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On His Own. But in Massachusetts, the party convention can do no more than endorse. What really counts is the primary, and McCormack. despite his convention loss"J decided to fight on. He gave it all he had; already lean, he lost 14 Ibs. during the campaign. He was at his best walking alone among the voters, shaking hands and showing his disarming, crooked smile. At dawn, he walked alone into one diner and handed his campaign folder to a man hunched over the counter.
"For Christ's sakes." cried the man. and threw the leaflet to the floor.
"Listen," said McCormack, who was up after three hours' sleep. "I feel just as bad as you do. If I can get up and come out and ask for your vote, the least you can do is vote for me."
"All right," said the man, "I'll vote for you."
At a candy factory in Cambridge, McCormack moved up and down aisles redolent of sugar and raspberry. The women workers all had chocolate covering on their right hands. McCormack shook their left hands and said, "I'm Eddie McCormack. I hope you'll vote for me." Back came the replies: "I will ... I will . . . I will." Said one woman: "We're working people, you know." On another occasion, a man assured him: "I'm for you. Ted still wets the bed."
But none of this was enough—and McCormack, a practical politician from an eminently political family, knew it. In desperation, he lashed out. In the first of his two TV debates against Teddy, he launched a savage personal attack against Teddy's youth, his qualifications, name, his slogan. It was all true, but Teddy never buckled and, in the end, the attack probably got him some sympathy.
Eddie continued the struggle. His small, intensely loyal staff worked round the clock; yet schedules went awry, and Eddie lost votes by failing to appear at the proper rally at the proper time. Hard up for cash, he set his father "Knocko" and his older brother "Jocko" to supervising a tiny group of volunteers who worked throughout the night making campaign posters.
All to no avail. Teddy had it over him in every way. Kennedy came equipped with searchlights, drum majorettes, flying flags and marching bands that whipped the crowds into football fervor. Teddy was supreme at the street-corner rally. The sight of an Irish eye would start him singing Sweet Adeline—at least until he got word that his flat baritone was losing him votes. Squads of Kennedy girl volunteers, their hair teased to perfection, fanned out across the state. There was no lack of recruits. One woman, picking phone numbers at random, was surprised to find that nearly everyone she called was willing to pitch in for Teddy.
The Living Doll. As Teddy put on the pressure, his campaign scenes became kaleidoscopic. At a textile machinery plant in Worcester, Teddy moved eagerly through the din and the smell of hot metal to shake the hands of the men in the foundry. One man gestured that his hand was too greasy to shake. "Gimme that, buddy!" cried Kennedy, slamming his own big hand into the worker's. Then he strode on, his hand black with grease below his neat, white cuff.