On the run at the Democratic convention

Reporters aren’t supposed to voice political opinions, but I’ve something bad to say about the Democrats.

They turned me into an outlaw.

WALKOUT: Sanders supporters stage DNC protest

This happened every day at 2 p.m. at the party’s national convention in Philadelphia’s Wells Fargo Center.

That’s when delegates began to fill their seats, creating great opportunities for interviews. It’s also when journalists without proper passes were required to leave the floor.

And that would be me.

So, for 30 minutes, an hour, two hours – as long as possible – I’d try to move unnoticed through the gathering audience. At the same time, security officers would be on the prowl like beefed-up teens checking for beach badges in Ocean City.

This was a journalistic challenge, of course.

I had to resist the natural urge to slink or scurry, which would only draw attention. I had to avoid eye contact with my hunters – but avoid walking into them at the same time.

And I could not let anyone look at my chest, where my inadequate credentials hung on a lanyard.

On the convention floor, you see, “Eyes up here!” is not an option.

But with the convention wrapping up Thursday, I’m free to share the tricks that helped to keep me a free-range reporter.

The simplest tactic was just to watch constantly for other media members being bounced from the floor. If someone ran out of luck on the left, I’d veer to the right, then circle around to the area that had just been cleared.

At other times, I’d attach myself to a TV crew with the correct credentials, nodding in agreement at remarks – in English, Spanish and French, if necessary.

It helped, of course, that the floor was overflowing with journalists – conducting interviews, shooting pictures and, occasionally, casting furtive glances.

Body language could send a helpful message, too.

Late one afternoon, for instance, I found myself next to a security guy thinning the crowd like a shark in a wading pool. I whipped off my eyeglasses and tapped them on my lower lip, gazing contemplatively at a video display of American flags.

I looked like a thoughtful and patriotic guy, who just happened to have his arms folded across his credentials. And the security guy walked right by.

Sadly, he tapped me from behind about 10 minutes later. With my glasses off, I never saw him coming.

And as this went on, I began to have deeper, more partisan insights.

Wasn’t the effort to clear the aisles and maintain safe conditions a classic example of over-regulation stifling the little guy? Couldn’t the Democrats just stop the rising tide of credentialed guests – say, by closing a door or, um, building a wall?

And yes, the party could attempt a counter-argument, of sorts.

Midway through the four-day session, I learned I could simply walk to the media area – where I had a comfy seat with Internet access – and request a pass that would allow me back on the floor for 45-minute periods.

But seeking permission? Watching the clock? Accepting limits?

And having rules apply to me?

That’s not my vision of America, buddy. That’s not how I spell “Freeeedom!”

Jim Walsh's column runs in print Fridays. Reach him at jwalsh@gannettnj.com or (856) 486-2646.