Covering President-elect Barack Obama not always as sexy as it sounds
Posted by: Baller-in-Chief in Articles(From the Chicago Tribune Online)
Everywhere Barack Obama goes, a band of 12 reporters now follows on a boxy white tour bus. Called the “protective pool,” the group represents the country’s major news organizations. Reporters work rotating shifts, which run seven days a week. I signed up to find out what it would be like to trail the president-elect. Would I get to see him up close? Would I get to call out a question?
7:51 a.m. It’s a freezing Saturday, and I’ve been up since 5 a.m. Secret Service agents swept my body with a metal detector. A bomb dog sniffed my laptop. Security inspected the bus, even popping the hood to peer at the engine. We’re now parked around the corner from Obama’s house. But we can’t see anything. Two reporters doze off to sleep.
9:12 a.m. Photographers rush to the front of the bus as a police cruiser and four black SUVs zoom away from the security checkpoint at the end of Obama’s street. In the SUV in front of us, we can see an armed sniper. But we can’t see the president-elect. Obama’s press liaison explains that he is on his way to his morning workout. We take it on faith that Obama is behind the dark windows.
10:38 a.m. Reporters speculate what the president-elect might do today (basketball, Christmas shopping or haircut?) when the press liaison steps onto the van. “Unbelievable,” she says, explaining that Obama has decided to stay home. Everyone else cheers, grateful for a short shift. But I’m crestfallen. Will I ever see him?
6:35 p.m. After Obama spontaneously decides to go out to dinner, the pool scrambles to reassemble. Only four of the 12 reporters make it to the bus in time. I miss the caravan but—after speeding to Hyde Park in my car—climb aboard near Obama’s house. At a nearby strip mall, we pick up fried chicken for dinner and eat on the bus, hunched over our Styrofoam takeout containers.
10:09 p.m. For almost four hours, we’ve sat outside a private residence in Hyde Park, where Obama is dining with friends. To pass the time, we’ve napped and watched traffic. Now—finally!—the black SUVs pull into the street. The photographers jump to get a shot of the president-elect. I spot Michelle Obama. Or at least I think I do. The motorcade pulls away. “Did you see him?” we ask each other.
But—after 15 hours, approximately 12 cups of coffee, two bathroom breaks and a rubbery chicken dinner—we didn’t even get a glimpse.
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