes nothing better than watching an Arkansas Razorback football game on TV and letting out a good "Wooo, Pig! Sooooie!" now and again right in the living room. You would be surprised how you burn up the calories doing a good hog holler. "Actually, he and Hillary are both pretty good at it," Kelly says.
Can't you see Barbara Walters sitting down with the First Family for a very serious interview, and the President saying, "Before we get started, Barbara, we would just ask you to let loose a good ol' 'Wooo, Pig! Sooooie!" for us. Kind of a family tradition, you know." Cultural elite that.
I'm telling you, this is instant re-election stuff. You can't help but trust a man in a rugby shirt, with South Lawn dirt on his face, a made-in-the- U.S.A. plastic hog-snout hat on his head and a deeply felt "Wooo, Pig! Sooooie!" waiting to rise up out of his innards.
Please, Mr. President-elect. You ran a great race. You ran it for two years. You've been running it practically your whole life. Enough with the running already.