(See Cover)
California's Attorney General "Pat" Brown marched across the lobby of San Diego's U.S. Grant Hotel, his stocky body (5 ft. 10 in., 200 Ibs.) rolling like a sea captain's, his brown hair carefully slicked with Vaseline Hair Tonic, his ample jowl set with fierce, self-conscious determination. Suddenly he stopped, whirled, brought the men behind him to a skidding halt. "Where is everybody?" cried Pat Brown. "Anybody missing? Are we ready to go?" An aide soothed him: "Don't worry, Pat. Everybody's here." Brown looked carefully around just to make sure. "Well," he explained, "I want to get out there while people are still going to work." He spun, led the way out the door, clambered into a Plymouth station wagon. Edmund Gerald Brown, 53, Democratic candidate for Governor of California, odds-on favorite in what may be the most important contest of Election Year 1958, was on his way to a 6:15 a.m. appointment with destiny. He did not intend to be late.
Destiny was waiting last week on the San Diego waterfront, where Pat Brown "officially" opened his campaign against William Fife Knowland, 50, retired as Republican leader of the U.S. Senate to run for Governor in California.
Point of Departure. Arriving on the waterfront, Brown jumped from his car, plunged through the low-hanging fog to the point where hundreds of workmen were converging on the Star & Crescent ferry slip, ready to ride to their Navy shipyard jobs on North Island. "I'm Pat Brown!" cried Candidate Brown, reaching for workmen's hands as if they were gold nuggets. One, two, three workmen hurried past, heads down, clutching their lunch boxes, leaving Pat's hand dangling in midair. A ferry attendant came up, told
Brown he was blocking the entrance, ordered him to one side. Brown stepped away, looked suspiciously at several pigeons flapping close overhead, glanced suspiciously at the shoulders of his fresh grey suit. Thirty paces in front, his aides worked at their cheerleading tasks. "Shake hands with Pat Brown," they shouted, "your candidate for Governor."
Somehow the incantation began to work. "Hi, Pat," came a workman's voice. Hands reached out to grasp Pat's. "Morning, Patrick," came a greeting. Then another and another: "Good luck, Pat" and "Give 'em hell, Pat." Pat Brown grinned happily, pumped hands with a proficiency that would make Estes Kefauver seem like a subway straphanger. "Hey," he cried to no one in particular. "I feel a speech coming on." Candidate Brown was in his element, doing what he knows and likes best. He was being just plain Pat, making himself liked—and running well ahead of the opposition.