If only Phil and Juanita could have seen their baby boy Saturday afternoon. They would have been so proud.
There he was, a look of impregnable intensity smeared across his face, delivering clutch play after clutch play against one of the country's elite. There he was, smile stretching ear to ear, embracing teammates with every speck of strength in his toothpick-thin 164-pound frame. There he was, cutting down the nets in Anaheim, Calif.
Their wee child, born fragile as a porcelain doll, so slender that every heavyweight school save Maryland shied away from him, had overcome. Juan Dixon and his Terrapins were going to the Final Four.
But Phil and Juanita were not there. In fact, they haven't been for any of Juan's 70 collegiate starts or either of his first-team All-ACC seasons. They won't be there when Dixon walks the stage next May either.
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It's not that they don't love Juan. I'm sure the couple would have sold the family jewels to procure a ticket for last weekend's regional final tilt with Stanford. Rest assured, they'd likely scalp those tickets for a front-row seat when their second of three children flings his graduation cap high in the sky.
But before their son mastered the flawlessly smooth stroke that makes him a scoring machine, heroin intruded and then AIDS and then death.
Seventeen years ago, drug abuse ripped 5-year-old Juan's parents away from him forever. Logic would predict that hope followed Phil and Juanita right out of Baltimore, too.
Logic lied.
A mere three days ago, Juan Dixon resembled a little general, not a lost soul. He pumped in 17 points on a precise 7-of-10 shooting as Maryland clipped the wings right off the mighty Stanford Cardinal, 87-73, to stake its claim as one of America's finest four.
A few thank-yous are in order for such an improbable catharsis. First, thank an extended Dixon family more tightly knit than the Jacksons - four grandparents, four aunts, two uncles and older brother Phil, who all united as a surrogate parent. Then give a nod to Mark Amatucci, Dixon's high school coach at Calvert Hall, who cultivated Dixon's maturity. Tip your cap to Maryland dictator Gary Williams, who polished off Juan's 17-year evolution into manhood.
Most importantly, thank Juan Dixon. Fantasies like these become realities only when the hero's will is iron and his heart is gold.
Ultimately, those two qualities not only whitewashed Dixon's overcast future, they defined Maryland's astounding renaissance.
A consensus top-10 preseason selection (top five in many polls), the Terps collapsed like tiles from the Kingdome roof, dropping five of six midway through the year, including a disastrous 21-point loss at Virginia and a shameful College Park catastrophe against ACC doormat Florida State.
The turtle bandwagon emptied. At 15-9, the season appeared a wash.
Yet five weeks later, the Terps find themselves chartering an airplane to Minneapolis. Forget Gonzaga or Kent Sate - this is the tale of Goliath-turned-Cinderella that never reckoned it would need a glass slipper.
Perhaps the tattoo emblazoned across Dixon's right biceps most aptly crystallizes the journey.
"Only the Strong Survive," reads the inscription.
Juan Dixon is more than roundball's Richard Hatch. He's a gladiator, and his Terrapins just slew the dragon.
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