John Feinstein - The Rivalry - Mystery at the Army-Navy Game

Almost on cue, a door behind Love opened and a half dozen people poured out. Stevie recognized one of them instantly. “Hillary Clinton,” Susan Carol hissed as the secretary of state gave them a smile walking by.

“ That I know,” Stevie said.

“Come on in,” Love said, walking to the door. Campbell, Stevie noticed, had not followed them.

“Mr. President,” Love said. “Susan Carol Anderson and Steve Thomas.”

At first, Stevie only heard the familiar voice.

“Thanks, Reggie,” he heard him say. Then, as Love stepped back to let him and Susan Carol walk inside the Oval Office, the president of the United States walked around his desk to come and greet them.

“Steve, Susan Carol, this is a real pleasure,” he said, shaking hands. “I’m Barack Obama.”

A photographer took several pictures of Stevie and Susan Carol sitting on the couch, notebooks poised, while the president sat in an armchair.

“We’ll send you copies,” he said.

“Do you need our addresses?” Stevie asked.

The president laughed at that one. “We have your addresses, Steve,” he said.

Oh yeah, Stevie thought. They have everyone’s address.

Stevie and Susan Carol started the interview with softball questions about Army-Navy and what connections the president had to the rivalry.

“I’m a fan,” he said. “I can remember watching the game one year when a Navy kid missed a short field goal at the end in a driving rain to lose the game and then took all the blame on himself, didn’t make any excuses. I was impressed by that.”

“Ryan Bucchianeri was his name,” Susan Carol said. It figured, Stevie thought, she would know that.

“That’s it, I remember him,” the president said. “Then there was a game where Army drove, I think, ninety-nine yards to win.

“Of course now the game means even more to me. As commander in chief, I have a connection to these young men that goes beyond being a football fan.”

They continued in a jock vein for a while. President Obama either was a real fan or had been briefed well. He certainly knew all about Stevie and Susan Carol. At one point he asked Susan Carol what her current national ranking was in the 100 butterfly.

“I’m actually a little higher in the 200,” she said. “I’m fourth right now.”

“The 200 ’fly?” the president said. “I get tired just watching that event.”

Susan Carol smiled, clearly delighted that the president could talk swimming. “The last time I swam it, I died completely at the finish.”

“You’ll get ’em next time,” the president said.

It was Susan Carol who finally brought up security at the game. Pete Dowling had told Kelleher that the president was always briefed on security issues, but they weren’t sure if he knew they knew.

“Are you concerned about it at all?” Susan Carol asked.

“No-I have the Secret Service to be concerned about it for me,” he said. “When you’re president, there are always going to be people who have some kind of grudge against you. It comes with the territory.”

“More so when you are an African American president?” Stevie asked, proud that his voice wasn’t trembling.

“I’ve been an African American president since the day I was sworn in,” the president said, smiling. “Again, that’s just part of who I am. I know that adds some new stresses for the Secret Service, but I also know just how good they are at their jobs. I don’t look over my shoulder. Lots of professionals are there to protect me.”

Stevie knew they were out of time. Reggie Love poked his head in the door. “Mr. President?” he said. “It’s ten twenty-five. Your ten fifteen is waiting outside.” They had been scheduled to have fifteen minutes. They’d been given twenty-five.

The president stood up. “I know you two understand that the security questions have to be off the record at least until after the game. Pete told me you’d had that conversation.”

They both nodded. Stevie wasn’t about to explain to the president of the United States that technically he should have gone off the record before answering the questions.

Then the president laughed. “And also off the record? I think the officials have more to worry about from you, Ms. Anderson. People will be paying more attention to them than to me, I suspect.”

Susan Carol blushed fiercely, so Stevie thanked him again and they were escorted out.

As they were leaving, Stevie couldn’t help but notice the president’s 10:15 standing up to be escorted into the Oval Office.

It was Bill Gates.

Once Campbell had escorted them back to the northwest gate, they walked to the Post . They were told to “just write” and not worry about length, and that’s what they did-producing two thousand words in under two hours.

“He really is good,” Kelleher said, reading behind them. “He knows exactly what people need and he gives it to them-nothing more, nothing less.”

Once their story had been edited and approved, Kelleher took Stevie to the train station. He was dreading the next few days: he’d be back in school, which was a pretty big comedown from interviewing the president. But soon he’d be at the game itself. Just not soon enough.

Susan Carol was happy with the story she and Stevie had produced from their interview with President Obama. And she liked having people stop her in the newsroom to tell her how much they had enjoyed her story on the Arnott brothers in that morning’s paper. Tamara called it “taking bows.”

“No better feeling,” she said. “It’s great to write something your colleagues notice.”

“Well, it sure beats hate mail.” Susan Carol laughed.

She also felt better after a weekend working together with Stevie. Even tough things seemed better when they could tackle them together.

So she really missed Stevie when Kelleher called her on Tuesday.

“I just got a call from Kenny Niumatalolo,” he said. “He told me the ACC stuck to its guns on the refs, so your favorite officials from the Notre Dame game will be on the Army-Navy game. He’s really angry about it.”

“Are you going to write about it?” she asked.

“No. You are. You were the one who started this story.”

Susan Carol was quiet, so Kelleher plowed ahead. “Don’t be nervous. You just make some phone calls. I’ll give you Kenny’s cell. I think he’ll talk pretty frankly even on the record because he is not happy. Then call the ACC for comment, and Rich Ellerson too. You’ve got his number, right?”

“What about the referee; do I call him too?” she asked.

“Ask Harold Neve-he’s the ACC’s football supervisor-if he’s got numbers for any of the four guys. They all have jobs, so they’re probably reachable at their offices.”

“They have jobs?”

“Sure. They only ref one day a week, travel one day maybe, and football season is only so long. So the rest of the time they have jobs. That’s part of the problem, really. They’re not full-time professionals and no one ever wants to fire them when they screw up.”

Susan Carol wasn’t terribly excited about doing the story, but she knew it needed to be done.

Niumatalolo was calm but clearly upset when she talked to him.

“I have yet to see any evidence that those two calls were warranted,” he said. “I really don’t think it’s fair to our kids to run onto the field for our biggest game of the year and have to see four of those same officials out there. I’m not saying they’re incompetent, I’m just saying the wound they inflicted is still raw.”

Ellerson was sympathetic with Niumatalolo. “If I was in Ken’s shoes, I’d probably feel the same way,” he said. “My only concern now is that the officials might not want to makes calls against Navy. Honestly, I’d rather not see them on the game either.”