Hope for the Eight Horse
“So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”
Jesus (Mt 20:16)
“Five minutes to post time. Place your bets!”
It was the last race of the night, and the unimpressive stallion entered his gate, eighth in a row of eight. He was considered a longshot by many, but he was eager to run the race nonetheless. Perhaps he was encouraged by the hope that there might just be a few out there who truly believed in him.
“Two dollars on the eight horse to win,” Bob had said to the ticket vendor, with a curious grin that hinted at the quiet story that would soon unfold.
As he walked away to find a good vantage point to watch the race, Bob nervously jingled the coins in his pocket, along with the two-dollar-bet ticket now swimming among the loose change. These inhabitants of Bob’s pocket were kindred spirits in their smallness, their unlikeliness to be noticed or valued. But they were equally Bob’s, and his playful smile hinted at their importance to him. It is sweet to be valued.
Perhaps the eight horse felt Bob’s quiet smile. His 42-to-1 odds, displayed somewhat embarrassingly in bright lights on the infield tote board, told so much of his story. His pedigree was humble, his trainers un-famous, and his racing record awkwardly weak. Nonetheless, his jockey somehow believed in his potential to beat those long odds. And so did Bob.
The gate sprung open and the horses leapt forward. Dirt flew in all directions. Jockeys clung to handholds and clung to hope, fueled by instinctual grit — each determined to cross the finish line first.
As the odds-makers foretold, the eight-horse fell behind right out of the gate. By the first quarter, most didn’t even notice him back there trailing the pack. But Bob did. The coins jingled a little faster, and the ticket continued to dance through his fingers as Bob held on to an unexplained hope that, despite the long odds, his unlikely friend might yet find a way to cross the finish line a heroic victor.
The battle for first circled the track, with the favorites trading the lead back and forth until the final stretch, where anything can happen.
The race ended, and the track lights gradually faded. Bob jingled the coins in his pocket as he made his way to his car. As he did, an $84 wad of bills now swam among the loose coins, telling anew the age-old story of the hope of the humble. Sometimes longshots win the race. And they are often helped along by quiet ambassadors who find ways to encourage them, to believe in their potential, and to know of their greatness long before the world ever sees it.
[scroll down for author’s reflections and some questions to ponder]
Sometimes Longshots Win the Race!
REFLECT:
What thoughts and feelings did this story stir in you?
When have you experienced someone especially believing in your potential? How did that feel? How did their optimism, their encouragement, their support impact your life?
Where have you personally done this for someone else? How did that feel?
Do you know someone that you’d like to believe in/affirm/support more? What might that look like?
The Story Behind the Story
I wrote this story to honor and echo the story and spirit of my father Robert Dorn, who was truly a lover of longshots.
In retirement, Dad completed a bucket-list goal of visiting 100 horse tracks around the country. Along the way, I was blessed to accompany him on one of his trips. We spent 10 days together, driving his van cross-country from New York to Nevada and visiting five racetracks. As you might guess, at each track we took special interest in some long shots, and affirmed them each with two-dollar bets. A couple of them defied the odds – with payouts that brought us great joy, and bought us that day’s lunch and tank of gas to help continue our journey.
That trip was also a major turning point in my relationship with Dad — I would say that was when we first began to experience “real time” together. You’ll hear more about that trip in my “First Tuesday with Dad” story.
Dad and Me on our Longshot Journey Together in 2001
Dad passed away in 2008, seven years after our cross country drive together. But his legacy lives on. In time, I have gradually discovered that I am the eight horse. A longshot. A treasured ticket in my dad’s pocket. The eighth child of a quietly great man, who believed in so many longshots over the years, including me.
Dad’s sacrificial love and spirit of helpfulness pointed my heart more fully toward God, and spurred me on to begin to play my own part in the cascading story of hope that God is writing in and through our lives. For we are all the eight horse — children of a great God, whose playful smile made each of us in his own image, and who values us beyond anything we deserve. What’s more, God casts each of us into humble roles where we get to take our turn at facing long odds and living out small-but-important chapters in the great story of hope.
And so I persevere to win the race, which I now know has much to do with taking my turn at believing in other longshots. “Two dollars on the eight horse to win, please.”
How’d you feel about the “Hope for the Eight Horse” story?
I’d appreciate hearing your impressions and feedback below. Or send me a message about your own related experiences and insights. Thanks for joining the journey of discovery.
