Golfing With Woodward
From my Sunday "Rough Draft" column:
One day some years ago I somehow found myself playing golf with Bob Woodward. It's just one of those things that can happen in Washington without warning. Your first thought when you see someone like Bob Woodward is: "Bob [freakin'] Woodward! Holy [freakin'] [stuff]! Wait till I tell my buddies from [pathetic hometown]!"
It's hard not to be in awe when in the presence of Washington royalty. Like you're at a party, and suddenly there's Ben Bradlee, with the gravelly voice and the big forearms, the testosterone fogging up the room, and he's always saying something manly and witty, like, "Yaaarrr, but nothin' clanks when he walks!" And you nod your head, and laugh, and squeeze your own forearms when no one's looking, wondering what it would take to be like Ben.
BONUS WOODWARD OBSESSION: GENE MEETS SOURCE IN GARAGE.
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