Everything to Envy

What a ride!

And who could have predicted an ending like this?

A week ago we were hoping to scrap together a narrow victory. Ben confided that whatever happened, he hoped we'd be spared a re-count similar to what followed the indecisive Republican mayoral primary.

Sure, we had internal polls beginning to suggest a five or six point Ben advantage, but we discarded them.

It was difficult to trust any poll in the year of the "Romney Tsunami," simply because circumstances were so exceptional. When the Trib's "Mason-Dixon Mistake" was published a momentary seizure of angst affected us all.

Our polls refuted "the mistake," but we knew something totally unexpected could happen, and in fact it did.

Along with a mob of other volunteers I spent election day calling voters potentially favorable to Ben. We had so many volunteers we were obliged to station a large contingent outside. They held signs and waved at passing traffic while waiting for Joel to step outside, announce that a phone was free, and one of their number could come inside.

By 7:30 we had called 97% of potential Ben voters. That's somewhere close to 110,000 calls.

At last I hung up the phone for the last time and scurried off to the Sheraton for the Democratic party's election night festivities.

I was fully prepared to stake out a TV and watch returns late into the evening. Then, on my dash to the McAdams' suite, I was waylaid by our campaign manager.

Justin said early voting had us up by 9%.

That was a shock. We expected early voting to favor Crockett.

Then, a few steps down the hall, someone announced a BYU exit poll forecasting a McAdams' double digit victory.

A half-hour later I was told to stay in the Salt Lake County suite. The meaning was clear. An announcement of Ben's victory would be forthcoming and I should be there to see it.

I was bewildered. Three days before we had attempted to explain a ten point deficit, now we enjoyed a ten point lead. I was suspended in a cloud of euphoria I couldn't entirely trust.

Then came "the call." Ashley Sumner bolted into the room announcing Ben had received Crockett's concession call. At last every reservation crumbled. A wave of acceptance carried me to a place where the rest of our campaign already celebrated.

Ben walked in close behind her. We embraced as if one of us had just emerged from a plane crash and into the grateful arms of the other. The impossible became believable.

The mayor elect floated to the front of a current leading all of us to a stage where his acceptance speech would be given. A huge raucous crowd produced a staccato cheer, "Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben..."

Once on the stage I stood directly to his left. Ben's wife, Julie, stood slightly behind and to his right. Close behind them both Ben's daughter Kate was held in someone's arms.

Ben looked out at a wildly cheering crowd with his wife and daughter just outside his field of view. Julie and Kate watched him, transfixed and oblivious to the chaos around them. I stood there looking past Ben, unconscious of his speech; watching only the faces of Julie and Kate.

Regarding the adulation of that bouncing and ecstatic throng, there was little to make me jealous. Regarding the unreserved affection on those two beautiful faces, there was everything to envy.

This Particular Week

What to make of polls?

They are the radical factor in modern day politics. Despite assurances to the contrary, campaigns - leading or trailing - depend on them.

It is also true their accuracy is highly variable, and they exist not only as measuring devices, but a factor in the very trends they attempt to measure.  

Imagine dozens of thermometers, most of which are approximately accurate, yet all have the potential to be quite inaccurate. 

Now add additional complications. They can be read only one at a time, and the last one read is assumed to be most accurate. 

Then, even more perversely, imagine that thermometers have the power to influence temperature in the direction of their reading, whether or not that reading is accurate.

This is the weather of politics and the reality of polls. 

On Friday the Trib released a Mason-Dixon poll on the County Mayor's race. The results showed Ben trailing by ten points. That result argued with an earlier Dan Jones poll indicating a close race. It also argued with internal polls projecting Ben had a lead. 

We didn't know why, but we knew the poll was inaccurate. Yet this was cold solace because in politics perception is always the reality. Our challenge wasn't dealing with the bad results of an accurate poll, but the consequences of public reaction to an inaccurate poll.

The difficulties of combating the Mason-Dixon mistake were compounded because the Tribune had decided to pay for only one poll. An error in modeling spotted months before could have prevented this last minute mistake, but with a single poll conducted at the last moment, that possibility was lost. 

Not only were our difficulties exaggerated, but so were the stakes. One problem in the last week of a campaign is worth three problems in the month of July. Especially in a race as close as this. 

We brainstormed for a few hours, but our results sounded more like frustration than any real solution equal to the moment.

Finally, a crisis outside our control was mitigated only by a source of good fortune equally outside our control. A competing poll, more credible than Mason-Dixon, released its results within hours of the Trib's story that our campaign was now toast.

Dan Jones, a nationally regarded pollster with strong local ties, released the last of three polls conducted on the County Mayor's race - all commissioned by KSL/Deseret News. This poll, in close agreement with our internal polls, showed we had a lead of 3%.

Was the Mason-Dixon damage entirely undone? Probably. But what we lost was any boost from Dan Jones that we might have enjoyed if the Mason-Dixon mistake had never happened.

What do I make of all this? 

Well... let's imagine twenty years from now Ben retires as county mayor after an unprecedented five terms in office. If someone asks me if I remember a moment when providence took a hand, I'll shrug my shoulders, but I'll remember Dan Jones, and I'll remember this particular week.

 

A Tiny Donkey

Imagine a projector spinning through a film that tells a story. 

A political campaign is like that, with an important exception. A movie proceeds at a constant twenty-four frames per second, while a political campaign starts there, but then runs faster, and faster, and faster... until it stops. 

What begins as a slowly unfolding narrative becomes a series of strobe like impressions; flashes that seem discontinuous and random until tied together by retrospect. 

This became vivid last Saturday while driving with Ben to canvass in Draper. We passed a landmark reminding us both of a parade we'd walked in during the summer. 

"Remember?" Ben asked, in a reference not requiring further explanation. 

"Yes," I said.

He remarked wistfully, "We thought we were busy then..."

"Indeed," I thought, knowing this sense of acceleration affected Ben far more than it did me.

Arriving at our afternoon project it seemed daunting. Houses of increasing size and luxury zig zagged up a hill that featured a spectacular view of the valley. 

To me it seemed like a Republican mountain daring us to climb our way to the top. Wordlessly we hopped out with brochures and address lists. I walked on one side of the street and Ben the other. 

After several zigs our last zag led to the top of the mountain. It deserved to be the capstone of our afternoon's effort. One man accepted our brochure with this reassurance, "I always vote Democratic."

A few homes had McAdams signs telling us a visit would be nice, but unproductive. Moving past one such home a woman propelled herself out the front door. She identified herself as an ardent supporter grateful to receive a handshake.

The last house had large Obama signs in every second story window. Across the street was an open garage where an older man stood tinkering at his work bench. He wore a blue baseball cap festooned with eagles, gold braid and a large American flag.

Ben was occupied so I thought I'd take the initiative. I walked inside carrying a brochure. He accepted with a specious expression, tilting his head back to take full advantage of bifocals.

His eyes immediately riveted on a speck the size of a housefly. That speck was printed between the words "County" and "Mayor" in the shape of a tiny donkey.

"Democrat, huh?" he said with obvious distaste. 

"Yes sir," I said, "but Ben's a problem solver who works across party lines to get things done." 

His head tilted forward again, having just read all he intended to read. "Son," he said, meaning me, a man over sixty, "You're in the wrong neighborhood." 

"Wrong? How could your neighborhood be wrong?"

He regarded me with the condescension of someone forced to state the obvious to someone intentionally obtuse. "You won't find a single Democrat on this street," he said flatly, "Not one..."

"Well, maybe not," I thought. "But there are people here who find more to look at on that brochure than a tiny donkey."