Franklin Roosevelt could see it right in front of him. His chance. It was a late-June afternoon in San Francisco, the opening day of the Democratic Party's 1920 convention. Only a few paces away from him, a couple of overfed party functionaries were guarding the standard of New York State. It was nothing special to look at, a wooden sign dangling above the convention floor. But to Franklin it would have been irresistible: Here is greatness. Come and get it.
Franklin was 38 years old but looked younger. Handsome, well connected, and eager, he'd spent the better part of the last decade holding high offices — a term in New York's State Senate followed by seven years in Washington as Woodrow Wilson's assistant secretary of the Navy. He'd devoted much of his adult life to dreaming of an even higher office — the presidency — and studying the things that savvy politicians did to win it. A convention, he knew, was a kind of game, often a physical one. Playing it well, and looking good while playing, an ambitious young man could prove he had the stuff of a future president — quick wits, a hint of eros, oceans of charm.
Franklin fancied himself that sort of man, and New York's hanging wooden sign offered a means of proving it. Whenever the convention-floor game got heated, states’ standards became prized possessions, a signal that that state was lining up behind a cause, a platform, or a candidate. Holding the standard of New York, the most populous state in the country, was a chance to show off power. Stealing New York's standard in a moment of tense drama was a chance to captivate the room. That was what he intended to do: grab the standard and hold everyone's attention. To get hold of it, he would use his long, lean frame and his quick, elegant stride, the same things that distinguished him on the golf course and tennis court, places where he spent much of his time. And he was also prepared to use his fists.
The trouble had started a few minutes earlier, with the unveiling of the president's portrait.
