He had lived inside bubbles—prep school in a wealthy Detroit suburb, lifelong service in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, many years in the rarefied world of high finance. He had never hung out in bars and rarely, if ever, whiled away the hours by watching sports. Even at Harvard Law and Business Schools, he had been regarded as aloof, remote from the early 1970s student scene. A photograph from that period shows him at a family picnic with Ann; trim and coiffed, they’re wearing matching white cable-knit sweaters.
He’s not the guy you date when you’re seventeen and sitting on the back of a motorcycle. But he’s the guy who borrowed his father’s American Motors car and took you on a date, politely walked you to the door, gave you a kiss on the cheek, and said, ‘I hope we can see each other again.’ ”
‘Look, out of a thousand interviews in a week, occasionally I’m going to say something, and people tell me to be authentic. That’s authentic. I actually know these guys [Woody Johnson, owner of the Jets, is Romney’s national finance co-chair], and I can’t be both authentic and guarded.’ ”