Illustration By: Bill Westervelt

Governor Casey had not endorsed Clinton, and some have argued that this was the reason for his exclusion. Casey believed, quite strongly, that he was denied the rostrum because he was a pro-life Democrat, planning to make a pro-life speech to a party that no longer permitted dissent about abortion.

There were other insults during the convention: people wearing buttons depicting Casey in papal garb, a speech by a pro-choice Republican from Pennsylvania. But the punch line—the line that has made the anecdote political mythology—comes when Casey, sitting high in the nosebleed section of Madison Square Garden, turned to his wife, Ellen, and said, "Let's remember this moment. One day it's all going to come back around."

Like his father, this Casey is pro-life, but that doesn't seem to matter as much anymore. For the past several years, the party of the donkey has been beaten like a mule, and as the midterms approach, partisans are apprehensive: Things look good, but deep down, they're terrified. If with all the things going wrong for the opposition—corruption scandals, an intractable foreign conflict, an unpopular president and a vice president who shot a 78-year-old man in the face—the Democrats still fail to pull out a victory in this one, well … what then?

In Pennsylvania, the battle feels all the more apocalyptic because the target in the Senate race is that caricature of right-wing meanness, Rick Santorum. Santorum is a nationally known Republican and possible presidential candidate, but his low statewide approval ratings suggest that he has come to be seen as too conservative for a moderate state like Pennsylvania.

Enter Bob Casey Jr. At 46, Casey has served two terms as auditor general, run in a primary for governor, and just been elected state treasurer by a wide margin, collecting more votes than any other candidate in the state of Pennsylvania; his father's name gives him additional statewide name recognition and credibility. Sure, he's pro-life, but so are a lot of Democrats and swing voters in western Pennsylvania. Casey could pull them back into the Democratic ranks, the thinking goes. As for the staunch liberals and pro-choice moderates in Philly and its suburbs, well, what are they going to do? Vote Santorum?

Technically, there are three Democratic candidates for Senate here today: Casey, Alan Sandals and Chuck Pennacchio. But a Pennacchio volunteer working the crowd with a wire hanger is repeatedly dismissed, and in the Philadelphia caucus, a surrogate for the Democratic City Committee chair Bob Brady reminds the delegates to be loyal and back Casey: "I don't care how many of you say, 'I was put here by the people in my Senatorial district.' You were put here by Bob Brady." In the big ballroom, amongst the entire delegation, a proposal to withhold an endorsement is shouted down by a man who declares Santorum "the worst senator in the history of this country."

When Casey takes the stage, he is greeted with raucous applause and cheers -- a savior's welcome. Physically, the candidate resembles his father: tall and trim, with a shiny round forehead and long eyebrows that hang over his face like awnings. His manner on the stump is understated: He tells the crowd, in slightly lisped alliterations, that he's running for Senate because the country is on a road of "deficits and debt" and "intolerance and indifference," then tosses out a favorite line about Santorum: that the senator votes with President Bush 98 percent of the time, and "when two people agree 98 percent of the time, one of them's not necessary." Throughout the speech, he alternates between his trademark heart taps and downward points, to signal, respectively, earnest empathy and clear conviction. His big finish is a riff about the people who inspire him: "working mothers on the bus in the inner city," "dedicated teachers," "nurses and nurses' aides": simple American protagonists who lead "quietly triumphant lives of service and struggle."

He does not mention abortion, but he doesn't have to. Bob Casey doesn't have to agree with them on everything, the Democrats have decided. Bob Casey just has to win.

By the time Governor Casey passed away, still estranged from his party in 2000, abortion had become his signature issue. He was personally preoccupied with it, and well-known for being the defendant in Planned Parenthood v. Casey, the Supreme Court case that affirmed the right of states to restrict abortion. Perhaps inevitably, then, the younger Casey finds himself constantly answering questions on the subject, and seeing his name beside labels like "pro-life Democrat" and "conservative Democrat" (including once in this paper, by me).

"I'm pro-life and people know that," Casey said wearily when I asked him to explain his position on abortion. The previous day he had received the State Committee endorsement, in Harrisburg. His wife, Terese, and four daughters live in Scranton, and though it was a weekend, we were meeting at his campaign headquarters in Center City, in a conference room. Casey, in his usual dark suit, looked like he might have forgotten what a weekend was. He sat with his big hands folded on the table and mustered a friendly smile.

"Do you believe life begins at conception?" I prodded.

"I do," he said. He is Catholic, but says this is not a religious conviction. He's also on record stating that if Roe v. Wade were overturned, he would support a law outlawing abortions except in a few cases.

But these were not the points he was advertising. As he usually does when talking about abortion, Casey took time to differentiate himself from Santorum by citing his support for funding family planning and birth control, and then made a surprising turn: He stopped talking about the unborn.

"You can't say that you really are pro-life or affirm the values of life and cut very important government programs like Medicaid, or the Women Infants and Children's program, or Head Start or childcare, or education," he said.

It's true that abortion is a tricky issue for the junior Casey. Although his primary opponents have also attacked his positions on stem cell research (Casey's position is similar to Bush's), the war in Iraq (he does not support a timetable for withdrawal), the Supreme Court (he said he would have voted to confirm Samuel Alito) and campaign donations (Casey has taken money from many of the same PACs as Santorum), most of the Democrats who stay home in November, and most of the traditionally Democratic organizations, such as NOW, that withhold endorsements, will do so because of choice issues.

But Casey isn't hiding from his abortion stance—he can't, his name is linked inextricably with it. Casey just isn't making abortion a signature issue. It's not what he wants to be about.

What he is about has been a matter of some debate. Casey is a careful speaker, given to caveats, and, much like John Kerry, can be hard to pin down. He would tell you that the first job of a U.S. senator is to pass a responsible budget that reduces the deficit, and that doing so would be his first priority should he succeed in November. His supporters, to a man, say that Casey is a politician who "fights for the underdog." Santorum's people say he's a politician who does nothing but campaign. And a number of people, Democrats and Republicans alike, think Casey's essence is, quite simply: Vote for me. I'm not Rick Santorum.

Photo By: Michael T. Regan

Rather than sort through these different versions of what Casey promises, it may be easier to understand the man who would be senator in terms of expectations. Casey is, after all, up-front about the fact that he's not a regular guy: There is no Bush-the-rancher, flattery-by-imitation to his game. He is the son of a governor, bred for public service. Based on that legacy alone, Casey was supposed to champion workers and be successful; now, he finds himself in a race he was asked to run primarily because he could win. All these expectations come together to make Casey what he is: a frontrunner. A man with a lot to live up to, and a lot to lose.

Alphonsus didn't find the mines so inspiring. After dropping out of school to support himself, he pursued his high school degree through his late 20s, went to law school, and joined the bar at the age of 40. Robert followed quickly in his father's footsteps—when the old man died, he had just gotten his own law degree. His first case was a pending case of Alphonsus': Thomas v. the Trustees of the Anthracite Health and Welfare Fund. Casey represented a former miner suing for his pension payments. He won.

Young Robert settled down in Scranton, and from there he launched his impressive political career, during which, he wrote, he sought to "identify with the afflicted, the vulnerable, the powerless." He also sired a formidable family: eight children, four boys and four girls. "Bobby" was the fourth child and the oldest boy—not yet 2 when Robert Sr. was first elected to the State House, and 6 when he made his first of three failed tries for governor. Family friends describe Bobby as a steady kid who took naturally to his parents' strict disciplinary style, and who took seriously his father's sermons about public service.

When asked whether it was clear that the eldest son would follow Bob Sr. into politics, friends and family often say the young Casey was a "people person," and interested in politics—but no. Not more so than any of his brothers and sisters. Casey's biography can be deceiving: After attending his father's high school (Scranton Prep) and college (Holy Cross), he went to work for his father's old law firm, Haggerty, McDonnell, and O'Brien. When he first ran for public office in 1996, it was for auditor general, a position his father held for eight years. He seems like an heir.

But so do the rest of his siblings. "There was no rule of primogeniture" in the Casey family, says Jim Brown, Governor Casey's old chief of staff. Seven Casey children went to Scranton Prep; four went to Holy Cross. Younger brother Pat Casey has run for Congress and nearly won. If Bob Casey appears to have emulated his father, it may be due to the culture of Scranton, where many Irish people grew up in large families that valued tradition. Scranton's mayor, Christopher Doherty, grew up with Casey. He also attended Scranton Prep and Holy Cross, and had a father involved in local politics.

Bobby, however, had the name. Though Bob Casey didn't grow up the son of a governor—for most of his youth, his father was notorious for his losses—"Bob Casey" has been a household name in Pennsylvania politics for some time. After Casey Sr. served as auditor general, several other Bob Caseys with little political experience started running for seats—and winning. A joke went around that "Casey's name is magic for everyone but him."

The repercussions of this registered with Bobby.

"I think he realizes that with the famous name comes a very serious burden," says Jim Haggerty, Robert Sr.'s former law partner. "Bobby feels as though he has an obligation."

If George W. Bush was disoriented by his father's stature, Bob Casey seems to have taken it as a marching order. Between college and law school, he spent a year teaching at the Gesu School in North Philadelphia—a year that has become an important part of his campaign biography. And while he says he wasn't sure he was going to go into politics, people around him say it was a natural outlet for his ambition. In 1996, when the 36-year-old Casey went to Frank McDonnell, his father's former law partner and Casey's old boss, to tell him he planned to run for auditor general, McDonnell says, "I wasn't very surprised."

The governor's son had expectations to fulfill.

But there are reasons Casey has gotten where he is that extend beyond his name. In an old-fashioned state like Pennsylvania, he comes off as a man's man: large, strong handshake, not effusive, not pretty. He is also warm, polite and considerate. More importantly, though, Casey has a gift for picking his political spots.

Casey partisans will tell you that when he served as auditor general, from 1996 through 2004, he expanded the scope of the office. By law, the A.G.'s responsibility is to audit all state funds (except the judiciary and general assembly). What Casey did was introduce "performance audits," investigations of state agencies examining how well they were doing their jobs. This allowed him to cherry-pick issues with which to associate his name.

Under Casey, the A.G.'s office reviewed the state police's enforcement of the Megan's Law child sex-offender registry, childcare centers and, most memorably in 1998, nursing homes, revealing that it was sometimes taking weeks for the Health Department to respond to reports that its hotline had classified as "life-threatening." Harrisburg Republicans charged that Casey was using his position as a political springboard (after reports of a flesh-eating virus in Meadville, one senior Ridge aide was quoted saying that "maybe the auditor general should investigate"), and the Santorum campaign now accuses him of diverting resources from the job he was supposed to do. When Casey left office, 830 audits were left unfinished (this is a fairly regular occurrence in the auditing cycle). But in many cases, Casey's advocacy led to reforms—the Ridge administration ended up pledging an extra $1.5 million for nursing homes. In the meantime, Casey got to be for old people, for children and against sex-offenders.

Bolstered by this success, Casey decided to seek the governorship at the young age of 41, in 2002. His primary fight with Ed Rendell was when he really began to project his public image. Faced with a hard question, says Jim Brown, Casey often thinks, "What would my father do in this situation?" This approach was very apparent in his political convictions. He was pro-gun, pro-life, for a minimum wage hike, against "unfair" trade agreements like NAFTA and against welfare reform in its 1990s incarnation; he was certainly against "Fast Eddie" and his "Philly hustle." He was a pro-labor, pro-government, socially moderate Democrat from western Pennsylvania—in short, the kind of candidate a coal miner could love.

Casey began the primary as the favorite, but the pro-choice Rendell had a bigger war chest, a huge base in Philadelphia—and there weren't enough coal miners left. Rendell pulled away late and went on to win the governorship.

By all accounts, Casey was holding out to be governor when he ran for treasurer in 2004. But he won by more than a million votes, performing well even in Philadelphia. That winter, Chuck Schumer, the chairman of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee, called Rendell and asked him who could beat Santorum. Rendell gave him Casey's name—according to the New Yorker, saying, "He doesn't want to run, and you guys wouldn't want him even if he did."

Casey did have mixed feelings about the idea. He was reportedly wary of the national Democrats and their willingness to financially support a pro-life candidate. Also, according to his older sister, Margi McGrath, he felt he should focus on the job taxpayers were paying him for. "It was not an easy decision because he had just run for treasurer," she says.

Casey's approach to his treasurer job—The Philadelphia Inquirer reported in February that he went in to the office just 7 days in December— has indeed been a gift to his opposition: The Santorum campaign is currently criticizing his performance in a TV ad campaign. This stings particularly badly because in 1986, Governor Casey damaged his opponent, Republican Bill Scranton, by pointing out that he had failed to attend a single meeting of the Pennsylvania Emergency Management Agency, which he chaired. "How can someone lead Pennsylvania into the future," Casey's ad asked, "if he doesn't go to work?"

Photo By: Michael T. Regan

But the other pieces have fallen into place. Schumer got behind Casey, promising him the best campaign staff available, and former auditor general and treasurer Barbara Hafer, the pro-choice candidate who had been expected to run, dropped out of the race at Rendell's request. According to McGrath, Casey felt that "because of circumstance and timing, he had a unique responsibility to make a difference." There was perhaps a cold political calculus here, too: Casey's pro-life position weakens him against other Democrats (like Rendell), and against a moderate Republican, raises the risk that the Democratic base will stay home. He has been favored his whole career, but Casey might have no better opportunity to win major office than this race against Rick Santorum.

It is normal for frontrunners to minimize the number of debates in a campaign—the conventional wisdom is they have little to gain from them—but in this race, there is added significance to Casey's reticence. From the moment Casey declared his candidacy, the Santorum campaign has been labeling him evasive—a "constant campaigner" of no real substance. In November, they challenged the Democrat to take a position on every bill that came before the Senate, and have since sent out regular updates comparing the number Casey has spoken out on (they say two) with the number of votes Santorum has cast (upwards of 150).

Casey's record vis-á-vis specifics is slightly more complicated than that. When the treasurer latches on to an issue—say, early childhood education, which he made a big part of his pitch this winter—he goes deep: in this case, calling for an investment "in the spirit of the GI bill," and presenting an $8 billion plan that would send federal money to states for pre-K programs. But on certain politically divisive issues—particularly those where it's not clear what a coal miner might favor—he has seemed doggedly vague.

This fuzziness was on display at the debate. Casey, dressed in khaki pants and without a tie, sat in between the other two candidates and, for the most part, refrained from directly addressing their comments. Asked what to do about health care or Social Security, he called for a "bipartisan commitment" to fix the problem, then offered a token detail like expanding the Children's Health Insurance Program; asked when to withdraw troops from Iraq, he talked about "holding the administration accountable," and suggested that 2009 would be too late. Often, he would amend these vagaries with thoughts about how far to the right Senator Santorum was on the issue at hand. He seemed like a man trying hard not to alienate anyone.

Casey denies that he is "trying to run down the clock," as Jennifer Duffy of the Cook Political Report was quoted saying in a Harrisburg Patriot-News story by Brett Lieberman. After the story ran, Casey chewed Lieberman out, telling him, "Find what I said in 2000, 1996, 2002 when I lost. … I've been over and over and over again taking positions on federal issues. I can't think of any challenger taking more positions on issues than Bob Casey."

He went on to point out the irony of that story running while he was taking heat for saying he would have voted to confirm Alito. Indeed, the Alito endorsement might have been the rockiest moment of Casey's campaign thus far. Though he (somewhat weirdly) linked his rationale with two newspaper editorials—("I agree with The Philadelphia Inquirer and Washington Post editorial boards that the arguments against Judge Alito do not rise to the level that would require a vote denying him a seat," Casey's statement said)—some liberal Democrats were upset. Alito has frequently ruled in favor of big business (it seems clear where he would have fallen on Thomas v. the Trustees of the Anthracite Health and Welfare Fund), and some who had been willing to swallow Casey's abortion stance in return for his economic positions felt betrayed.

One would hardly be surprised if he decided to stop taking risks after that.

Pennacchio, who has a flair for show, took the floor next. He paused for a beat, then said, "The answer is yes, absolutely." A roar came up from the partisan Democrat audience, and Casey sat quietly, like a child who'd just been reprimanded. Briefly, it looked like there might be an upset in the making.

But as the night wore on, reality set in: Neither Pennacchio nor Sandals could win this debate, because Casey wasn't debating them. His answers were aimed at Santorum, or, if not, at the culture in Washington. He seemed to be reminding the audience, over and over, Santorum is out there. You want to beat him. It's not 1992 anymore. And the Democrats got the message. The frontrunner didn't manage any of the debate's big applause lines. But he got a huge cheer when it was over.