NONE OF IT was all that bad.
And he never expected to have it this good.
Antonio Dixon has been in some strange places. An
orphanage. Homeless shelters. Bunking with his big
brother, Darrell.
Dixon never thought he would be here, on the goal line,
stringing out a Redskins running play, the first
defensive tackle off the Eagles' bench as an
overweight, undrafted rookie.
Not here, hands in his blocker's chest, feet churning,
technique perfect, suddenly, reading the Bears' running
play and stopping it. Twice.
Read the play?
Shoot, not long ago, Dixon couldn't read, period.
In college, he couldn't digest defensive plays on
paper. Still can't. His speech impediment has mostly
disappeared. It only surfaces when he's nervous, when
he's talking about his mother's rehab, or his
drug-dealing father's 17-year jail stint, or his . . .
well, that very speech impediment.
Dixon pauses, and kind of stutters, and his hand pats
his chest, and his foot taps the floor. But he gets it
out.
Without self-pity, and without self-consciousness, he
gets it all out.
"I think about all of that a lot. A lot of people go
through different things. I ain't the worst case,"
Dixon said. "Somebody in this league has been through
worse than me."
He has no self pity. He is not self-conscious - his
gift, said one former coach.
One current coach agreed.
"I'm speechless," defensive coordinator Sean McDermott
said. "It's . . . I probably can't even fathom where
he's come from, and where he is now in his life, and
the type of person he is . . . that's what great
stories are all about."
It is a great story. It's only getting better.
Dixon was always fat. He was never cool. He seldom had
a real home.
He didn't play pee-wee football. He was never on a
track to play in high school, which he fell into, or in
college, where he was only lightly recruited, despite
his prodigious size. For that matter, size always was
an issue. By the time he finished high school he
weighed more than 350 pounds, way too much for a 6-3
frame.
He lost some weight while at the University of Miami,
where defensive line coach Clint Hurtt supervised his
every move, but he gained weight, too. Even after
college, Dixon, who sometimes tipped the scales at 370,
still weighed too much to interest the Eagles. But when
they saw him with the Redskins in the preseason,
playing effectively at a lumpy but acceptable 320
pounds, they were impressed. When the Redskins waived
him in August, the Eagles snatched him up.
"He was able to lose some weight and he was very
effective with the Redskins in the preseason," said
Eagles coach Andy Reid, a weight-control expert. "He's
really just carried that over to what he's doing now.
You never know when you bring them in how they're going
to fit into your system."
Dixon, 24, has done more than fit in.
His blocked field goal set up the winning touchdown in
a 24-20 win in Chicago three games ago. Last week, just
after starter Brodrick Bunkley was injured, Dixon was
inserted as part of the goal-line stand against the
Redskins that saved the Birds from a terrible loss.
And to think: For Dixon, simply learning the playbook
is a serious challenge.
"I've got problems with reading long words," Dixon
said. "For me, to learn plays, I've got to see them. I
can't just talk about them. I have to see them."
After Dixon's dyslexia was diagnosed at Miami, Hurtt
realized that he needed to make things easier for
Dixon. Hurtt cut game film so Dixon could see how
players at his position correctly executed plays. Hurtt
repeatedly called out the play during the film
sessions. Then, still in the film room, he would quiz
Dixon. Then, he took Dixon and a couple of other
defensive linemen out on the field to practice the play
against garbage cans.
They did this every week - remedial coaching, remedial
learning. Dixon never resented it, was never
embarrassed. He accepted this to be his lot - like the
stuttering, and the fractured family, and the shelters,
and the weight.
"I believe he has a gift," Hurtt said. "A lot of people
can't be humble enough to accept what he has to accept.
Antonio is very aware of what his limitations are.
That's a gift that goes unrecognized."
It is a gift that has evolved.
Like any kid, Dixon had his pride, and his shame.
Unlike most 12-year-olds, he could pulverize other kids
who made him feel worthless and ashamed.
"I stopped fighting like, around, seventh grade. I was
bigger than everybody, but they'd always laugh at me
anyway. I used to hate people laughing at me," Dixon
said. "So, I used to fight a lot. I used to get
suspended. Expelled. Had anger problems."
Eventually, he matured.
"I just got used to it. And I figured, 'I can beat this
guy up. I don't have to prove myself,' " Dixon said.
Street-corner teasing didn't approach the other issues
in his life.
When he was 6, his father, Frazier Hawkins, went to
prison for selling crack.
When he was 11, his mother, Corenthia, then a cocaine
addict, went to rehab.
It split the family. The state of Georgia sent Antonio,
Darrell, 13, and Jarvis, 5, to the Carrie Steele-Pitts
Home in Atlanta. Mikesha, 2, went to a foster family.
Corenthia saw a crash coming. She sought rehab in order
to keep her kids, she said; "The state was fixing to
take them."
For years, this sort of end seemed inevitable.
Corenthia's mother died of AIDS-related issues in 1989,
leaving Corenthia, at 21, without an anchor . . . and
without a second income.
An Atlanta native, she routinely shuttled herself and
her family between the cities, sometimes living with
her sister, Patricia, in Atlanta, but always returning
to the allure of Florida's most lurid town, Miami,
never with much more than a fast-food job to support
them.
"I made mistakes, I know. I was confused. I had all
these kids, work . . . it was too much for a single
mother," she said.
She fell into the cycle of homelessness and drug
addiction, and, in 1996, she knew she needed help.
She stayed in rehab 3 months longer than the prescribed
9 months, she said, to make sure her cocaine cravings
were fully gone.
Corenthia - called "Peaches," she said, because her
father couldn't pronounce her real name - was excused
from rehab every weekend to visit her children.
Antonio enjoyed the orphanage. There was stability.
There was familiarity.
"Being there was fun," Antonio said. "Except when momma
had to go away again."
Corenthia completed the program and got her kids back,
but the hard times continued. She took on two jobs, but
that wasn't always enough. Darrell quit high school to
help out, she said. Now, with a family of his own, he's
a cook in Miami, 5 minutes from where Antonio played at
the university.
Jarvis went to live with his father from the age of 9
until he was 15. The money problems always bothered
Jarvis, Antonio said, so Jarvis stayed away from
school. Now Jarvis, 19, is pursuing his graduate
equivalency diploma, and Antonio reflects:
"He got so consumed with trying to look good, but he
didn't have certain things, and didn't want to go to
school because he didn't have things. He's got no
excuse now."
None has gone to jail. All are alive. That, Corenthia
said, was her chief goal: Keep them clean, keep them
living, and, foremost, keep them out of the prison
system.
"I scared them," she said. "I told them, 'Look at your
friends in jail, or dead. Look at me. I'm broke. You go
to jail, I can't get you out.' And if they did
something wrong, I'd tear their butts up."
Antonio laughs. "She would beat us for doing something
bad . . . but not for me fighting. And I didn't get in
trouble, not in high school. I didn't go to jail or
nothing. I didn't ever sell no drugs. I wasn't going to
use all that as an excuse."
He never uses excuses.
He couldn't read when he got to high school, he said,
but, like any kid, he had dreams. Like few kids, he had
uncanny resolve - and unusual detractors.
"Early in high school, I told one of my teachers, 'I'm
going to go to the University of Miami.' She was, like,
'Your [butt] ain't going to no University of Miami. You
can't even read,' " Dixon said.
It took a year of prep school, but Dixon became a
'Cane.
"When I did get a scholarship, and was admitted, she
came up to me and was, like, 'I was just playing,' "
Dixon said. "I was like, 'You weren't playing.' "
Dixon is playing now, every game, in the NFL.
Peaches, now 43, is in her 16th month as a cafeteria
worker at the homeless shelter in Miami where the
family often stayed. She and her three youngest
children - Jarvis, Mikesha, 15, and the youngest,
Michael, 11 - keep an apartment, with Dixon's help. She
has been with the same man for 7 years, she said. She
does informal, over-the-lunch-counter counseling of
young mothers: "They remind me of myself."
Hawkins is out of prison, back in Miami, working as a
personal trainer in a health club. Dixon speaks daily
with his father - hourly, sometimes - making up for
years of lost time. Peaches admitted that Hawkins,
before he was locked up, provided not only for Antonio
but also for Darrell, who is not Hawkins' son.
There is no animosity . . . but there is little
familiarity.
"When he got locked up, we lost contact," Dixon said.
"We kept moving back and forth, and he kept getting
shipped from one prison to the next."
The moving wasn't all that bad, Dixon insisted.
"I never didn't have a roof over my head. I always had
enough to eat," Dixon said. "We all did."
His dream, of course, is to make sure his mother and
his siblings always have a roof over their heads. That
is his first goal.
He will put off marriage and children for a few years.
He hopes to establish himself in the league, to
significantly increase his salary - he's making the
rookie-minimum $310,000 this season - and to find a
regimen, and the discipline, to control his weight for
good.
Considering Dixon didn't really learn the game until
college, and that he's a painfully raw rookie, everyone
who watches him is eager to chart his progress.
Said Hurtt, "Antonio has not remotely come close to
reaching his potential."
He is on his way, unimpeded by his past.
Dixon returned to Atlanta this past weekend for the
first time since Miami played in the Peach Bowl in
2005. It is not a happy place for him.
He seems to be happy in his independence.
He spent Thanksgiving alone, in his Philadelphia
apartment, suffering from a stomach virus. He hasn't
seen Peaches since July 29, when he left Miami for the
Redskins' training camp, just after he graduated, on
time, with a degree in liberal arts.
Yes, he misses Peaches, and her sinful macaroni and
cheese. He might fly her to Philadelphia for Christmas.
He might not.
He can't wait until the offseason, when he can see
coach Hurtt and his family and their new house.
For now, though, there is business - the continued
business of being where he has no business being.
He has 10 total tackles, seven solo, a blocked field
goal and a sack, of Giants quarterback Eli Manning.
He'll be gunning for Manning again Sunday night.
Incredibly.
"I ain't going to sit here and say 'I always knew.' I
ain't no psychic," Dixon said. "I never thought I'd
reach this point, this fast."
If ever. *
(philly.com)