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Accepting the InevitableWhat McCain can learn from the acceptance speeches of Reagan, Bush, and Gore.

By Jeff GreenfieldPosted Wednesday, Sept. 3, 2008, at 4:45 PM ET

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More striking was how Bush painted a portrait of himself as a pioneer, just like millions of World War II vets who struck out for the new life. Note how, as he tells his story, the pronouns drop out, underscoring the idea that this was more a conversation than a speech:

We moved to west Texas 40 years ago this year. The war was over, and we wanted to get out and make it on our own. And those were exciting days. We lived in a little shotgun house, one room for the three of us. Worked in the oil business, started my own. In time we had six children. Moved from the shotgun to a duplex apartment to a house. And we lived the dream—high school football on Friday night, Little League, neighborhood barbecue.

And in a classic example of political judo, he turned liabilities into assets: "I may sometimes be a little awkward, but there's nothing self-conscious in my love of country. And I am a quiet man, but I hear the quiet people others don't."

Al Gore's acceptance speech in 2000 came at a time when voters seemed more than happy with peace and prosperity but more than willing to make a change rather than casting their votes with a wooden vice president linked to a president still bearing the marks of scandal. Gore's triumph was to borrow a page from Reagan's 1980 speech, but to add something new—a speech filled with Skutnicks.

Skutnick is a term used to describe the human props that now fill the galleries of the House of Representatives during State of the Union speeches; they're named after Leonard Skutnick, a D.C. civil servant who helped save the lives of passengers in a 1982 Air Florida crash and who was lionized two weeks later by Ronald Reagan. Today, they may be teachers, soldiers, AIDS volunteers, ministers, or whoever serves the political purposes of the president.

So in the hall in Los Angeles were many Skutnicks: the parents of Ian Malone of Everett, Wash., who had to battle their HMO for a nurse; Jacqueline Johnson of St. Louis, who couldn't afford her prescription drugs; and Mildred Nystul of Waterloo, Iowa, a welfare-reform success story. In each case, Gore told their story, introduced them, and promised that he would "fight for a real, enforceable patients' bill of rights"; "fight for a prescription drug benefit for all seniors under Medicare"; and "fight for a targeted, affordable tax cut to help working families save and pay for college."

Toward the end of his speech, he borrowed directly from George H.W. Bush—and indirectly addressed Clinton misbehavior:

I know my own imperfections. For example, I know that sometimes people say I'm too serious. … If you entrust me with the presidency, I know I won't always be the most exciting politician. But I pledge to you tonight, I will work for you every day and I will never let you down. [Translation: No interns on or under the desk.]

So what does this tell us about John McCain's speech? How does he want us to see him? He probably wants to underline his straight-talker image, which means he is likely to tell members of his party that they have lost their way—maybe even that they deserved to lose the Congress.

He will ride the "reformer" theme hard—it is why he picked Sarah Palin—which means an all-out assault on congressional waste, a theme a lot easier for Republicans to hear now that Congress is in Democratic hands. He is likely to use a light touch about his POW years, although the campaign ads and his surrogates have shown a willingness—no, an eagerness—to tell the story of his ordeal.

Fundamentally, though, I am guessing that McCain's speech will be an oral version of the imagery his ads and posters feature: He is Gary Cooper in High Noon. He is Douglas MacArthur in the Philippines. He is the lonely warrior. He is facing the battle, wounded but not fallen, fighting for a cause greater than self, at whatever cost.