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Although he was admittedly dancing in the dark, Goodie felt his chances for the nomination would be as good as anybody's in the general melee that would follow an Eisenhower retirement. As governor of the largest Republican state, he expects to go to the 1956 G.O.P. convention with 70 strategic favorite-son votes in his hip pocket. He will have the added psycho logical advantage of playing host to the convention in his own backyard, at San Francisco's Cow Palace. And if Ike does choose to run — well, the 70 votes might possibly be parlayed into a vice-presidential nomination. In any case, Goodie could wait. He had played a waiting game most of his political life, and he had not really planned to be President before 1960 anyway.
The Baby Kiss. Goodie has never been shy about his political ambitions. In 1934, as a young and prosperous Los Angeles lawyer, he campaigned vigorously for Frank Merriam, a colorless, conservative long shot in the G.O.P. gubernatorial sweepstakes. In a stroke of fate, Merriam's opponent, the favored "Sunny" Jim Rolph, died. When Merriam became governor, Knight was paid off with an appointment as Superior Court judge in Los Angeles. "I asked for the job," Goodie admits frankly. "Nobody ever gave me a job in my life. Any man who wants a political job gets it because he asked for it." The governor is not content with merely asking politely; he seeks what he wants with a whirling, all-out showmanship that horrifies his more conservative colleagues, depresses Democrats, and wins California votes in ever-increasing numbers. Politically, Goodie belongs to an old breed: he is an adroit practitioner of the crushing handshake, the baby kiss, the bellowed platitude, the corny joke, the remembered name. He likes nothing better than an oldfashioned, razzle-dazzle political campaign, and he campaigns every year all year round. His harried staffers estimate that when he is in good form, the governor makes more than 30 speeches a month; during active campaigns, his monthly par rises to a breathless 250 orations. In the 19 months since October 1953, when he first sat down in the governor's green leather chair, Knight has traveled 95,000 miles around the state and delivered himself of 1,500-speeches. Goodie can think of only three towns in all of California where he has not stumped at one time or another.*
He is known personally by more local politicians and by more average voters than Earl Warren, Bill Knowland and Dick Nixon put together. "Whenever two Californians get together," says Democratic National Committeeman Paul Ziffren glumly, "up pops Goodie Knight." "Wholesome Insincerity." When the gubernatorial DC-3, The Grissly, is set down on a California runway, Goodie can always count on a welcoming swarm of local Republicans waiting eagerly on the apron. Goodie has a remarkable memory for names, delivered with a personal greeting, a quip and a hefty whack on the back.