Earning an Identity : Heavyweight Dave Dixon Already Has Taken Most of Life’s Best Punches

It is only in the ring, he says, where he never thinks about “the question.”

In the glare of the ring lights, with the crowd shouting, he says his attention is so riveted on his opponent that he has no time to wonder who he is.

Who am I?

Dave Dixon’s tale is of a life without roots, of a baby left on a doorstep in St. Louis one morning in 1970. It is about a high school football player who slept in cars or in city parks, about a boy who had to wear the same clothes every day. It’s about a homeless teen-ager who later spent two years on the streets of Los Angeles.

And for all of those years, he pondered:

Who am I?

No one, most of all Dave Dixon, can be certain who he is, but we can be fairly certain what he is. He is a heavyweight fighter, and a pretty good one, by most evaluations.

He also is a resourceful, determined person, who because of an iron faith in himself, has a life with a glimmer of a future.

His high school football coach in St. Louis might have described him best: “Dave had it rough as a kid, but we always gave him a chance at life because he’s a survivor.”

Who am I?

Dixon, who will have his 13th bout Monday night at the Forum, is 11-1. He is 6 feet 3 and a bit paunchy at 250 pounds, but he is quick, hits hard and trains hard.

His trainer, Henry Walker, says Dixon can become the heavyweight champion of the world. Others aren’t so sure, noting that he has fought no one of consequence, and at 25 got a late start and is still learning to box.

Still, how do you count out a guy who has gone from sleeping in Exposition Park to Forum 10-rounders in two years?

Here, in his own words, is Dave Dixon’s story:

“I never knew a thing about myself until I was about 10, living in a home for homeless boys in St. Louis. I asked the superintendent one day who I was, who my parents were.

“He said I didn’t have any parents, and that was the end of the conversation. But I sneaked into his office one night and found my file.

“And I saw it. Bam! A grandmother! I had a grandmother! I went to see her and she told me the story. She said my mother had me when she was very young, that she couldn’t handle it, that she just left me on a doorstep when I was 2 and ran off with some guy. She had no idea who my father was.

“I guess my earliest memories are of living in institutions in St. Louis, being put in a series of foster homes, and then being sent back to other institutions. I was a hyper kind of kid.

“One family took me in, and the woman wouldn’t feed me. She’d feed her kids, but not me. So I went back to another home for homeless boys.

“I went to Sumner High School and played football my first two years, but my grades were terrible. I played defensive end and linebacker, but I knew I’d never get a scholarship because of my grades. So I dropped out of high school.

“It wasn’t a happy period for me. If I wasn’t in a foster home where I was wanted, I was in an institution, or I was living in someone’s car or the city park. I had to wear the same clothes to school every day.

“I had terrible summer jobs. One summer I got a city job, pulling weeds out of cracks in the city streets. It’s pretty hot in St. Louis in the summer. The pay was terrible. It was slave labor, really.

“I was recruited by a team of teen-agers who drove around the country in three vans, selling phony magazine subscriptions and mail-order books. I joined them when I was 16 and we went to Kansas City, then Atlanta, then Los Angeles.

“We dressed up in coats and ties and knocked on doors, telling people we were working our way through college selling subscriptions, or encyclopedias.

“Basically, we were deceiving people. They’d get one or two magazines, then nothing. Or we’d take a $399 deposit on an encyclopedia set, and whether or not they ever got the encyclopedia I have no idea.

“We worked for this guy who liked to humiliate you if you didn’t meet your daily quota. He’d call you a ‘doofus’ in front of the rest of the kids. Maybe he’d give you a couple of bucks to eat with, maybe not.

“I hated it. I didn’t like lying to people. When we came here, we were staying in a motel on Beach Boulevard in Buena Park. So this guy from Brooklyn, Tino--I never knew his last name--and I quit.

“That was 1985. So after that Tino and I were on the streets of L.A., sleeping on the grass at City Hall or Exposition Park. I don’t recommend it. Both places have terrible ants. See, you wake up and your clothes are full of ants.

“Tino was pretty smart. He could con people out of pocket change pretty good. We’d walk, all day. A lot of times, we’d walk up and down Figueroa, where all the car dealerships are, near USC and the Coliseum.

“I used to stop by a car-wash place where people with nice cars got custom wash jobs for $75. A Cuban guy ran the place, and I liked talking to him, but I never worked there.

“I wound up working for a chicken fast-food place near USC, doing a little cooking and security work. A Mexican guy hired me. When I lied and told him I was a USC student, he hired me on the spot.

“I didn’t like running the junkies out of the place at night, which was my job. I figured that was dangerous. When the Mexican guy figured out I didn’t have a place to live, he let me ride home with him and he let me sleep in his car. But he never once invited me into his house.

“One day I was at the corner of Hollywood and Western, and I met a preacher who told me I could live at his church in Highland Park.

“Well, I went there and it turned out it was a shelter for white rockers getting off drugs. The preacher, he smoked grass all day. I took one look at this place and figured maybe one day I wouldn’t want anyone to know I was ever there.

“So I told them my name was Tommy Owens.

“The next time I was on Figueroa, I visited the Cuban guy. He said to me: ‘You know, you could maybe make some money boxing.’ That was the first time that ever occurred to me.

“He knew some guys at the Broadway Gym, at 108th and Broadway. So he took me over there, introduced me to some people. And he gave me $10 to eat on. Next thing I know, I’m learning how to box.

“The Cuban guy was the first guy that really gave me a break in L.A. Months later, I went back to thank him, but his business was gone.

“I never even knew his name.”

A call to one of the homeless children’s homes in St. Louis, where Dixon spent two years, yielded more details of his abandonment.

A file showed that Dixon and a brother, 18 months younger, were left on the steps of the St. Louis Juvenile Court building one morning in 1970. Dixon’s mother, name unknown, was 13 when he was born.

The file contained a 1978 letter from a staff psychiatrist, indicating he was recommending Dixon for a “long term” stay in an institution for homeless children, because he wasn’t a likely candidate for a successful foster home placement.

In the file, there was a reference to “aggressive tendencies.”

Dixon’s former football coach at Sumner High is Lawrence Walls.

“I remember Dave had a lot of terrible problems growing up, that he had no family,” Walls said.

“Dave’s life was day to day. He raised himself. To learn now that he’s done something with his life is great news.”

Said Richard Perry, an assistant Sumner football coach who also remembered Dixon, “He was a very physical kid, even when he was young. But he lived kind of a pillar-to-post life. We saw potential in him, but his life was so tough. . . .

“He kind of disappeared after his sophomore season. We never knew what happened to him, until someone around here said they saw him box on TV.”

Dixon’s younger brother, Reggie, was recently murdered in St. Louis in an argument over a woman. Dixon, who hadn’t seen his brother since 1986, attended the funeral.

One recent morning at the Broadway Gym, on the top floor of a crumbling two-story structure at 108th and Broadway, Dixon and two bodybuilders worked out.

Boxing gyms are normally late-afternoon places, since most pro boxers have day jobs. “This place is so crowded here late in the day you almost have to stand in line to work a speed bag,” Dixon said. “So they let me come in early. I get here around 8 and leave around 10:30 or 11.”

In the morning gloom, worn heavy bags hung, concave at the middle from thousands of punches. Rips and tears have been patched with duct tape.

While a boom box blared, two weightlifters worked old weight machines. A caretaker shuffled about. Trainer Walker, 43, a onetime pro himself, watched his heavyweight begin yet another day in his new life.

“I’ve only worked with Dave for eight weeks, but he can go all the way,” he said. “Yes, I mean the heavyweight championship. He’s got all the tools, but what I like best is, he’s mean.

“He wants to be successful, and he listens. He doesn’t ask a lot of questions. He listens and then he works.

“He’s got a great jab, because he’s a very strong guy. He didn’t box as an amateur, so he’s still learning. In another year, he’ll be ready for the top heavyweights. After that he can be champion.”

Dixon, who resembles former heavyweight champion Buster Douglas, has massive shoulders and is deep through the chest. He delivers a strong left jab with his body behind it, as many experienced boxers have never learn to do.

After his workout, Dixon said of his future: “In about a year, I’ll be ready for deeper water. When my time comes, I’ll be ready.”

And, at least in his dreams, the heavyweight championship.

Then, at last, he will no longer have to ask himself: “Who am I?”