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And so, the work began

The rhetoric may not have soared, but Obama's inaugural speech proved that he is more than ready to

For weeks, there had been conjectures: whom would Barack Obama most resemble on his assumption of power – Lincoln, FDR, JFK, or perhaps even Reagan? Inaugurations tend to turn members of the political class into amateur historians, as they lean back in their swivel chairs and recall this quote from 1937 or that anecdote from 1961. This year the tendency was particularly strong, what with Obama dropping plenty of references of his own – asking to be sworn in on Lincoln’s Bible, arriving by train as Lincoln had done, letting it be known he was doing heavy reading on the New Deal.

There's something to be said for historical refreshers, but this year's ritual comparisons risked miscasting the moment in which the country finds itself. Yes, the US faces its greatest financial crisis since the Great Depression. But here is what confronted Roosevelt in 1933: a country with 25 per cent unemployment and a mere 100,000 spectators at the Capitol on a gusty March day, with an outgoing president, Herbert Hoover, so glum and resentful that he declined to invite Roosevelt to the customary dinner and sat mute in the car as they drove to the ceremony past tentative applause.

Here is what I encountered as I set off from my Virginia suburb on Tuesday: a subway car packed to bursting, with a mood of levity bordering on the ribald. To escape the crush, I got off a few stops earlier than planned and crossed to the far end of the National Mall via Memorial Bridge. The partly frozen Potomac eddied below, all slate and silver; the low-slung city ahead glowed with import, its institutional and monumental whites and grays suffused with cold clear light; and standing watch behind, up above the great military cemetery on the Virginia shore, was the mansion where once resided Robert E Lee, the Confederate commander and a hero of the former slave-holding state that this year had voted for Barack Hussein Obama, the first Democrat to carry Virginia in 44 years.

Even some Republicans couldn’t help but be swept up in the high spirits all around them

No, this day would be something else altogether, which was why they were coming in such numbers, coming across the bridges and on the endless loop of trains and subways and buses, two million on the Mall and several hundred thousand more on the parade route. All told, the number was not far shy of the population of Chicago, or nearly one in every 100 Americans. It was a celebration, and had been one for some time, refracted in a dozen frames - the waves of African Americans from across the country who viewed attendance as mandatory, many of whom flocked during the previous days to DC's U Street. This is the longtime heart of the city's black nightlife which has become, after just one recent Obama visit, suddenly rife with presidential associations; the long-suffering liberal Democrats who rejoiced to hear Pete Seeger, at Obama's big welcoming show on Sunday, sing Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land" complete with the protest verses that tend to be skipped in polite company. Even some Republicans couldn't help but be swept up: Peggy Noonan, a former Reagan speechwriter, rhapsodised on cable about the high spirits all around her with the highest compliment possible: "It has the happiness of 1980!"

Obama, of course, could not indulge in such easy joy at the podium, though he would offer enough broad smiles at the later parade and balls. While he was careful not to overstate matters - his litany of the country's woes was brief compared with Roosevelt's in 1933 - his speech was delivered with a sternness that must have left cool some of the shivering thousands hoping for heartier uplift. Partly, this had to do with the new rhetorical landscape before him.

For the past two years, he had been pitching a great and simple story: Barack Obama. All the best speeches, in Des Moines and Philadelphia and Denver, had been elevated by the subtext of the speaker's rise and what it said about America. But now he must find new ways to inspire a country in which the election of a black rookie senator with a Muslim name is, just like that, an assumed fact, receding on the calendar. He must rely on whatever material the moment and country offer, and if Tuesday's speech did not measure up to Lincoln in 1865 or Roosevelt in 1933, it may have been because the current crisis does not yet approach what they grappled with.


Obama may not entirely mind this limitation. He has given many speeches these past two years, and may feel that there is only so much left to say for now. His call on Tuesday for a “new era of responsibility”, his praise for the “doers [and] makers of things”, his declaration that there is “nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task”, may have been in part a summons to himself. Rhetoric will never recede in this administration – it will be Obama’s most powerful tool – but after so many promises made and visions conjured, he may be more than ready to get down to business. “For everywhere we look,” he said, “there is work to be done.”

Alec MacGillis is a staff writer for the Washington Post

This article first appeared in the 26 January 2009 issue of the New Statesman, Nixon went to China... Will Obama go to Iran?

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An English hero for the ages: Ian Botham at 60

Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.

Begging W H Auden’s pardon, it is possible both to honour and to value the vertical man, and in the case of Ian Botham, who turned 60 on 24 November, it is our bounden duty. No sportsman has given Britons so much to enjoy in the past half-century and no sportsman is loved more. Two decades after he retired from first-class cricket, his reputation as one of life’s champions remains unassailable.

No mere cricketer is he, either. Botham is a philanthropist, having raised more than £12m for various charities, notably Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. In December, 30 years after his first walk from John o’Groats to Land’s End, he will set off again, in South Africa, where England are on tour. And he really does walk, too, not amble. As somebody who accompanied him on one of his dozen walks said: “You can’t keep up with him. The man is a phenomenon.”

Of all postwar sportsmen, only Bobby Charlton and, at a pinch, Henry Cooper come close to matching Botham’s enduring popularity. But Charlton, a shy man who was scarred by the Munich plane crash of 1958 (and may never have recovered from its emotional effects), has never comfortably occupied a public stage; and Cooper, being a boxer, had a solitary role. Botham, by contrast, spoke for England. Whenever he picked up his bat, or had a ball in his hand, he left spectators in no doubt.

Others have also spoken for England. Bobby Moore and Martin Johnson, captains respectively of England’s World Cup-winning football and rugby teams, were great players but did not reach out to people as naturally as Botham. Nick Faldo, Lester Piggott, Sebastian Coe and, to bring us up to date, Lewis Hamilton have beaten the best in the world, but they lacked those qualities that Botham displayed so freely. That is not to mark them down. They were, and are, champions. But Botham was born under a different star.

It was John Arlott, the great cricket commentator, who first spotted his uniqueness. Covering a match at Taunton in 1974, he asked the young colt to carry his bags up the rickety staircase to the press box, where Arlott, wearing his oenophile’s hat, pulled out a bottle of red wine and invited Botham to drink. Forty years later Botham is a discriminating wine drinker – and maker. Along with his friend and fellow England great Bob Willis, and their Australian wine­making pal Geoff Merrill, he has put his name to a notable Shiraz, “BMW”.

Arlott, with his nose for talent and good company, saw something in the young Botham that Brian Close, his captain at Somerset, was beginning to bring out. Later, Mike Brearley, as England captain, drew out something even more remarkable. As Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, you’ve got to be carefully taught. And Botham, a fine team man as well as a supreme individual performer, has never withheld praise from those who enabled him to find his voice.

If sport reveals character, then cricket is the game that reveals it most clearly. In no other sport is the individual performance rooted so firmly in a team context. Every over brings a contest of skill and intelligence between batsman and bowler but only a team can win the match. “A cricketer,” as Arlott said, “is showing you something of himself all the time.”

Cricket also reveals national character more than any other sport. Football may be the most popular game in the world but cricket, and cricketers, tell us far more about England and Englishness. It is instructive, in this regard, to hear what Philippe Auclair, a French journalist and author long resident in London, has to say about Botham: “He is essentially an 18th-century Englishman.” In one! It’s not difficult to sense a kinship with Tom Jones, Fielding’s embodiment of 18th-century life, who began his journey, as readers may recall, in Somerset.

A country boy who played for Worcestershire after leaving Somerset, and who lives by choice in North Yorkshire, Botham is an old-fashioned Englishman. Although nobody has yet found him listening to the parson’s sermon, he is conservative with a small and upper-case C, a robust monarchist, handy with rod and gun, and happiest with a beaker in front of him. He represents (though he would never claim to be a representative) all those people who understand instinctively what England means, not in a narrow way, but through something that is in the blood.

Above all, he will be remembered for ever as the hero of 1981. Even now it takes some believing that Botham bowled and batted with such striking success that the Australians, who were one up after two Tests, were crushed. Some of us who were actually at Headingley for the famous third Test – thousands who claim to have been there were not – recall the odds of 500-1 on an England victory going up on the electronic scoreboard that Saturday evening.

Botham made 149 not out as England, following on, beat the Aussies by 18 runs. For three hours the country seemed to stop. In the next Test, at Edgbaston, Botham took five wickets for one run as Australia fell under his spell. Then, at Old Trafford, on a dank Saturday afternoon, he played the most memorable innings of his life and one of the greatest innings ever played by an Englishman: 118 magnificent, joyful runs. Joy: that’s the word. Botham brought joy into people’s lives.

Yet it was the final Test at the Oval, which ended in a draw, that brought from him a performance no less remarkable than those from before. He bowled 89 overs in that match, flat out, continuing to run in when others withdrew with injury. That was the team man coming to the fore. Little wonder his comrades thought the world of him.

Modest, loyal, respectful to opponents, grateful to all who have lent him a hand, and supported throughout a turbulent life by Kath, his rock of a wife, and their three children, this is a cricketing hero to rank with W G Grace, Jack Hobbs, Wally Hammond and Fred Trueman. A feature in the lives of all who saw him, and a very English hero. 

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State