Chiefs’ Dwayne Bowe found himself and football growing up with his grandmother in Mia
Great story and true street creed.
T he telephone rings in the Miami home where Dwayne Bowe grew up, and Dorothy Williams snaps up the receiver on the first ring.She’s been waiting for this call for a long time. The one where she gets to talk about her grandson’s coming-out party in the NFL and the surprising journey that got him there.
“I believe that the devil can’t be anywhere that God is,” she says. “Not if God’s there, so I pray. I pray every day for Dwayne. I believe God’s watched over him, protected him. I believe God’s blessed him.”
Dorothy will go on for another two hours. She will tell you things about her grandson’s life that few outside the family know. She’ll share how his mother gave Dwayne up when he was just a baby — and how he struggled later with school, gangs and fighting. She’ll tell you how much this kid who didn’t even show interest in sports can really count his blessings today.
“He always joked that he was a crack baby,” Dorothy says, her voice at a whisper now. “He beat all the odds.”
When Kansas Citians saw an athletic rookie wide receiver go up for a 16-yard touchdown reception that won the game for the Chiefs last Sunday, Dorothy saw something else. She saw a kid who almost didn’t make it here.
She saw a boy who first became a man, then a football player.
“He should have been the mouthiest, worst, most fighting kid ever,” says Jimbo Fisher, who recruited Bowe to LSU and considers him family. “He had every reason to be the worst kid in the world. He should have been. And so I always had great respect for him, not because of how he played, but because of who he became because of all of that.”
He calls it the garbage pile.
That’s the place Dwayne Bowe’s life started — in a house in Overtown where just a few years earlier race riots once scorched the streets, not far from the court house that served as a stark reminder of what happens when you cross the law.
Bowe’s father was Dorothy’s son, his mom a girl from the neighborhood. They weren’t married and they already had an older son together named Wayne. The kids’ dad wasn’t around much, and Dorothy said he had a drug problem at that time.
“When she got pregnant with Dwayne, she moved to the rough part of town,” Dorothy said of the young mother. “She was trying to make it on her own.”
But six months after Dwayne was born, Dorothy stopped in to check on her grandkids.
“When we pulled up, little Wayne was downstairs, jet black — the clothes I sent over there with him on that day were white. Jet black! Filthy!” Dorothy said. “Little T-shirt, no pants, a diaper. Little Wayne was pushing a bike, and he almost got run over. We grabbed him and headed up the stairs.”
Dorothy marched upstairs, her temper boiling. Then she saw 6-month-old Dwayne. She said he was sitting on the bed, covered in grime, surrounded by a home that barely looked inhabitable, smiling and laughing as he eyed his grandmother.
“There wasn’t a clean nothing in the house. Filthy! No food! No diapers! No milk! Nothing!” Dorothy said. “We stayed there 40 minutes, and nobody came.”
There was no sign of the boys’ mother. No supervision. Dorothy didn’t know what to do. She had permission to take Wayne home — she was still helping to raise him — but not Dwayne. Not legally.
Long one so check the link for the rest of the story.
I hope the best for Dwayne and I am impressed more now.