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Bush critics charged that he was just a front for the moneymen who actually ran the team, an empty suit with p.r. skills. But according to his former partners and people close to the team, Bush was an engaged manager who played a substantial role in transforming the Rangers from a shabby franchise to a success story. Along with Rose and Rangers president Tom Schieffer, Bush led the drive to build a fine new stadium, paid for by local bonds. (The Ballpark in Arlington opened in April 1994, seven months before he was elected Governor.) "George did a valuable thing for the franchise," says Schieffer. "He gave it glitter and celebrity. The first thing you've got to understand about him is that George is the most likable person you will ever run into."
The Rangers deal put a lid on Bush's dreams of running for Governor in 1990, but to see him during the Rangers years was to witness the emergence of a major Texas politician, one who at last had an identity distinct from his father's. He exploited his Rangers power base, giving speeches across Texas in support of the team and sitting in the stands next to the dugout for all 80-plus home games--visible to local TV cameras, munching peanuts, signing autographs. "It was amazing," says Betts. "Sometimes he would be there an hour after the game, still signing."
Bush's well-crafted, down-home style was always on display. He hated to ride in a limo, even someone else's, and the Bushes lived in a modest brick house. Their main luxury was private school for the girls. He dressed as indifferently as ever, in ratty suits and eelskin boots emblazoned with the flag of Texas. At the Rangers office, he insisted on wearing a pair of shoes with a large hole in them, prompting his colleague Rose to buy him a $120 pair of Gucci loafers for his birthday. "George took them back to Neiman Marcus and exchanged them for cash," says Schieffer.
Bush describes these years as idyllic. "I am sure all families have got interesting anchors, little memory scraps and moments of history that remind them of the importance of family," he says. "For me it was taking the kids to the ballpark." He took his wife too. "Laura and I spent hours of quality time together watching the game," he says. "Here we were in August. The team was out of the race. We just visited."
By 1992 he was everywhere--in his box seat signing autographs; out in the towns of North Texas delivering what he called the "Baseball, Apple Pie and First Family" speech. Once he'd been a dutiful, uninspired speaker, but all those years of surrogate stumping had paid off. As his father's re-election campaign rolled around, his message became more overtly political, though never on his own behalf. Instead, the pitch was either for his father or for Republican Congressmen, who had begun to view him as a real asset. He peppered his speeches with references to his parents. "I know you wished the most famous Bush could be here tonight," he would say, "but Mom was busy." Or: "I know I'm here to talk about baseball but I need to help the old man stay employed."