FluxDash

Gary Williams was there to scout another player, but someone else caught his eye that night, changing the course of Maryland basketball history. It was the summer of 1997, and Williams was sitting in a gym in Georgia watching yet another nondescript grassroots game when a lithe, spindly guard dove into the bleachers in a failed effort to save the ball in-bounds. The game was in the final minutes of a blowout, and the kid was playing for the team that was behind. Williams didn’t know much about him, but he was impressed.

Advertisement

Williams looked down at his roster and noted the name: Juan Dixon. He was a rising senior at Calvert Hall, a Catholic school in Towson, Md., but he lived in Baltimore. Maryland had had a strained relationship with the city, and Williams figured if he signed Dixon perhaps it could help patch things up. There wasn’t much reason to think he could do much more than that.

Williams would soon learn the heart-wrenching facts of Dixon’s personal life. Dixon’s parents, Phil and Juanita, were heroin addicts who died of AIDS before Juan was 17. Dixon would learn much later that Phil was not his biological father and his real dad was still alive, but Phil was the only father Juan knew while he was growing up. Dixon was saved by the love and support of his extended family, primarily his grandparents. He wasn’t blessed with great size and strength, so he figured he’d better compete harder than everyone else. There were no meaningless games for Dixon, no instances where a loose ball wasn’t worth diving for.

Dixon didn’t have many high-major offers, so when Williams offered him a scholarship he readily signed up. Dixon did not start his first two years in College Park, but as a sophomore, he averaged 18 points a game and was named first-team All-ACC. He was outstanding again as a junior, but the season ended with the Terps blowing a 22-point lead at the Final Four. When Dixon returned for his senior year, his shoulders bore the weight of expectations as well as the familiar chip, both of which drove him to avenge that Final Four pratfall.

I first met Dixon midway through his senior season. I was a reporter for Sports Illustrated and had been warned that he did not enjoy speaking with the media. It’s not that Dixon had anything against sportswriters. He just preferred to be working out alone in a gym than talking about himself. I approached him in the locker room and told him I wanted to write about his development as a player. “A lot of people don’t think you can play in the NBA, but I do,” I said. “I want to write why.”

Advertisement

Dixon looked up at me and grinned. The ol’ help-me-help-you ploy worked.

I interviewed him the next day for an hour. He was intelligent and engaging. I covered the team closely the rest of the season, and I marveled at how Dixon always rose to the occasion. It was as if he intentionally waited until the moment of maximum pressure before coolly taking over the game. That provided a comedic contrast with Williams, who constantly ranted and raved on the sideline, sweat soaking through his suit and dripping off his nose. Dixon was one of the few people on the planet who was able to calm Williams down. When Williams started to lose it, Dixon would extend his arm, hold out his palm and say flatly, “We’re gonna win.” By that point, it was Dixon’s team more than Williams’, which is how both men wanted it.

Dixon had a phenomenal senior season. He averaged 20.4 points, 4.6 rebounds, 2.9 assists and 2.6 steals and was named ACC Player of the Year. In the second round of the NCAA Tournament, he passed the great Len Bias as Maryland’s all-time leading scorer. He also ended his career second on the school’s steals list. And when the team got back to the Final Four, Dixon was once again at his best when his best was required. He scored 33 points in the semifinal win over Kansas, and two nights later went for 18 points and five steals in the Terps’ championship win over Indiana. To no one’s surprise, Dixon was named the Final Four’s Most Outstanding Player.

It was fitting that Dixon’s career ended at the Georgia Dome, not far from where Williams first discovered the plucky little guard five years before. When the buzzer sounded, all the pain and elation came pouring forth in a river of emotion. I was just a few feet away as Dixon wailed and embraced his teammate Byron Mouton, whose brother had been shot to death in Houston the previous December. “We’re strong!” Dixon shouted at him above the din. “We’re strong!”

A short while later, I was sitting in a small production room in the bowels of the Dome, watching a film crew conduct postgame interviews for the NCAA’s official tournament video. Williams and a couple of players came in and answered questions for a few minutes. Dixon entered last. When his turn was over, he extended his hand and thanked the producer. There were a half dozen or so technicians around the room, and he went around and thanked each one. Then he came to me and said, “Seth, thanks for what you did for me, man. I really appreciate it.”

Advertisement

I hadn’t done anything, of course, but I appreciated the sentiment. “It was an honor watching you play,” I said.

If anyone had reason to stick his chest out, after everything he had been through and what he had just done, it was Juan Dixon at that moment. Yet as he left that room, I realized why Maryland won the championship that night. The best player on the court was the most grateful person in the stadium. No matter what setbacks he suffered, Juan Dixon kept his eye on the ball and pursued his goals with abandon. He took a few body blows along the way, but he walked away a champion.

(Photo: Rich Clarkson / NCAA Photos via Getty)

ncG1vNJzZmismJqutbTLnquim16YvK57kWlrbmtlaXxzfJFpZmlxX2aEcLbUmqVmnJmtvK95y6iqrWWYnsBuvMCrnKeso2Kur7CMrZ%2Bepl2dsm6yzq6lnWWYnsBuw8CyZK2nXZa7brrCmphmrJmpuaZ7