I Found Christ at the Horse Track

Raised on Bets and Broken Dreams

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When I was eight, I prayed to God to let my dad win at the local horse track.

He dreamed of being a high school basketball coach and history teacher, but quit college and drove a truck because God-fearing farm boys like him, even smart, well-read ones, believed deep down that they weren’t allowed to live out their dreams but had to work for others living theirs.

At the track, my Keds shoes stick to dried beer on the ground in the club house. I walk through losing tickets, smouldering cigarette butts and half-eaten hot dog buns smeared with mustard, headed to the ticket line where my dad waits to place his bet. It smells like a pro football game played by horses mixed with a Las Vegas casino back when they allowed smoking.

Being eight, I stand a respectable distance from the ticket window while my dad hands over his money. The ticket man hands him multiple tickets, not just one. Yikes. The afternoon is dwindling. He’s behind. A lot rides on those tickets.

He heads outside to the finish line and I scramble after him pushing through people and bumping into:

A haggard old man with tubes in his nose and a cigarette in his mouth, dragging an oxygen tank;