THE MAN WITH THEIR PLAN: Though the press and pollsters don't give him much of a chance, loyal supporters of Chuck Pennacchio (back row wearing tie) still hold out hope for a Democratic primary shocker. : mike m. koehler

The door opens slightly, and an old woman peers out. She is suspicious of you. But this is the home of a "super voter," someone who has voted in the last two general elections and at least one primary—a person who does her civic duty, serves her conscience. Just like you are serving yours.

You say, "Hi, my name's Danie, I'm a volunteer with the Chuck Pennacchio Senate campaign. Have you decided who you're voting for in the primary?"

Over the course of a lovely afternoon, you will repeat this phrase over and over. Then you'll go and do it next week. You will knock on doors, stand on corners, post on message boards and shout from rooftops. You will tell everyone you know that you're supporting Chuck Pennacchio.

You will not be discouraged when people ask, "Who?"

It's pronounced Pen-ock-ee-oh, and it's Italian for "feather pen." The campaign has had a good time with the name, passing out buttons that read, "Pennacchio has no strings," to highlight the fact that the candidate accepts no donations from political action committees. He runs instead on "people power," boasting an estimated 6,000 volunteers—though the real engine of the campaign is a dedicated core of true believers (in Philly, about a dozen) who have committed countless hours to a cause that, the pollsters and papers keep telling them, is going nowhere.

Pennacchio is running in the Democratic primary to determine who will challenge Rick Santorum in November. His opponents are Alan Sandals, a Center City pension lawyer, and the big dog in the fight, state treasurer Bob Casey. But Casey, the son and namesake of a former Pennsylvania governor, is more than just a frontrunner for the nomination: he's a veritable given. There was big news last week when a new poll showed his lead falling to just six points—over Santorum. Pennacchio and Sandals barely registered.

On a recent Thursday, I joined the Philly faithful as they congregated in the Center City apartment of Liz Mednick. Most of the volunteers are youngish; Liz, a 49-year-old retired attorney, pays for the Thai food, reminds the crew to keep plotting their canvassing routes, and generally carries the air of a surrogate mother.

A fevered topic of conversation this evening is the matter of how Casey became the "presumptive" nominee.

"The media was declaring him the likely candidate before there was ever a poll!" complains Dave DeVetter.

"[The Daily News' Catherine] Lucey used the term 'little guys' to describe Pennacchio and Sandals right in [a] first paragraph," echoes a tech worker named Ryan.

There was a potential source of awkwardness here: I had recently written a story about Casey in which I'd said that Pennacchio and Sandals were "technically" candidates. I asked the volunteers why they thought the media favored Casey so.

"I think the newspaper process probably has a lot to do with the amount of money a candidate has," said Danie Greenwell, a recent Penn grad now working for a literacy company.

They conceded that party endorsements and polls could have something to do with it, too; yet they observed that when Casey had the party's backing and a big lead in the 2002 gubernatorial primary, no one called Ed Rendell a "little guy." To them, it seemed more likely that reporters found it easier to look at fundraising reports than talk to voters.

But whatever the reason, the important thing was that everyone had it wrong.

The Pennacchio supporters have something of a reputation in Democratic Party circles. They're supposed to be the proverbial "angry liberals" from the 2004 campaign, only so angry that they're still fuming in May 2006. They're emotional. They're idealistic. They're Ralph Nader.

It's true that these folks can write a mean letter to the editor (see next week's Feedback page), but they don't all have long records of insisting their candidates be ideologically pure. Several of them got their start in politics volunteering for Kerry in 2004. "There are concessions you make," says Danie. "I hate cars, but I still ride in them."

Making concessions is precisely what Democratic power brokers are asking liberal Democrats to do now. Yes, Casey is pro-life and opposes a timetable for withdrawal from Iraq, but he's consistently outpolling Santorum. Couldn't they take one for the team here?

Pennacchio supporters are the percentage of liberals who, for a number of reasons, said no—not this time, and not for this candidate. Some of them didn't like the feeling of being force-fed; others couldn't accept a particular Casey position (Liz, who is bound to a wheelchair, refuses to compromise on stem-cell research). Most importantly, though, they found another candidate whom they liked better.

Pennacchio, the director of the history program at the University of the Arts, declared his candidacy in April 2004, well before party luminaries anointed Casey. He is a left-wing progressive, with a platform that includes universal health care, a living wage and a plan to restructure campaign finance laws and require all television stations to provide an hour of campaign coverage, every night, for eight weeks leading up to any election.

Though Sandals is only slightly less liberal, Pennacchio carries himself with a self-righteous anger (it can seem egotistical) and conviction that his supporters find appealing.

"We don't need a voter in the Senate," explains Danie. "We need a fighter in the Senate."

When they're out canvassing, the Pennacchio volunteers rarely mention Sandals—ironically, they treat him as a marginal candidate. Indeed, there is a disconcerting confidence to the campaign. All insurgents insist that they're going to win, but the Pennacchio people deeply believe they're a part of something historic. Despite the newspaper articles and big money fundraisers, they say, they've been quietly building a grassroots (and net-roots) network that will challenge Casey.

The problem with this theory is that it's been tested many times. As recently as two years ago, the far-left Dennis Kucinich ran a presidential campaign insisting that he had "a genuine grassroots following … Forests that are not being written about, but are still growing."

The volunteers insist that it's different at the state level; to win the primary, they may only need about 500,000 votes. If they get past that, the movement will catch fire: Pennacchio has volunteer organizations in 21 counties. He's received endorsements from numerous progressive groups. And he may even have more supporters the campaign doesn't know about.

There are people who "pretty much went to the Web site, got the materials and made a start," says Liz. "People will call me and say, 'So-and-so handed me your brochure out in West Philly,' and I don't know who so-and-so is!"

On a recent sun-drenched Saturday, the Pennacchio volunteers went canvassing in Fairmount, a gentrifying liberal enclave north of Center City. I tagged along with Danie, and as we walked, she discussed what she's heard from the voters she's spoken to.

"They say, 'I'm voting Democrat!'" she says.

Every once in a while, she'll find a voter who's made a decision—she divides Casey supporters into "rude Caseys" and "apologetic Caseys"—but most people don't know very much about the race yet.

This afternoon, many voters aren't home, and many more want to be left in peace. But a few express interest, and Danie finds some fertile ground.

"I know they're pushing for Casey," says one young man, "but I don't really like Casey."

Danie throws out her pitch: Chuck teaches diplomacy, he's pro-choice, etc. The guy, who says he's a member of MoveOn, listens with interest and then asks the million dollar question:

"Do you think he can beat Rick Santorum?"

"I wouldn't be out here if I didn't think he could," Danie answers. In fact, she thinks Pennacchio would have a better chance against the senator than Casey, whom she calls "Santorum lite," because a Casey candidacy would lead liberal voters to stay home.

By the end of the conversation, Danie seems to have found a convert. But when I was covering Casey, I saw him make headway, too—only he wasn't canvassing the most liberal neighborhoods in the state, picking up one voter at a time. He was speaking to ballrooms filled with hundreds of people.

I point this out.

"You mean, why am I doing this when I could be sleeping in today, going out to brunch, doing my laundry?"

She sighs.

"I've seen too many things happen that were impossible," she says. "I can either devote my energy to what I care about or I can sit around and bitch. They both take just as much energy. So how dare I bitch? It's just, I don't know. I believe in people."