Forging America: My Campaign Manager is Roosevelt

Chapter 362 - 173: Rodman Moment

"Do you know what the papers will say tomorrow morning?"

"The New York Times will run an editorial condemning us for betraying our values."

"Environmental groups will hold a hunger strike at the White House gates."

"Women’s rights groups, minority alliances... they’ll blow up our phones."

"Our base will be in an uproar. The left-wing media will kill us."

Stern shook his head, his tone resolute.

"This is impossible."

"I would rather lose Pennsylvania than let the President be tainted by this filth."

"It’s a matter of principle."

Sanders listened quietly to Stern’s outburst.

He simply turned, his gaze wandering around Stern’s lavishly decorated office.

Finally, his eyes landed on a photograph.

The photo was displayed in the most prominent spot on the bookshelf, set in an exquisite silver frame.

It was an old photograph from many years ago.

It was a team photo of the Chicago Bulls, taken right here at the White House, on the lawn of the Rose Garden.

The President at the time stood in the center, holding a jersey with the number 23 printed on it, a brilliant smile on his face.

And beside the President stood the god of basketball himself, Michael Jordan.

But on the edge of the group was a man with multi-colored hair, covered in tattoos, and a ring through his nose.

Dennis Rodman.

His head was tilted, his expression rebellious and untamed. Even in front of the President, he maintained that asshole-like posture.

Sanders walked over.

He raised his finger and tapped the glass over the flamboyantly colored head.

"David, you understand basketball."

Sanders said slowly, his back to Stern.

"This is a great photo."

"The Bulls dynasty. Seventy-two wins and ten losses. That was the greatest season in basketball history."

Stern was taken aback for a moment.

He didn’t understand why Sanders had suddenly brought up basketball.

"That’s my home team," Stern replied, not quite following. "I’m from Chicago. I was there that year."

"Good."

Sanders turned around.

"Then tell me, why did the Bulls win?"

"Because they had Jordan," Stern answered, as if it were obvious. "Jordan is a god. He can score, he can hit the clutch shot. He’s perfect."

"That’s right, Jordan is perfect."

Sanders nodded.

"Jordan is elegant, technically masterful. He’s the darling of the media, an icon to the whole world."

"He’s just like our President."

Sanders gestured around the office, this symbol of ultimate power.

"A perfect image, a polished resume, saying all the right, pretty things, representing the respectable face of this nation."

"But Jordan alone can’t win a championship."

"When the game enters the fourth quarter, when your opponents start to get physical, when the referees swallow their whistles, and when every possession is a bloody battle..."

"That’s when you need someone else."

Sanders’s finger jabbed hard at the tattooed man in the photo once more.

"You need Dennis Rodman."

Stern looked at the photograph and fell silent.

"Ron Smith, Joe Byers, and those crude Union leaders."

Sanders’s voice had a piercing quality.

"They are our Rodman."

"They’re dirty."

"They don’t play by the rules."

"They’re foul-mouthed. They don’t even look at the playbook."

"They make respectable people uncomfortable and the media disgusted."

"But."

Sanders walked back to the desk, looking Stern directly in the eyes.

"They can get rebounds."

"In this damn political game, the votes in Pennsylvania, the support of those Rust Belt workers—that’s the basketball bouncing off the rim."

"Jordan isn’t going to dive on the floor for the ball."

"Only Rodman will."

"Only this political ’trash’ in your eyes, these mud-caked Mayors, are willing to jump into the scrum, to use their elbows, to push and shove, to use the most savage methods to grab that damn ball and pass it back to us."

"Without rebounds, you can’t win the game."

"Without their votes, you can’t win Pennsylvania."

"That’s reality."

The office was silent, save for the low hum of the central air conditioning vent.

Stern sat in his chair, his gaze shifting back and forth between the list and the Chicago Bulls team photo.

He was a shrewd politician. He understood Sanders’s analogy.

The Democratic Party was too elitist now.

They had seized the moral high ground but lost their ground game.

They won every debate on X, but they lost one Swing State after another at the ballot box.

Because no one was willing to fraternize with those grease-stained workers, no one was willing to understand the lower-class whites who had nothing but their guns and their Bibles.

And now, that young man from Pittsburgh had delivered them a group of people willing to do the dirty work.

A group of real Rodmans.

"But..."

Stern was still hesitating.

"The cost is too high, Daniel."

"If we accept them, the President’s image will be damaged. The midterms aren’t just about seats; they’re about the political climate. If we get labeled as shifting to the right, our base’s turnout will drop."

"Image?"

Sanders let out a cold laugh.

"David, have you not grasped the situation yet?"

"If we lose the midterms, if the Senate falls into the hands of the Republican Party..."

"Then for the last two years of his term, a damaged image will be the least of the President’s problems."

Sanders’s tone grew heavy.