Tip O’Neill, like most people, had a temper. But one did not feel the heat of his anger so much as its iciness. I experienced that chill first-hand one morning about thirty years ago outside of Saint Monica’s Church in
As I emerged into the sunlight following the funeral of a local dignitary I spied the speaker of the House standing off to the side with one of his aides. I had known him for some years and covered him as a reporter and commentator on
“Good morning, Mr. Speaker,” I chirped as I approached.
He looked right through me, refusing to even acknowledge my presence. I knew it wasn’t that he was distracted or anything because I was standing directly in front of him, only about five feet away.
Uh oh, I said to myself, he’s mad about something I said or did. I slunk away, chagrined at having lost a relationship I cared about but knowing that’s the price one pays for being a critic - which is what we who consider ourselves pundits really are. I found out later that the speaker was not mad about anything I’d said about him, he had a thick skin when it came to that, he was mad about something I’d said about his son Tom, then the Massachusetts lieutenant governor.
That, I surmised, was that – until some weeks later when I was in a Palm Beach, Florida hotel at a speaking engagement. As we were preparing to sit down for dinner the fellow who had over-paid me to go there said, “I suppose you know all the politicians up there in
“Yes, indeed,” I agreed.
“Do you know the Kennedys?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“How about Tip O’Neill, do you know him?”
“I certainly do,” I replied.
Whereupon a guy who was standing with us chimed in, “Do you know that Tip O’Neill is in the function room right next door to us?”
“What?” said the guy who’d paid my fee. “You’ve got to introduce me. I’ve always wanted to meet him.”
Suddenly aware of what had happened the last time I’d been in the speaker’s presence, I began backing and filling. “Well, I’m sure he’s very busy, doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Oh, no,” said the guy, “this is my chance to meet him and you’re going to introduce me.” And he took me by the arm and headed me in the direction of the adjacent function room.
I was literally quaking in my boots as we opened the door. There were about fifty people there, including the entire
“Uh, I don’t think so,” I stammered, by this time about as steady as a mound of jello.
Now Moakley had me by the hand, leading me across the room with the guy who was paying me trailing behind, and he was calling out, “Tip, Tip, look who’s here.”
Disaster was at hand. Only my laundry man knew how nervous I was.
As we pulled up next to the speaker, who’d had his back turned, he looked around, spotted me, and threw one of his huge arms around my shoulder. “Oh, for God’s sake, my old pal,” he said pulling his cigar from out of his mouth. He had been mad a few weeks earlier, but he was willing to forgive and forget, at least this once.
My relief, and even gratitude, knew no bounds. “Oh, Mr. Speaker,” I said effusively, “I just wanted to come by and introduce you to my friend John Linstroth.”
Tip grabbed the hand of my host, looked him in the eye and said, “Any friend of Dick Flavin’s is a friend of mine. If you ever have a problem, just call my office.” The guy was thrilled, but not nearly as thrilled as I was.
We headed back to the other room with my host convinced that I must be a really important player back in
That was Tip O’Neill, willing to let bygones be bygones and, more than that, always finding ways to make those around him look good. Would he have acted the same way if I had offended him second time? I never took the chance of finding out.
