Four years before John McCain sought the presidency in 2000, he chaired Texas Sen. Phil Gramm's campaign, and things were not going well. Despite a major effort, the Texas senator finished well behind Sen. Bob Dole in a Florida straw poll, and his chairman was venting to the surrounding reporters.

"You never took him seriously," McCain said, looking straight at me. "You haven't been fair to him." I pointed out to the senator that The Dallas Morning News had been scrupulously fair to the state's senior senator and his rivals.

Two days later, my office phone rang back in Washington, and it was Sen. McCain, calling to apologize. "I knew The News has been fair," he said, acknowledging his black mood stemmed from his candidate's poor showing.

That was John McCain, fiery as an advocate but unusually candid for a major Washington politician. His fierce temper prompted his hometown Arizona Republic to question in 2000 "whether McCain has the temperament, and the political approach and skills" to be president. But his unusually open 2000 presidential bid endeared him to political reporters and made him the most interviewed lawmaker on the Sunday television talk shows.

In a sense, McCain exemplified the dual personalities of many top politicians. On one hand, he was the ultimate maverick, who sometimes stood solitarily against his party on what he regarded as a matter of principle. That happened in July 2017 when he denounced the Senate's rush to legislative judgment in repealing Obamacare and cast the crucial vote to block it.

But he was also a loyal Republican, who voted in 2017 for a tax cut bill he had to know would balloon the federal deficit before the brain cancer that killed him forced him to leave the Senate and go home to Arizona.

The contrast between the two McCains was most evident in his two presidential bids.

In 2000, when he gave eventual winner George W. Bush an unexpectedly strong challenge, he charmed reporters by spending hours on his campaign bus, the Straight Talk Express, answering questions on every possible subject and holding 114 town meetings in New Hampshire alone. He called for campaign finance reform and challenged GOP orthodoxy on tax cuts, at some political cost. He also formed Senate alliances with the likes of New York's newly elected Democratic senator, Hillary Clinton.

But then he brought his politics more in line with Republican orthodoxy, reconciling with Bush and campaigning strongly for him in 2004, so that in 2008 he ran as an establishment Republican with support of the institutional party.

He became a strong advocate of Bush's Iraq strategy and formed a bipartisan alliance with two other hawkish senators, Democrat Joe Lieberman and fellow Republican Lindsey Graham. His more conventional approach proved more successful, and he won the 2008 GOP nomination.

Arizona Sen. John McCain speaks during a September 2007 taping of "Meet the Press" at the NBC studios in Washington, D.C.. McCain, who was seeking the 2008 Republican presidential nomination at the time, debated Democratic Sen. John Kerry on whether the United States. should withdraw its troops from Iraq. (2007 File Photo / Getty Images)

This time, he was nominated. In picking a running mate, he engaged in one last act of political rebellion, choosing the inexperienced, unqualified governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin, after political advisers told him it was impossible for him to choose Lieberman because of the Democrat's support of abortion rights.

The choice of Palin, along with his inept response to the 2008 financial crisis, damaged his campaign, and he was easily defeated by Illinois Sen. Barack Obama. But in losing, he left behind what became the most vivid demonstration of his innate decency by forcefully defending Obama as "a decent family man" with whom he had disagreements, when a supporter questioned his Americanism.

That act of rebellion was characteristic. At the Naval Academy, the son of and grandson of top-ranking Navy admirals was himself a rebel — and a low-ranking student. And it was hardly surprising that he brought a fierce temper and occasional black moods to politics, given his 5 1/2 years as a prisoner of brutal North Vietnamese captors after his bomber was shot down in 1967.

As a senator, he worked with another war veteran, Democrat John Kerry, to restore U.S. relations with the Communist government of Vietnam. But he said he forgave neither the Vietnamese government nor the prison guards who brutalized him, "not because of what they did to me but because of what they did to some of my friends — including killing some of them."

In 2016, McCain's many friends responded strongly when Donald Trump said he was no hero "because he was captured" and later repeatedly assailed his crucial vote against repealing Obamacare. But McCain never commented directly, though he was often sharply critical of his fellow Republican's actions.

On a personal level, though, McCain sought to bury old enmities, both from the war and in his personal life. When the late Robert Timberg published his epic account of the careers of McCain and four other Naval Academy graduates,

The Nightingale's Song,

my wife, Susan Page, and I gave a book party for Timberg, our longtime friend

colleague. McCain turned up, as did Carol, his divorced first wife, and they mixed easily despite their bitter post-Vietnam divorce.

Not only a

but a classy man was John McCain; we have too few in current public life.

Carl P. Leubsdorf is the former Washington bureau chief of The Dallas Morning News and a frequent contributor. Email: carl.p.leubsdorf@gmail.com

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