shifted, squeezed, and finally aborted.

"Can you ever forgive me?" asked the president. "I'm sorry. I've wasted your day." He darted about his small study next to the Oval Office, sorting through boxes and shelves for items to stuff into a large duffel on the desk, which he called his "Santa Claus bag," for people in Arkansas. He was scrambling to depart again—this time with a holiday entourage that included his ailing mother—with small logistical armies already mobilized on a coordinated timetable for Air Force One. Clinton fussed that he had mislaid some things and couldn't find others. When he called out for help, personal aides came in to shrug before rushing on with last-minute travel bags bound for the helicopter. I told him not to fret about theright moment, he added, when the paired addition of South Carolina gave the Southeastern Conference enough teams for a two-division championship playoff and therefore a huge extra payout for each member school. He recited precise figures with a blunt emphasis I thought vaguely unbecoming to higher education. Then he explained small black armbands on the Arkansas players as a mourning gesture for Virginia Kelley, which startled the president. "Has that been announced?" asked Clinton. "I didn't know."

Blair left when the game finally ended—a lopsided victory for Arkansas—and the president asked me to look at one of his eyes. He had been complaining of discomfort, wiping away tears. I saw no obstruction, but he decided to call for medical assistance because he felt something hard scratching the eyeball. Apologizing