The Big Fight Syndrome

By Hugh Sidey

We are creating a political demolition derby, not a presidential debate. Those strange impulses in the American soul that have produced mud wrestling and The Gong Show seem to have claimed the national campaign.

The confrontations of the presidential contenders on television are designed more for harsh human drama than enlightenment. Bored with endless months of caravan politics, the opposing camps whip up national interest in the same way that boxing promoters try to build a big gate. There is talk of keeping the pressure on, of pounding away at this issue or that, of drawing blood, even of scoring a knockout. In the debate itself, the candidates try to look and talk tough. Chest heaving and frowning become measures of character. Entrapment, humiliation, accusation and scorn rise above sympathy and understanding. The debates and their breathless aftermaths demand a winner. If there is none on first viewing, one will be created. One contender is expected to exult and preen, the other to scowl and slink out of town, like Floyd Patterson after his K.O. by Sonny Listen in Chicago. It is the heavyweight championship of politics, and in the ensuing days the air waves are filled with videotape highlights. It is a lousy way to choose a President, and has been since the first modern confrontation back in 1960 between Richard Nixon and John Kennedy.

Consider the irony today. Walter Mondale spent the first weeks of his fall campaign ridiculing Ronald Reagan as a Hollywood President--hollow fellow prancing around on a stage mouthing lines written by others and with only a vague idea of what was going on in the alley behind the theater. When television brought the two together, Mondale unabashedly climbed right up on the stage, put on makeup and devoted his energies to modulating his voice, making eye contact with the camera and using the right body language. His principal purpose was not to explain himself but to confuse, anger and outscore his opponent. Show biz and boxing had claimed one more presidential hopeful.

Fortunately, doubts are growing about these dubious events. This skepticism could conceivably lead to reform and perhaps even produce true debate. Up until now it has been an article of faith promoted by the television impresarios that the electoral tides began to ebb for Nixon, Ford and Carter when they faltered in the studios before the huge television audiences. There are poll data to support this contention. More subtle analysis these days suggests, however, that other forces were at work that would have surfaced with or without the great electronic spectacles. There was an unease over Nixon, and affection for Kennedy was on the rise. Ford was saddled with the collapse of Viet Nam and Nixon's pardon, a burden now viewed as too much for any Republican just then. For months Carter had been his own worst enemy and hardly needed Reagan on the stage to remind Americans why they were disillusioned.

The other disturbing dimension of these television fandangos is that in glorifying the idea of winning, they set up false criteria for governing in a democratic society. An unusually wise and savvy fellow by the name of Al McGuire, who did some basketball coaching at Marquette University, once said that winning was really important only in surgery and war. A President does not succeed long if he is devoted to crushing opponents and then rubbing it in. His main work is persuading as many people as possible that he is listening, that he needs their help, and that they are the real winners. John Kennedy recognized this in the 1960 campaign, when he was urged to hit his critics harder. "That is not a very good idea," he said. "I'll need them all to run this country."