Feature Article |
The Maybe Mayor
By Dan P. Lee
Another friend of his, Ed Rendell, wonders the same thing.
It takes a lot of work, the Governor tells me, to both understand the issues in Philadelphia and figure out your own policy and direction. "And there's a question about the extent that Bob would be willing or able to do those things," Rendell says. "And would he be able to articulate his vision of where he wants to take this city to the people of the city? That's extraordinarily important."
As Bob Brady cut away big chunks of French toast — swollen like sponges with the egg-and-milk batter, browned and glistening with butter, sprinkled with powdered sugar and swimming in syrup — it became clear just what he thinks the answer to those questions is: him.
BOB BRADY DOES HAVE A charisma, an aura even, that is unusual and somewhat ineffable and typically very helpful in politics — "Rendellian," some call him — though his charm is uniquely and organically Philadelphian. A former union carpenter and onetime welfare recipient turned driver for a city councilman turned Philly Democratic Party godfather turned one of the most powerful men in the U.S. Capitol, Brady is already something of a Philly political fairy tale. Becoming mayor would serve as the penultimate chapter — the opening salvo of a grand finale — to his story.
For Brady, who at the diner would introduce me to the neighborhood undertaker with the personal pronoun "our," the few blocks around 75th and Haverford are the prism through which his entire life can be viewed. He recalls his working-class childhood in almost idyllic terms — playing stickball and boxball in the streets till the sky darkened and parents came to their stoops to call; sparring with his old buddy Joe Frazier (who attended Brady's fund-raiser); shooting hoops with Earl "The Pearl" Monroe, whom Brady brags about having held to 65 points during one game. He is the oldest of three brothers, their father a DRPA cop on the Walt Whitman and Ben Franklin bridges who died at 53, his mom a homemaker who went to work at Penn Fruit supermarket and became checker of the year. After graduating from St. Thomas More High in 1963, Brady became a carpenter. (His younger brothers went a different route, via college, with which Brady would eventually help them financially, one earning a doctorate in finance, the other becoming a judge here.)
But city construction work dried up in the '70s. Brady found himself unemployed, with a wife and two kids. He picked up odd jobs, but couldn't make ends meet. More than once the PGW guy came to shut off the heat in their rowhome. Sometimes, after inviting the guy in to have a highball or two, Brady got a reprieve. Sometimes he didn't.
Early married life on the edge gives Brady a mayoral vision that's both large and vague: "If I can't do anything, I gotta eliminate people feeling that way" — not knowing how they're going to provide for their kids. "Black, white, pink or green, orange, big ones, small. Them little kids don't have a right to feel that way. That's gotta get fixed."
It takes a lot of work, the Governor tells me, to both understand the issues in Philadelphia and figure out your own policy and direction. "And there's a question about the extent that Bob would be willing or able to do those things," Rendell says. "And would he be able to articulate his vision of where he wants to take this city to the people of the city? That's extraordinarily important."
As Bob Brady cut away big chunks of French toast — swollen like sponges with the egg-and-milk batter, browned and glistening with butter, sprinkled with powdered sugar and swimming in syrup — it became clear just what he thinks the answer to those questions is: him.
BOB BRADY DOES HAVE A charisma, an aura even, that is unusual and somewhat ineffable and typically very helpful in politics — "Rendellian," some call him — though his charm is uniquely and organically Philadelphian. A former union carpenter and onetime welfare recipient turned driver for a city councilman turned Philly Democratic Party godfather turned one of the most powerful men in the U.S. Capitol, Brady is already something of a Philly political fairy tale. Becoming mayor would serve as the penultimate chapter — the opening salvo of a grand finale — to his story.
For Brady, who at the diner would introduce me to the neighborhood undertaker with the personal pronoun "our," the few blocks around 75th and Haverford are the prism through which his entire life can be viewed. He recalls his working-class childhood in almost idyllic terms — playing stickball and boxball in the streets till the sky darkened and parents came to their stoops to call; sparring with his old buddy Joe Frazier (who attended Brady's fund-raiser); shooting hoops with Earl "The Pearl" Monroe, whom Brady brags about having held to 65 points during one game. He is the oldest of three brothers, their father a DRPA cop on the Walt Whitman and Ben Franklin bridges who died at 53, his mom a homemaker who went to work at Penn Fruit supermarket and became checker of the year. After graduating from St. Thomas More High in 1963, Brady became a carpenter. (His younger brothers went a different route, via college, with which Brady would eventually help them financially, one earning a doctorate in finance, the other becoming a judge here.)
But city construction work dried up in the '70s. Brady found himself unemployed, with a wife and two kids. He picked up odd jobs, but couldn't make ends meet. More than once the PGW guy came to shut off the heat in their rowhome. Sometimes, after inviting the guy in to have a highball or two, Brady got a reprieve. Sometimes he didn't.
Early married life on the edge gives Brady a mayoral vision that's both large and vague: "If I can't do anything, I gotta eliminate people feeling that way" — not knowing how they're going to provide for their kids. "Black, white, pink or green, orange, big ones, small. Them little kids don't have a right to feel that way. That's gotta get fixed."
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