By Chris Parker
By Jesse Marx
By John Baichtal
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Jesse Marx
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Tatiana Craine
By Judy Keen
Reclining on a swath of brittle, impossibly green Astroturf in the Minnesota Vikings' field house at Winter Park, David Dixon winces slightly as he works over an ache in his shoulder. The injury, aptly known as a stinger, arises from a compression of nerves in the neck. It is a familiar cause of annoyance among professional football players. Dixon, the Vikings' hulking right guard, acquired his stinger during his team's disheartening loss at Tampa Bay, and despite a chiropractor's efforts, the discomfort has lingered on through a midweek practice. Four days from now, he'll aggravate the injury and be forced to sit out the fourth quarter of the Saints game, but for the time being only a hint of discomfort is etched on his face; Dixon has spent too many years sweating it out on the sidelines, the practice squads, and the waiver wire to give the pain much thought.
Though he now starts for one of the NFL's top pass-blocking units, Dixon's place in the league was not always so assured. A classic "project player," the 29-year-old guard had never even lined up on offense before he first came to the Vikings.
He gets up, stretches, walks about gingerly, and settles back down. Like a lot of big men--and at 6'5" and 350 pounds, Dixon is very big indeed--he seems to prefer to move about slowly, nearly wearily. Off the field he resembles nothing so much as a tractor in low gear. You see the power, not the speed.
In the skewed world of professional football, ordinary bigness seldom merits much notice. Linebackers who tip the scales at less than 235 pounds are now deemed on the small side. Any quarterback under 6 feet tall is viewed with suspicion. And, these days, 300-pound offensive linemen dot the rosters of every NFL team. Yet even by those unusual measures, David Dixon stands out. Last year Dixon and right tackle Korey Stringer combined to make the biggest side-by-side tandem in the history of the league--a canoe-sinking, glacial outcrop of humanity totaling well over 700 hundred pounds. (For his part, Stringer embarked on an off-season diet and training regimen, dropping from 388 pounds to a comparatively svelte 340.)
Dixon's bulk, along with a less-obvious measure of raw athletic aptitude, has taken him a long way--literally. Over the years the Vikings have employed nine foreign-born athletes, most of whom were place-kickers; but none journeyed as far as Dixon. The son of a cab driver and factory worker, Dixon grew up in the small town of Papakura, just outside Auckland, New Zealand. As a teenager he lived about a 15-minute drive away from his three siblings and busy mom and dad under the supervision of his grandparents, and from the start, sports seemed a way out. But not football.
"Rugby, that's what everybody played in New Zealand--I really didn't know much about football, and I really didn't care about it," Dixon says, chronicling how he starred on club and high-school rugby squads and made the national junior team, which toured Japan and Australia as well as his native land. But even as he aimed himself toward a spot on the country's top rugby outfit, the All Blacks, Dixon's prowess in the scrum was attracting attention from other quarters. In 1986, thanks to a visiting collegiate football scout, the young New Zealander found himself armed with a football scholarship and a ticket to...Rexburg, Idaho. At a medium-size Mormon institution called Ricks College-- whose teams, coincidentally, are known as the Vikings--Dixon began to learn the basics of defensive-line play.
Though rugby may well be father of football (the first organized football game, Princeton vs. Rutgers in 1869, was a contest waged between former rugby players), in Dixon's view the two sports don't really have much in common. "Football is much harder," he says. "You're going one-on-one every play, and there's more pressure if you let up."
At Ricks Dixon met his future wife, but his stay in Idaho was brief. He found schoolwork difficult and felt out of place. "I got in a little trouble. It was a church school," he explains simply, and declines to elaborate further. "It was hard. I didn't know where I was going or what I was doing. I didn't know a damn thing. That's probably why I messed up and had to go home."
His tenure at Ricks did lead to a second stateside opportunity, this time with the Arizona State Sun Devils, a Division I team. After two seasons as a defensive lineman, he was selected by the New England Patriots in the ninth round of the 1992 draft, only to be waived in the final preseason cut. That move, the low point of his career, came as something of an affront to Dixon, who thought he'd performed well in the Patriots' camp. When the Vikings signed him to their practice squad that October, head coach Dennis Green, whose defensive approach has tended to favor quicker, smaller players, made the decision to convert the beefy lineman to offense.
The adjustment to the other side of the line was trying. As a defensive tackle, Dixon played what he calls "a freelancing defense, doing whatever I could to get by my man." Offensive line play required a more disciplined approach, with an emphasis on footwork and positioning. "I had to start from scratch to learn the position. I didn't even know how to get into an offensive stance," he says. After the 1993 training camp, Dixon again found himself on waivers. He spent the rest of the year on the practice squad of the Dallas Cowboys. Although the Cowboys won the Super Bowl that year, he didn't get the ring--those only go to players on the active roster--and the Cowboys didn't re-sign him. Back with the Vikings the following year, a still-unpolished Dixon managed to make the active roster.