This past Halloween, on an unseasonably warm evening, the new Mack Lewis Boxing Gym, nestled in the shadows of Johns Hopkins Hospital in the 900 block of North Bond Street, was alive with its usual activity.
The night's soundtrack: the thud of padded fists crashing into heavy bags, a buzzer that sounds every three minutes, the grunts and groans of men pushing themselves to their physical limits and the staccato wisp of jump ropes. Seated in a corner near the entrance, wearing a radiant smile, was Lewis himself. The legendary trainer's eyes sparkled with energy, as sweat-soaked fighters of all shapes and sizes moved around him, like orbiting planets around the sun - from middle-aged men working to stay fit to world-class professionals training for a shot at championship glory.
On that October night, Lewis, now 87, undeniably was still in charge. He occasionally yelled out instructions, but mostly observed as a handful of former pupils passed along the lessons he once sternly advocated. When Lewis stepped outside the gym, though, he really took over.
Former junior middleweight champion Vincent Pettway, who drives his former trainer and mentor home each evening, found his car had a flat tire. Before Pettway could arrange another ride home for Lewis, though, the trainer was barking out orders.
"Hey! Help Pettway fix this tire!" he shouted toward a group of fighters and trainers as they begin to pile in their cars. Within minutes, someone found an air pump. As the tire filled, Lewis entertained his rapt audience with tales of Jack Johnson.
"Never leave a man when he's in trouble," Lewis said with a wink, climbing into the passenger seat as the small crowd scattered.
One such troubled man was the young Rahman.
In 1993, Rahman climbed up the 20 rickety stairs in the dilapidated building on the corner of Broadway and Eager Street in East Baltimore that housed Lewis' old gym.
The problems that dogged Rahman on the streets did not follow him through the rusty gate of Lewis' gym, where, for more than 50 years, fighters trained without running water, heat or air conditioning.
"I liked him from the first time I met him," Lewis said. "He was very mannerable, strong, dedicated and always willing to do whatever he was asked to do."
Under Lewis' stewardship, Rahman honed his raw talent, pounding speed bags reinforced with duct tape and sparring in a plywood-based ring covered by old carpet and a dingy gray mat.
Although he went to train with Kevin Rooney, Mike Tyson's trainer, at the tail end of his amateur development, Rahman acknowledged his debt to Lewis when he returned to Baltimore in 2001 after his improbable knockout of Lennox Lewis to capture the undisputed heavyweight crown.
"Mack Lewis gave me an outlet and probably saved my life," Rahman said.
An avid reader as a child, Lewis devoured stories about his favorite fighters, Johnson and Kid Chocolate. He frequented the New Albert Theatre on Pennsylvania Avenue, staring wide-eyed at the grainy black and white images of Depression-era black boxers.
When he was 13, his father would pit him in back-alley fights against other neighborhood kids. He joined the boxing team at the city's segregated Dunbar and Douglass high schools, played football, baseball and soccer, and he managed himself on the local amateur boxing circuit.
Attending Morgan State College, Lewis played football on the school's undefeated team in 1940. He enlisted in the Army after one year at Morgan, eventually being assigned to the Special Services boxing team.
After about 100 fights and two punctured eardrums, Lewis was discharged in 1943. Returning to Baltimore, he joined Mickey O'Donnell's gym at Broadway and Eager, becoming the first black fighter to do so.
Sun archives: At newer E. Baltimore gym, Lewis, still guides fighters
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