Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SATURDAY, January 15, 1994 TAG: 9401150255
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: A1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: WARREN FISKE STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: RICHMOND LENGTH: Long
Allen asked that the chair remain unoccupied in memory of his father, former Washington Redskins football coach George H. Allen, who died in 1990.
Those who marveled at Allen's come-from-behind triumph in the fall election - at the remarkably disciplined and error-free campaign he ran - need look no further than the legendary coach as the inspiration.
"I just hope somehow he's watching this," Allen said. "His principles were certainly helpful to me and his spirit certainly lives on in me. There were times when we were way down in the polls and I'd think, `What in the heck should I do now?' Then I would think, `What would he say?'
"He'd love all this," Allen added after a pause. "I wish he could be here."
Today, the challenge changes for Allen as he sets out to prove that he can govern as well as he can campaign. At 41, he will be among Virginia's youngest governors. Lacking any experience as an executive, he will assume command of a diverse state with more than 6.2 million residents and almost 100,000 government employees.
"I look at this as an opportunity and as a tremendous responsibility," Allen said. "I want to do things right and it's awesome in that regard. . . . The problem is that government is so big, you can't run it like a football team. You can't get it into a single room."
On the third floor of the Capitol, where the hallways are encircled by the portraits of gray-haired eminences who have led state government through the century, Allen will cut a different figure. Tall and dark-haired with rosy cheeks and a tendency to chuckle at almost anything he says, Allen seems more like a 6-foot-4-inch choir boy.
He is the first Republican to win an election for governor in Virginia in 16 years. He is promising a "new generation of principled leadership," no new taxes and no parole for violent criminals.
Many who watched Allen's unremarkable eight-year career in the House of Delegates and one-year stint in Congress find his ascendancy truly amazing.
"It sure does surprise me," said Senate Minority Leader Joseph Benedetti, R-Richmond. "I guess there were those who thought George would rise to heights, but I'm not one of them. George always impressed me as a good ol' boy. When he decided to run, I thought it was a little early. I thought he needed time to mature in his understanding of how government works and his philosophy."
But Benedetti, who has served with only Democratic governors during his 11-year legislative career, added that he is "still four feet off the ground" from Allen's election. "I'm very excited about working with a governor who will finally be friendly," he said.
On a personal level, Allen exudes the guileless enthusiasm of a high school quarterback, which he once was. He views himself as something of a cowboy, which he was for a summer at a dude ranch. He wears trademark black boots with his suits, lives in a five-bedroom log cabin near Charlottesville and threw a pre-inaugural "hoe-down" on Thursday where he square-danced in jeans, a string tie and a 10-gallon hat.
Allen chews tobacco, a plain Copenhagen dip. "The sweet stuff gives you pimples," he once explained. When out of the public eye, he keeps a plastic foam cup handy for spitting. His teeth bear the stain of his habit. Ever concerned about his breath, Allen frequently eats candy and suckers before meeting people.
He hates formality. Unlike his predecessors, Allen has encouraged reporters to continue calling him "just George" instead of governor. He promised to put a tire swing outside the governor's mansion for his two young children. He plans to hold covered-dish suppers inside.
State police assigned as Allen's bodyguards have discovered they have no easy task. Allen ditched them on their first assignment on Election Day, climbing into his red Ford Explorer and gunning it down back roads on his way to the polls. He's since resigned himself to being chauffeured, although state police say he constantly insists upon taking dubious shortcuts.
Allen is addicted to fast food. Fried chicken at KFC, burgers at Wendy's or the breakfast special at Denny's are preferred any day over sushi, or, in Allen's lingo, "raw fish."
For the past decade, Allen has held an annual Arbor Day party at his Earlysville home. He greets guests at the gate with a pair of scissors. Anyone wearing a tie must watch it get cut off and nailed to a nearby tree.
As a politician, Allen closely resembles Ronald Reagan, a longtime family friend. Like Reagan, Allen rails against big government, taxes and regulation while avoiding getting pinned down on specifics.
The cost of his pledge to abolish parole has been estimated as high as $1 billion. He also has promised to refund $470 million in state income taxes to federal retirees and to limit college tuitions. Asked once how he could do all that and still keep his vow not to raise taxes, Allen responded with a Reaganesque, "Just watch me."
Throughout his career, opponents have called Allen shallow and dubbed him "Boy George." But there is a serious side that has become increasingly apparent. Allen is a tireless campaigner who has not lost an election since his first bid for the House in 1979. And beneath his guileless exterior, aides say, lies a highly focused, private man who understood the issues important to voters last fall and harnessed their desire for change.
For all his affability, Allen also has displayed a bit of a tough side since his election. He tried to oust state Republican Chairman Patrick McSweeney and demanded the resignations of 400 state employees. But he relented on both efforts, raising questions about his forcefulness and discretion.
Allen is hoping to establish a friendly relationship with the Democrats who control the General Assembly. Should they block his agenda, he promises to get tough and take his case to the public.
"No one doubts George is a hell of a campaigner and real popular fellow," said Del. Mitchell Van Yahres, D-Charlottesville. "The question is: Can he administer as well as he runs? That remains to be seen."
by CNB