Picture this: It’s 1933, the Great Depression is dragging America through the mud, and people are desperate for a leader who can fix things. Enter Franklin D. Roosevelt—Mr. New Deal himself—rolling into Miami, probably thinking, Great, a little break from the national crisis. He’s in an open car, because apparently, in the early 20th century, nobody had heard of, I don’t know, assassins?
And wouldn’t you know it, here comes Giuseppe Zangara. Now, this guy—oh, this guy—he’s an unemployed bricklayer, but not just any unemployed bricklayer. He’s the kind who hates literally every politician and everyone who has money. Now, let’s pause for a second—if that’s your standard for who deserves a bullet, you might wanna pace yourself. That’s a long list.
But Zangara’s got a plan! He’s got an eight-dollar revolver (because clearly, Florida had relaxed gun laws before it was trendy) and a burning rage in his stomach—no, really, he had chronic pain and somehow decided murder was the cure. So, he shimmies up on a rickety folding chair—yeah, that’s right, a wobbly-ass chair—because if you’re gonna shoot the next president, might as well do it with the stability of a drunken giraffe.
And guess what? IT GOES WRONG.
Because of course it does.
This absolute genius fires off five shots, but a woman in the crowd, Lillian Cross (who apparently is the only person paying attention), grabs his damn arm. So instead of hitting Roosevelt, the bullets fly everywhere. Five people get hit, but FDR? Not a scratch. Like a presidential game of dodgeball.
Unfortunately, Mayor Anton Cermak of Chicago isn’t so lucky. He takes a bullet to the gut. And while everyone is losing their minds, FDR stays calm. Of course, he does. The man had polio—he’s not about to let some two-bit assassin ruin his evening. He cradles Cermak, talks him through it, and gets him to the hospital. And Cermak—bless this guy—has the audacity to say, “I’m glad it was me, not you.” Like, What?!
So, what happens to Zangara? Well, first, he pleads guilty to attempted murder, and they slap him with 80 years in prison, which is already pretty swift justice. But then—Cermak dies on March 6, and boom, murder charges. They don’t mess around. A quick retrial, death sentence, and this guy is in the electric chair by March 20. Thirty-three days after the shooting. That’s gotta be some kind of record.
And the cherry on top? His last words were basically, “Hurry up, let’s get this over with.” Because if nothing else, he was impatient.
So, yeah—February 15, 1933. The day America’s future almost changed because some guy with a stomachache, a cheap gun, and a terrible sense of balance decided to take a shot at destiny. And missed.
