Just as Jack had instilled his passion for politics in me, Richard
inspired Dorothy. She decided to move to Washington her junior year
in the hope of working on the issues she cared so passionately
about. Once she transferred to Catholic University in Washington,
we started dating, though with my heavy travel schedule it was hard to
find time to spend together. One weekend in October 1983 we took
a trip to Cape Cod. I had bought a condo in Dennisport, Massachusetts,
with my brother Tom, and I wanted to inspect my purchase. No sooner had
Dorothy and I arrived than the phone rang. It was Tip O'Neill, the Speaker
of the House. Somehow he had gotten wind that I was on the cape.
"Hello, Mr. Speaker!" I said, surprised as can be.
Dorothy shot me a knowing look.
"Terry, why don't you come golfing with me tomorrow?" Tip asked
in that great old Boston accent of his.
"Okay, Mr. Speaker," I said. "Terrific.... Dorothy, I've got to
go golfing with the Speaker tomorrow," I announced, hanging up the
phone.
The next morning I got up early, took the car, and met Tip at
Eastward Ho! in Chatham, leaving Dorothy in the condo. She had grown
up around politics, and as long as I've known her she has always understood
that my work was going to suck up a lot of my time.
Would I go golfing with Tip O'Neill? Of course I would! Tip was not
only the biggest figure in the Democratic Party at that time, a legendary
force in Congress, he was also a great storyteller and always fun to be
around. Plus, he was Irish.
Everything out of Tip's mouth was Irish jokes or Irish stories, and
I couldn't have been having any more fun if I'd been sitting in Limerick
drinking Guinness with a bar full of leprechauns. Tip told me
about the time he put together a good fund-raiser for Jack
kennedy and, late in the evening, the two men ducked into the men's room
together.
"How did we do?" Kennedy asked him.
"About twenty grand, ten in cash, ten in checks," Tip told
him.
"You keep the checks, I'll take the cash," Kennedy
said.
That was sure a different era. (Definitely
pre-McCain-Feingold!)
Even if you had already heard Tip's stories or jokes, it didn't
matter—the way he told them, they were still a riot. Tip had that
big, white shock of hair and the big, bulbous W. C. Fields nose. He was
like a walking caricature lifted straight from a political cartoon, but
the thing about him was he never forgot who he was. He hated
pretentiousness and taking on airs. He talked to