Below The Fold

I met Dominque Foxworth’s mother today. She was diminutive; a tiny-framed woman with a wide smile and a bounce in her step. I met her at the post office. She was talking to the postal worker who was helping me. Normally, I get annoyed when someone distracts the person who is transacting business with me when I’m the customer, but she smiled and apologized as she engaged him, so I didn’t mind. Then he turned to me and said, “This is Dominique Foxworth’s mother.” I looked at her, and she hurriedly said, “I don’t know why I told him that today. I usually don’t tell people. Dominique tells me I need to be more humble.”
You’ve got to love that. If my mother was Foxworth’s mother, she’d probably be wearing a shirt that said, “MY SON IS DOMINIQUE FOXWORTH” in impossibly huge block lettering. On the back, it would say, “YOU BETTER RECOGNIZE, BITCHES!”
Okay, it probably wouldn’t say “bitches” but the sentiment would be there. And that’s okay, too. There’s nothing wrong with a woman being ridiculously boastful about her son.
Just so long as it’s not to the publisher of the newspaper where he has a column. Ahem.
I hope Dominique gets a huge play on Sunday. And then I hope they zoom in on him on the sideline and he looks into the camera and mouths, “I love you mom.”
Go Broncos.