In my last op-ed, I wrote about the groundswell of
support Donald Trump is getting from white, working-class Americans. As far as they’re
concerned, he can do no wrong. He’s convinced them that, if elected, he’ll make
America “great again.”
I’m not a Trump supporter, but I have friends who
are. They don’t understand why I won’t vote for him. I tell them that voting
for Donald Trump would be like voting for Vlad the Impaler. I also have a few Progressive friends tell me
I should vote for Hillary. I can’t. I have a conscience. I’d no more vote for
Hillary Clinton than I would for Lizzie Borden and her axe.
Right now, the so-called smart money seems to be on
Hillary. Democratic Party big-wigs are licking their chops, sensing that their
champion is going to beat Trump to a bloody pulp.
It may well turn out that way, but that hasn’t
stopped the Trumpkins. He’s promised them that he’ll make America great again
and that’s enough for them. Sound logic and good sense should be prevailing,
but they’re not. Trump’s supporters keep
on believing and dreaming.
Who doesn’t occasionally dream? When I was a kid, I
dreamed of playing left field for the Boston Red Sox. My hero, Ted Williams was
closing in on the end of his career and, in my flights of fancy, I visualized
myself taking his place, hitting the big home run or making the game-saving
spectacular catch in front of Fenway Park’s Green Monster. But, two realities
got in my way. First, the Red Sox weren’t in the market for a no-hit, no-field
wonder and, second, Carl Yastrzemski, a future hall of famer, was waiting in
the wings.
The closest I ever got to the Green Monster was an
occasional bleacher seat.
Reality can be a brutally efficient teacher. One of
my best buddies in high school was a guy named Stevie McNeely. He was a great
guy, blessed with Irish wit and a sense of optimism like no one I’ve ever met.
He could always see the bright side. His real claim to fame was that his
cousin, Tom, was an up-and-coming heavyweight boxer. Stevie would occasionally
brag about Tom and his undefeated record. He was my best friend, so I pretended
to be impressed.
We didn’t see much of each other after we both
graduated from high school in June of 1960, but, our paths did cross again in
the fall of 1961. Tom was going to be fighting Floyd Patterson for the world
heavyweight title in December.
By the time the fight with Patterson came, Tom
McNeely’s record was 23 and 0. Quite impressive! Stevie told me that Tom had
dreamed he was going to knock Patterson out. I didn’t want to insult my best
friend, but I couldn’t help but laugh. “Patterson’s gonna’ kill him, Stevie.
The only way he’ll ever beat Patterson is in his dreams.”
It nearly ended the friendship.
Tom McNeely kept on dreaming. On the night of the
fight, he daydreamed all the way through the pre-fight announcements about who
was going to sing the national anthem at his first title defense.
Then, reality set in.
The fight lasted four rounds. According to the
official count, McNeely was knocked down eleven times before the referee
mercifully ended his dreams. It took a few years, but Tom was eventually able
to look back at the fight with a sense of humor. He said that, while the
official count was eleven, he was convinced that Patterson had knocked him down
twelve or thirteen. He even joked that he was being hit so hard and so often
that he thought “the referee was sneaking in some punches.”
The only heavyweight title fight I’ve ever read
about that matched it for brutal efficiency was the Primo Carnera – Max Baer title
fight in 1934. Baer knocked Carnera down thirteen times, but it took him eleven
rounds to do it.
I have friends who are Donald Trump supporters, so
I’m going to try one last time to get through to them. There’s no good outcome
for you in this election cycle. Hillary may win or Donald Trump may win, but
you’ll lose either way. Hillary and the Democratic Party don’t like working
class white men any more. Your pockets aren’t deep enough for their tastes. And,
Donald Trump has no intention of fulfilling his so-called promises to you. As
they say on 42nd Street, he’s going to shoot you right through the
grease.
You may not like it, but I’m writing this as someone
who cares about you. It’s time to wake up! By the time these two are done with
you you’re gonna’ wind up with cauliflower ears and pug noses. That’s the
reality that’s about d crash down on you.
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