Best of 2014: Say a Prayer for the Old Irish Ward Heeler

When I first moved to West Bradenton, shortly after taking a job with this paper back in 2010, I was introduced to a man named Dutch Powers. “If you want to learn the ins and outs of Manatee County politics,” I was told, “there's no better tutor.”

I had no idea at the time how often that bold statement would be proven true.

Dutch was one of those political operatives who loved the game but had no illusions regarding the absence of altruism within it. In fact, it may have been his clear eyes and well-earned cynicism that made him both talented and resilient, for he had once explained that the true believers were the ones who tended to burn out early.

“Once you start having heroes in this business, you're finished,” he told me once in his slow and deliberate southern drawl, his head cocked to the side, an eyebrow arched.

He was a gifted orator who could turn a phrase softly, and then pause for effect with the best of them.

I guess you could call him a “consultant” or maybe even a “lobbyist,” but he always described himself as “an old Irish ward heeler,” a somewhat diminutive description that was in line with the typical self-depreciation of a guy who knew the advantages to flying beneath the radar.

Ward Heeler is a colloquial term that goes back to the Tammany Hall days and refers to the political underlings who would travel at the heels of party bosses, whipping the vote and lining up support from the less glamorous crevasses of each ward, or district as they're now more commonly called.

Having grown up Irish in the heart of Molly Maguire country, I knew the term well, and that might have been Dutch's first cue that I was all right – which was a good thing because as well as we got on, I would later see that he was not a man given to issuing favorable appraisals liberally.

Dutch was a southern gentleman and could be smooth as silk, but his words could also have a sharp sting when intended, and he did not suffer fools gladly.

“I like the guy, but he's about as dull as ditch water,” he once told me in appraising a particular pol. “Someone close to him needs to tell him when it's a good time to stop talking – which in his case, would never be more than a sentence or two after he starts.”

His hard edges were well earned. He liked to say that he'd been born with the triple curse: a smart kid who was small for his age and had red hair to boot. “I had to learn to fight or get my ass kicked,” he once said. “I learned a little bit of both, figuring it would do good to be well-rounded.”

As I noted, he liked to stay below the fold. He explained that in his business, if he was doing his job right, no one knew who he was. If he had to tell anyone how good he was at what he did, it only proved the opposite true. And the biggest rule? Never, ever, ever … ever end up in the papers. Google him and see for yourself how good he was at that one and then ask how many political operatives can say the same.

Dutch had contempt for the new breed of campaign managers who concerned themselves with things like “branding” and went out of their way to insert themselves into the political narratives of their clients.

He certainly didn't need to live vicariously through others. Dutch's own story was as interesting as it was unlikely. He descended from a prominent political family in South Carolina; plantation era royalty that included Charles Pinckney and Eliza Lucas. He used to say politics was in his blood, something you'd be unlikely to doubt even without knowing of his lineage.

A proud FSU alum and Seminoles football fan, he'd often broach the subject with the line, “I was up there at the same time as a certain NFL Hall of Fame wide receiver – you may have heard of him: Fred Biletnikoff?” He'd pause for effect, and I could tell he'd get creased when younger fans couldn't make the connection, a fate which became more common with each passing year.

College provided him with his first dose of politics, though it would be a few decades before it became the central focus of his life. Dutch described the rest of the '60's and '70's as “a blur.” He spent much of those days in the music business. He was an unofficial road manager for the Allman Brothers, a sometimes concert promoter and dabbled in few enterprises which "may have fell on the other side of legal,” as he himself had put it.

"The two old hippies who made it," was how he would refer to himself and his treasured wife Nancy, a spirited spitfire of a woman who was the perfect compliment to his character.

Dutch had a story for everything. The Hunter S. Thompson poster in my office: “What a crazy bird that guy was. I remember when I was living out in Colorado and we'd have drinks at the bar inside the old Jerome Hotel in Aspen.” A reporter's Clash t-shirt: “I remember when we had them play a concert in Jamaica. One of the guys didn't want to go on until they got paid, or paid more, I don't remember which. I had to lead him over to the door and point outside toward a bunch of rough looking Rastafarians and explain that if they didn't take the stage soon, none of us were likely to get out of the place without a few holes where holes ought not be.”

Dutch Powers and his wife Nancy

Obviously, he'd been practicing politics long before he turned pro.

Over the last five years, Dutch and I became good friends. He'd stop by my office a couple of times each week and we'd talk shop. We'd grab gorditas at Maria's in the Red Barn Flea Market down the street. We'd sit together at banquets and dinners, and a Christmas never passed without him dropping off a bottle of Evan Williams eggnog at my house, which is just a few blocks from his.

He'd call to check in and ask me to stop by and deliver a printed copy of my column when he hadn't been able to make it to the office, because despite his adeptness with a smart phone and its forever affixed blue tooth, he still hadn't even contemplated learning to use the Internet.

When he'd ask me what I thought of this or that political issue, he'd sit back trying to fight off a subtle smile which could either indicate that the young Jedi apprentice had learned a thing or two, or that I was still too wet behind the ears to see the whole picture from above the ground.

Those were the moments he liked best I suspected, the times when he could shake his head and then tell me why I had gotten it completely wrong, consoling me with the list of inside facts I could never have been aware of. He wasn't showing off - it just gave him comfort to think that he was passing on a little bit of what he'd learned on a long hard road to someone who might have use for it.

Forever the history buff, he'd become obsessed in recent years. He loved conversations on early American History. He'd rave about lesser-known figures, guys like Robert Morris. “You'll never hear him mentioned, but here was a guy who had to figure out how to keep a revolution going without any money! If George Washington was the father of our country, Morris was our rich uncle who staked our first business.”

Last month, we were sitting in his living room as he critiqued the campaign pieces he'd received in the mail that week – none of which he was very fond of, probably because it pained him so much to have been sitting out a November election. He asked me to list my top five presidents. “You're finally learning something,” he said of including Truman at number four, then laid into the guy with the degree in U.S. Government for not mentioning James K. Polk. “He gave us the country we have,” he chided. “It'd be missing a little thing they call the Southwest if it weren't for him. Haven't you ever heard of the Mexican-American War?”

Yesterday morning, I got an unexpected call from our publisher, Joe McClash, who told me that Dutch had succumbed to lung cancer a few hours earlier.

It had started off as “stiff lungs.” He took me to a spring training game back in March and was complaining that they'd been hampering his workouts at the Y. When we started toward the car afterward, Dutch couldn't make the first block. He said he needed a moment to catch his breath, but I ended up getting the car and coming back to pick him up.

A few weeks later he told me they had found cancer in his lungs. He'd quit smoking years earlier, trading the habit for an addiction to Tootsie Pops, which he handed out like cigars. It's a miracle my son's mouth isn't riddled with cavities from the countless ones Dutch had issued him over the years.

He didn't feel sorry for himself for a moment though. "I did it to myself," he'd say. "I quit long after they were good and sure smoking was bad for you. I'll get through this though and by the time it ever comes back, they'll be growing people new lungs in Petri dishes."

Dutch approached cancer the same way he approached everything else in life. He lowered his head, looked it in the eye and only took two steps back in order to build up more momentum when he bore into it head on.

“The way I look at it,” he told me, “there's something in my body that's trying to kill me. My plan is to kill it first.”

He opted for aggressive chemotherapy, and if there was ever anything other than optimism, I didn't see it.

“The way I figure, I beat this thing and I'm right back on track to living to be a hundred, maybe a hundred and five,” he'd told me more than once, as hyper-longevity had always been his plan.

A couple of weeks back, he finished his chemo and figured it was just six months of regaining his strength and then hopefully a follow up that indicated all was well. Sullivan and I dropped by to give him a celebratory cherry milkshake from the Shake Pit, one of his favorite treats. He didn't look well, but remained in good spirits.

He had a Lincoln DVD to give to my son. He'd been buying them up and giving them out as gifts, thrilled that early American History had become en vogue at the hands of a Hollywood blockbuster. Movies were his other favorite past time and he was always good for a Red Box recommendation. For Lincoln, he praised Daniel Day Lewis's performance. “It takes a damn Irishman to finally nail old Abe,” he told me, shaking his head with a smile.

“Dutch didn't look too good,” Sullivan said to me on the way back out to the car.

“No, he didn't.” I conceded.

“He's dying, isn't he?” my son asked in a solemn tone.

“We're all dying, some just faster than others,” I answered with a chuckle, explaining that it was one of the many quirky sayings Dutch had uttered over the years.

I'd hoped it was just the effects of the radiation, but my gut suggested otherwise. There's a difference between looking tired and looking not long for this world and our friend looked the latter. Something deep down told me it would be the last time either of us ever saw him alive. It was. Dutch and I spoke twice on the phone afterward. He didn't seem to be improving.

“Have you talked to Dutch lately?” Joe asked me at our offices on Monday. Dutch had worked on his political campaigns, and the two remained very close friends.

“Yeah, last week; he didn't sound so good.”

“Yeah, I know,” he agreed. “That radiation really takes its toll on you, but from what he says, he's out of the woods. It'll probably take him a few months to recover and get his strength back, but I think he's gonna be okay.”

He said it in the way you say things when you want something to be true, even if you're not sure it is – as if by keeping doubt at bay, you can improve the odds in your favor.

It was less than 48 hours later that he would be calling to give me the bad news.

James Pinckney Powers lost this, the final and most important fight of his life. But as he would have told you himself, it wasn't the first time he'd been defeated. However, just like every other time he laced them up, he made sure his opponent knew he'd been in a tussle. He got a few good licks in against one of the most brutal and fearsome villains of all time – the Big Casino. He went down swinging and never even considered quitting on his stool. That would have been enough I think for good ole Dutch Powers. Godspeed my friend. You fought well.

Dennis Maley's column appears every Thursday and Sunday in The Bradenton Times. He can be reached at dennis.maley@thebradentontimes.com. Click here to visit his column archive. Click here to go to his bio page. You can also follow Dennis on Facebook.