And he didn’t see the danger ahead. In his home state, this candor had been an asset. Here on a national level, it was a potential disaster waiting to happen and reporters began to circle around him, hoping to get a quote for a good story.
Vietnam was on everyone’s mind and it was a dangerous and tricky issue for any politician. Hamm had been warned by Wendell to keep his mouth shut, but at a wives’ cocktail party, a nice-looking woman sidled up to him and, after complimenting him on his tie, asked, “What do you think about all these antiwar protesters that are popping up everywhere?”
Hamm did not have to stop and think. “They’re a bunch of idiots. What they ought to be protesting is the government who’s sitting on their butts and letting those little bastards get the best of us. . . . We have to either fish or cut bait. . . .”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Stop playing patty-foot with those Vietcong and get it over with. There’s a damn elephant standing in the living room and everybody’s tippy-toeing around it.”
The woman played dumb, as if she had no idea what he meant. “I’m not sure I follow you. What elephant?”
Hamm said, “The bomb, honey. We’ve got it; they don’t. What’s the point of having it if we don’t use it? Truman had the right idea.” He pointed out the window of the hotel at a group of protesters across the street. “All those little tweety hearts and dove types ought to shut up and let us stop the damn thing before it gets any worse; then we can bring our boys home and sling all those little turncoats out of the country and get on with it.”
Afterward, he was sorry he had used curse words in front of the lady but that was how he felt and it was too late to take it back. Too late to realize that the lady was covering the event for the Washington Times. By the time they got back to Missouri the story had been carried all over the country and Newsweek had a drawing of him reaching in a bucket and throwing hippies like bait across the ocean. One editorial cartoon had his picture with a mushroom cloud rising from his head; another depicted him as a mad dog, foaming at the mouth, with Betty Raye trying to hold him back on a leash.
Even though Hamm had said what a lot of veterans thought, he took a lot of heat nationally and got into trouble in his own state for sounding like such a hothead. He lay low for a while.
A few weeks later, Rodney came in his office chuckling. “You made the big time, boy. I just got a call from Berkeley University out in California and they want you to come out and give them a speech.”
Hamm looked up. “Really? When?”
Rodney dismissed it. “Don’t worry, I told them you were unavailable.”
“Why?”
“Why? I’m not going to let you go out there in the middle of that hotbed of loonies.”
Wendell agreed. “Naw, you don’t want to go there. It’s too dangerous. Hell, there ain’t nobody more violent than those peaceniks. They’d tear you apart if they could get near you.”
Hamm said, “Now wait, let’s think about this for a minute. That’s a big famous university out there. It could mean more national press, couldn’t it? It might make me look good to go and talk to them. Like I’m willing to see the other side of this thing . . . and if they’re willing to listen to my side a little, I might even make a few points.”
“No, you won’t,” said Wendell. “All they want to do is drag you out in front and shout you down. They won’t listen to a damn thing you say.”
Hamm knew they might be right but even so he was secretly flattered that he had been asked. Anything to do with a university or college intrigued him. Everybody, including Vita, told him it was a bad idea. In the end, he could not resist the challenge.
They flew out to San Francisco the day before his appearance, with Rodney, Wendell, and Seymour grumbling all the way. They checked into a hotel and Hamm did not sleep much that night. He had worked long and hard on his speech and had made an effort to be especially careful about his grammar and his accent. He wanted to be up to the task of speaking in such a distinguished place of higher learning. This was the first time in years he had been nervous before a speech. He asked Rodney four times if his suit was all right and changed his tie twice. They were picked up at nine and driven over the bridge to the campus, and as expected a lot of the students were out and waiting for him. As they drove past the crowd toward the back entrance of the auditorium, the students and others started yelling and banging on the car. For some reason, this did not faze Hamm. He was now calm and collected. But the others suddenly started to get jumpy. Seymour, his bodyguard, had insisted that Hamm wear a safety vest that morning and when he got a look at the protesters he was glad he had. “Damn,” he said, “I fought Japs that weren’t as mad as this bunch.”
Seymour reached in his pocket and felt for his blackjack. “If we get out of here alive we’ll be lucky.”
The messages being waved in front of them varied from sign to sign. VIETNAM IS A RACIST WAR; HIROSHIMA HAMM; GO BACK TO THE BOONDOCKS, WARMONGER; WHITE TRASH, GO HOME; HEE-HAW HAMM; EAT DIRT, YOU STUPID REDNECK. But Hamm just smiled and waved at the crowd as if they were happy to see him, which infuriated them further. When they finally got inside the hall, the president of the university, a dry, colorless man with dandruff, greeted him coldly and when Hamm put out his hand, the man went out of his way not to shake it, afraid someone might take his picture. Once they got onstage, his charm-free introduction consisted of five words: “Ladies and gentlemen, Hamm Sparks.”
From the start things did not look good. The mere mention of his name caused the audience to roar with disapproval. The president went down and sat in the front row with the other professors as Hamm walked to the podium with his speech in hand. “Thank you for that gracious introduction, Mr. President,” he said, smiling, trying to make the best of a bad situation. “I am honored and privileged to have been invited to speak at your university today. I want you to know that nobody supports and admires education more than myself. I also bring all of you greetings from the people of the great state of Missouri.” Suddenly, amid a growing chorus of catcalls and boos, six or seven tomatoes were thrown and one splattered by his foot.
Hamm glanced down at the front row, fully expecting the president to stand up and put a halt to this, but he did nothing; nor did any of the other professors who sat there, many with a slight smirk on their faces. It was at that moment he realized he was up there on his own. Hamm stood motionless for a moment while the melee continued and watched as the group of protesters from outside came into the hall and marched around chanting and waving their signs in what was obviously a well-planned demonstration against him.
They’d never had any intention of hearing his speech. He felt like a fool. Vita and the boys had been right. Rodney was in the wings and motioned him to come off the stage. He could have turned around and walked out but he did not. Instead, he got mad and he dug in his heels. Even though he knew no one could hear him above the chanting and foot stomping, he said: