"It's going okay. I've got a basketball training camp here in Daytona Beach—mainly for younger kids. Business is… decent," Dawson said, giving a half-true, half-polished answer.
He didn't want to expose his struggles in front of an old acquaintance.
Still, a spark of hope lit in his chest.
Billy Donovan was a college coach—maybe this call was to offer him a training job?
Dawson had been grinding ever since graduating in '97. Four years later—2001—he was still chasing the dream.
Right after he retired, a high school in his hometown of Maitland, Orlando, had reached out, offering him the head coach position.
But back then, Dawson's sights were set high: if he couldn't make the NBA as a player, he'd get in as the best trainer in the business. He'd turned the offer down.
What he hadn't realized was that the competition among trainers was just as brutal as the NBA itself.
Years passed, and instead of moving forward, he was sliding backwards. Sometimes he wondered if he should've just taken that coaching job—at least it would've been stable.
Unfortunately, Donovan wasn't calling to hand him a position.
He was just reminiscing.
Dawson played along, but inside, he was kicking himself.
Maybe he'd made things sound too good.
If you tell someone you've got your own camp and business is "doing well," even if they wanted to hire you, they'd hesitate—why steal you from your "success"?
Lesson learned—sometimes honesty really is the better policy.
"Dawson, I still remember your nickname back on the team—they called you the Weight Master. I didn't believe it at first. But when I told everyone to drop five pounds, you were the only one who did it in a week. I was shocked."
Five pounds—2.2 kilos—might not sound like much, but for a pro athlete, whose weight changes slowly and whose body balance is delicate, that was huge.
Donovan had expected his players to take one or two months to hit that goal, giving their bodies time to adjust.
Dawson had done it in seven days.
And after the drop, his athleticism hadn't dipped—if anything, he'd adapted almost instantly and hit the expected speed boost in record time.
"I remember you had your own training method back then—what was it? 5D training? You've added a couple more D's by now, haven't you?"
Dawson chuckled. "Yep. It's 7D now."
As a trainer running his own camp, you needed a hook to attract clients.
So 5D became 7D—more D's, more impressive.
"I knew it," Donovan laughed. Then his tone grew nostalgic. "Honestly, Dawson, I miss having you on the team. You made my life easier."
At Florida, Dawson hadn't had the athletic gifts, and injuries had slowed him further.
The reason he'd lasted all four years was partly because of his defense—but also because of what he brought off the court.
He was the veteran leader, leading by example.
He lived by his 5D method, stayed disciplined, and pushed teammates to do the same.
In the locker room, he kept the team tight-knit.
In practice, he helped run drills.
In games, when Donovan needed a defensive stopper on the perimeter, Dawson stepped up.
After a slump in '95–96, the Gators bounced back to the tournament—and Dawson deserved part of the credit.
Dawson sighed.
Back then, he'd felt his career was over and his future uncertain. Looking back now, those four college years might've been the happiest of his life.
At least he was still playing. Still getting minutes.
Finally, Donovan got to the point.
"Dawson, I need your help training a player. In one month, I want him to gain ten pounds—and fully adapt to the new weight."
Before Dawson could respond, Donovan added quickly, "I know it's tough—really tough—but out of everyone I know, you're the only 'Weight Master' who could pull it off."
Ten pounds—almost five kilos.
And this wasn't just about eating more. The player would need to keep his athletic performance intact while adding the mass.
That's no small feat.
But after only ten seconds of thought, Dawson agreed.
Yes, it was difficult—but more importantly, it was a chance to prove himself.
Maybe Donovan was testing him before offering a job.
Basketball might be about relationships, but it's more about results. If you don't show what you can do, no one's giving you opportunities.
Even if Dawson didn't need the job, helping an NCAA head coach—and earning his recommendation—could open doors.
Reputation was everything in this business.
And, honestly, the paycheck didn't hurt either. Recruiting students wasn't easy.
So Dawson asked, carefully, "What's the pay?"
Money—or the lack of it—could stall even the bravest.
"I've already talked to them," Donovan said. "If you can do it, they'll pay twenty thousand dollars."
Dawson's eyes nearly popped.
In the past year, he hadn't made that much from training—he'd been patching up the camp's expenses with odd jobs.
"I'm in. I'll head over as soon as I can."
He was so pumped he forgot to even ask who the player was.
That same afternoon, Dawson drove his beat-up pickup toward Gainesville, home of the University of Florida.
It wasn't far—just over a hundred kilometers.
When he arrived, he checked into a motel, then decided to rent a car.
No way he was showing up in that ancient pickup.
This was a $20,000 job—first impressions mattered.
If you pull up in a clunker, wearing cheap clothes, you just scream "failure." A truly skilled trainer wouldn't look like he was barely scraping by.
The next morning, Dawson put on the suit he saved for important occasions, cleaned himself up, and set out.
Returning to old stomping grounds, he couldn't help feeling sentimental.
The meeting spot wasn't on campus, but at a nearby basketball facility—one he knew.
What surprised him was the media presence outside.
Not just local reporters—FOX, ESPN… the big national outlets.
Puzzled, Dawson called Donovan.
The coach told him to just head in and give his name.
Dawson checked himself in the mirror—perfect. He grabbed his bag and walked toward the entrance.
Passing the reporters, he caught a bit of their chatter.
They were discussing draft stock.
Of course—April 25th. Only two months until the NBA Draft.
Was there a Gators prospect making waves? He hadn't heard of any.
Shaking off the thought, Dawson stepped inside.
The court had been booked out. Only one player was training.
He was tall, broad-shouldered—a wall in human form.
As Dawson walked in, the player rose up, swung his arm back, and threw down a monster dunk that made the rim shake and echo through the gym.
Dawson got a clear look at his face—
And froze.
No way.
That was Kwame Brown—the media's "Next Shaquille O'Neal," and a projected top pick in the draft.