Dallas on a Monday night in October, one of those nights when Beto O'Rourke seems like a winner. He, the eternal loser. Around 300 people have gathered around a small wooden box. O'Rourke, whom they used to call the Obama of Texas, doesn't like to speak down from stages. Shortly after 6 p.m. he comes running into the hall, in a shirt and jeans, a baseball cap on his head, they cheer him like a pop star. First he lets himself fall. Sit on the floor and listen.

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