As the George H.W. Bush funeral train stood in front of the Bush library at Texas A&M last Thursday and George W. Bush stood reverently and lovingly waiting for his father’s casket to be removed, I couldn’t help but think, “This man could have been commissioner of Major League Baseball.”

George W. Bush wanted to be commissioner of Major League Baseball, but Bud Selig wouldn’t let him. Selig wouldn’t let him because he wanted to be commissioner himself and he refused to give Bush the nod he was waiting for. Blocked in his genuine desire to succeed Fay Vincent, who had been forced out of office by a gang of misguided owners led by Selig and Jerry Reinsdorf, Bush turned to politics instead. He became governor of Texas and subsequently president of the United States. Thank you, Mr. Selig.

It’s not a new story; it’s an old story, a 25-year-old story. But it’s worth retelling in light of the focus on the Bush family last week in the aftermath of the death of the 94-year-old George H. W. Bush, a.k.a. Bush 41.

I was not a fan of Bush 43, but I did like Bush the managing partner of the Texas Rangers. That Bush was good for baseball and would have been good for baseball had he become commissioner. But Selig blocked his way so he himself could become the commissioner, and in those days whatever Bud wanted Bud got.

Maybe if Selig ever finishes the book he has said for years he was writing, he will acknowledge the Bush story as being true, but that’s not very likely. Selig has never admitted anything that puts him in an unfavorable light, and that list of lies includes collusion of the Selig-dominated 1980s, which cost him and his fellow owner-thieves $280 million.

In an abbreviated version of the Bush story, Bush expressed a desire to become commissioner after the owners ousted Vincent in 1992 to prevent him from getting in their way when they tried to bust the union in the 1994 negotiations. Bush thought he had Selig’s support, but Selig kept putting him off.

At the same time, the Texas GOP wanted Bush to run for governor against the Democratic incumbent, Ann Richards. Bush repeatedly told Selig he had to make a decision – baseball or politics – but Selig typically procrastinated. Finally, Bush could wait no longer and opted for the Texas gubernatorial race.

He won two terms in Texas, then ran for president and won two terms there. Without Selig’s procrastination, Bush would have been baseball commissioner and Al Gore might have been president. In reality, Selig, a self-proclaimed student of history, was as responsible as anyone and more than most for creating Bush 43.

The Bush story is told most vividly in Vincent’s 2002 book, “The Last Commissioner,” which he labeled “A Baseball Valentine.” In an interview last week, Vincent disclosed a part of the story that is not in the book.

He told me he was not going to write the Bush story without the okay of the Bushes. He said he had no intention of writing anything that might have embarrassed the Bushes, whom he had known since he worked as a teenage in the Bush oil fields in Texas with Bucky Bush, George H.W. Bush’s younger brother.

“I called him, and he called right back,” Vincent said of the eldest Bush. “I told him what I wanted to write, and he said, ‘You go ahead and write it. Everything you say is accurate.’”

So we have two presidents confirming the Selig story. Is that good enough to believe it? It is for me. I’ll let Vincent tell the rest:

Some months after I left baseball, I got a call from George W. At this point, Bud Selig was, in effect, the acting commissioner, even though he was still the owner of the Milwaukee Brewers. He was, in my opinion, a walking conflict of interest, hiding behind his formal title, chairman of the owners’ Executive Committee. George said, “Fay, what do you think about me becoming commissioner?”

I think it’s a great idea, I said.

“Do you think I’d make a good commissioner?”

Absolutely. You’re smart. You love baseball. Is it something you want?

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it. Selig tells me that he would love to have me be commissioner and he tells me that he can deliver it.”

All my alarms went ringing at once. When I was commissioner, a labor lawyer for baseball named Chuck O’Connor had warned me to look out for Selig, that Selig wanted to be commissioner and that he would try to knock me off. I didn’t believe him.” Selig was my friend, I thought. But O’Connor was smart. He said, “Selig thinks being called commissioner is one of the important titles in American life. He thinks it would make him a great American, a historic figure. He wants your job. Watch out for him.” O’Connor proved correct. When George called, I could only imagine that O’Connor’s words were now even more true.

I said, “George, my guess is that Selig wants the job himself.”

“He tells me he doesn’t want it and that I’m his guy.”

“Well, I hope it all works out,” I said. But I was skeptical.

In the weeks to come, other names were floated – Mario Cuomo, the former New York governor, and George Mitchell, the former Maine senator, among them. I told each of them I thought they’d never get the job. I’d also talked to George W. from time to time.

“George, I’m worried. I think Selig wants the job for himself.”

“He told me that I’m still his man but that it will take some time to work out.”

What astonishes me about this story is that Selig was able to con the soon-to-be president of the United States into thinking he could become the baseball commissioner when he had no chance. Selig was a used car salesman before he was commissioner, and used car salesmen have a reputation for conning used car buyers. But Selig conned the president of the United States and the son of the president of the United States. That’s remarkable however you look at it.

Bush wasn’t the only prominent public figure Selig conned into thinking he was the No. 1 candidate to become commissioner. As Vincent related in his book, Mario Cuomo, the former governor of New York State and a prominent political figure nationwide, was on the list. So was George Mitchell, former United States senator from Maine and leader of the Senate.

Then there was Arnold Weber, former president of Northwestern University, who after being touted by baseball owners as the leading candidate and then finding out it was a hoax reportedly told the chairman of the phony search committee to “go jump in the lake.”