Our turn to brave GOP campaigns' crossfire

Column

So now, finally (hasn't it seemed like forever?) and officially, it's our turn. Our turn to play the innocents caught in the battlefield crossfire. Keep your heads down, and the TV remote handy. For the rest of January, you're going to need that mute button.

Having lain waste to Iowa (any updates on newly discovered ballots?), New Hampshire (diner owners are only now recovering) and South Carolina, three surviving GOP presidential candidates (plus Ron Paul) will spread themselves across the Sunshine State like cocoa butter on a co-ed's shoulders, and for much the same purpose: To be the candidate most glowing when the campaign heads north Feb. 1.

After all, the Florida portion of the campaign certainly isn't about securing some delegate landslide. Not after September, when elbow-throwing hotshots in Tallahassee Shaq-attacked what was then the low block of the nominating calendar — Jan. 31. The result was an unseemly scramble for position that ultimately wedged the start of the campaign season between Black Friday and Pearl Harbor Day and infuriated the Republican National Committee, headed by the virtually unpronounceable Reince Priebus.

For their hubris, Florida Republicans on the date-setting panel — a handful of Florida legislators and guest stars appointed by Florida Gov. Rick Scott — cost Florida's GOP half its delegates to the August convention, scheduled to be held … wait, I've got that somewhere — ah, here it is! … in the Florida metropolis of Tampa !

Smooth move, guys.

When last heard muttering on the topic, Randy Maggard, dutiful businessman and head of the Republican Executive Committee in Pasco County, had survived apoplectic anger and proceeded to rueful dismay. Half the delegates and half the floor passes results in multiples of disappointment for grassroots volunteers who devote countless hours to off-year party activities hoping for that perk of harmless political perks: 15 minutes in possession of a convention floor pass, festooned in some absurd hat, waving a sign and snaring a passing celebrity for a handshake and a photo to last a lifetime.

Ah, what're you gonna do?

The rest — Republicans, Democrats and squishy independents who plan to be on the beach or in the mountains or following their ballplayer sons and daughters up the ladder of youth league playoffs — will avoid downtown Tampa as if it were strained broccoli.

Here and now, however, is a different serving of produce. Who abandons the Bay area in the heart of January? It's the season of invading pirates and ripening kumquats. Enduring Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich, Rick Santorum and wacky uncle Dr. Paul is a tiny price to pay for the glories of Florida at midwinter.

Besides, it's not like we're in Iowa or New Hampshire, where likely voters boast they spurn on principle any candidate with whom they haven't shared enough hot chocolates to know whether they take marshmallows or whipped topping. (If George Washington had known it would come to this, he might have embraced the monarchy when it was offered.)

By contrast, Florida is vast and enormously populous, and the candidates are few. For all the events they'll attend between now and primary election day, the three survivors (plus you-know-who) will reach (and possibly persuade) more likely voters by far via advertising than by fixing us in the eye.

Not that we would object to discovering a Santorum, a Gingrich, a Romney or even a Paul behind a mug of coffee and a plate of Olga's doughnuts, just to observe their dunking skills. Oh, we will note, parochially, which candidates leave their track in Pasco; we're just not going to make it a prerequisite … are we?

And we shall note with gladness when the votes are counted and the caravan has hauled itself, like so many winter residents' RVs, up Interstate 75, because the candidates' absence will make room for pitchers and catchers — the much-welcomed annual reporting of whom is immune to the silly whims of elected officials.