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MASSACHUSETTS DEMOCRAT JOHN KENNEDY has long counted on the California presidential primary as his best chance to show dramatic vote-getting talents. But a Brown victory would shut Kennedy completely out of California. If Brown wins, he will almost automatically become a favorite son candidate for President—and a genuine hot prospect for the Democratic nomination for Vice President. And although both he and Kennedy are Roman Catholics, that very fact would keep them from ever being on the same ticket.
ADLAI STEVENSON could only benefit by a Brown win. Pat Brown was one of Stevenson's presidential boosters in 1952, backed him strongly again in 1956. Urged on by powerful Stevenson Democrats in California, Brown would be agreeably inclined toward Stevenson in 1960 and might hope to be Illinoisan Stevenson's running mate.
Weighty Burden. For a fellow who just wants to be liked, then. Candidate Pat Brown has awesome political responsibilities. In this as in countless other ways, he is an unlikely sort to carry such a burden. California Democrats look to Brown to lead them to their greatest victory in history, yet many of those same Democrats distrust him as an ex-Republican who still rides the coattails of Republican heroes. "I want to make it very clear," said Brown last week, "that I intend to guide our state government in the great tradition of Earl Warren and Hiram Johnson."
Similarly, as the son of a professional gambler with a tragic genius for bucking a pair of aces against three deuces, California's Brown is perhaps the most cautious bet hedger in U.S. politics, rarely moves without holding a Pat hand. Running for one of the nation's biggest administrative jobs, he is a second-rate administrator with a notorious inability to make decisions. "He has limitless energy in meeting people but not the energy to cope with issues," says a top California Democrat. Adds a close friend lamely: "While he may be a guy who is not too aggressive administratively, he frankly recognizes deficiencies where they appear. He is honest about them. It's a real asset."
Above all eke, behind his hail-fellow heartiness. Pat Brown is a worrier. He worries about his weight. He worries about his clothes, is a meticulous dresser despite a tendency toward garterless socks that droop. He worries about having people disagree with him, follows almost every declarative sentence with a question: "Don't you think so?" He worries about his hold on the voters. "Frankly," he confides, "I think I'm closer to the people of California than anyone since Hiram Johnson." Then he asks: "Don't you think so?" He worries about being liked, he worries about being disliked, and he worries constantly about being understood. "You know," says Pat Brown, "in all the things that have been written about me, nobody's ever captured me. To understand me, you have to understand my life."