USTIN, Texas - In a campaign where possession of Florida's 25 electoral votes was given to Vice President Al Gore and then to Governor George W. Bush, where a postelection concession was delivered and then rescinded, where a debate over choice was replaced by a struggle over chads, one haunting reversal in the natural order hangs over recounts, court battles and wrangles for public support alike:
The winner of this presidential race could wind up the loser in history.
Sometime, perhaps as early as this week, an election that has gone into triple overtime will finally end. But the loser may not suffer sudden death. In this election, the heroism could belong to the defeated, to the man with the courage to say, ''I lost.''
Soon the most difficult political choice of our time - harder than a vote to impeach (or not), which was a decision about another politician's destiny - must be made. Soon, the ''character issue'' that all said was at the heart of the presidential election will be played out in a dramatic way.
None of the principals in this exhaustive and exhausting struggle over hanging chads, swinging chads and tri-chads will admit the terrifying truth about the 2000 presidential campaign, but none can avoid it either: Even after the inevitable post-mortems, investigations, symposiums, PhD theses and scholarly revisionisms, no one will ever know for sure who actually got the most votes in Florida.
At best, the country will find a rationale for awarding the state and, thus, the presidency to one of these men, both of whom seem determined to diminish themselves before the very voters whom, only a week ago, they were trying so desperately to impress. In a situation where, alas, there is no single controlling legal authority, the nation will have to settle on one set of ''final'' numbers that are not final at all.
And on the basis of that, one man will slip into the White House and the other will slip into the background.
Here is the prize for the winner: He takes the oath of office amid suspicion and snickers, he submits his Cabinet appointees to a Senate that is virtually split down the middle, he files his tax bill to a House that is full of bitterness, he wanders the halls of the White House not with the humble knowledge that he is only borrowing the office but with the nagging worry that he might be remembered for stealing it.
The loser doesn't get Air Force One or the intoxicating urban pleasure, especially at rush hour, of what the Secret Service calls ''intersection control.'' Nor will his sepia picture appear on school calendars along with John Quincy Adams and Rutherford B. Hayes, or his name be stamped on the rulers sold in the gift shops of the presidential libraries. But if he plays his cards right - or, better yet, if his heart is sad but pure - he can be remembered as the man who gave the country what it needed most by denying himself what he wanted most.
For a month before the election, the nation wondered whether Gore or Bush would win, with the lead changing constantly. At times during the postelection period it seemed as if Bush would prevail, at times as if Gore would. A quart of 1 percent milk stays fresh longer than do predictions on an election where a 1 percent margin seems like a landslide.
All parties agree that the vote counting must go on, at least for a few more days, partially in the service of the facts, partially in the service of the dignity of suffrage. But as the results are tabulated, the two campaigns are going into overdrive as well as overtime. The loveliest few days of an election year - the postelection calm of early November, the quiet after the storm has passed, customarily a time to reflect and rake the leaves - have been replaced by a campaign of a different sort.
There will be little celebration for the winner, but maybe some consolation for the loser. John Quincy Adams made off with the election of 1824 even though he had fewer popular votes (and, more important, fewer electoral votes) than Andrew Jackson. Adams served one bitter term and his presidency is remembered as a curiosity. Jackson lost but won. His 1828 campaign began within hours of his defeat, and he ended up serving two raucous, memorable and triumphal terms, lending his name to an age - and to an adjective.
All fall, Bush and Gore, their faults as clear as their ambition, gave treacly rationales for their candidacies, arguing that they wanted to protect seniors, or the environment, or the budget surplus. But mostly they said they saw virtue in service and selflessness.
The campaign has taken many unpredictable turns, but none more unpredictable than this: In the end, the great service provided by one of these men - and no one yet knows which one - could be the display of selflessness.
