On the stump those last days, Bob Dole's campaign was more local than national--the taped Sousa marches, the town bigwig at the mike vamping in front of an audience in elephant hats. Then Dole would come out from behind the stage, parting the polyester-blue curtain, and enact the body language of victory--thumb up, quick-flash smile, the arm that doesn't hold the pen punching the air in a go-get-'em arc. The crowd would always stand and applaud. "We love you, Bob!" someone would yell, and the unmuffled sound would echo too well, because the hall was always half empty.
He didn't look...
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