Backstory: Girls find a place in the ring

But boxing's two arenas – amateur and professional – carry very different auras and records. Amateur boxing, according to a National Safety Council 1996 accident report, ranks 23rd on the list of sports injuries, behind football, hockey, and even soccer. Professional boxing is different; head and eye injuries are common, often the consequence of bad training and mismatches arranged by indifferent or unscrupulous managers. And, course, money colors the enterprise.

Amateur bouts are shorter – only three to four two-minute rounds, as compared with three-minute professional rounds; amateurs use headgear, and breast protectors for women, and gloves padded to 10 or 12 ounces compared with 8 ounces for pros. Amateurs box for medals, for self-fulfillment, not money.

McDowell attributes the disdain toward women boxers to the want of skill among so many of them. Historically, they've been badly trained, their skills so limited that many were unable to defend themselves.

While women have engaged in boxing for over a century, usually under illegal circumstances, some attribute the current uptick to Clint Eastwood's film, "Million Dollar Baby." Others credit the influence of successful, even glamorous, female boxers like Muhammad Ali's daughter, Laila, the nation's top female super middleweight.

But McDowell believes in role models. Some of his protégées were attracted to Umar by Franchon Crews, who walked into the club three years ago, hoping to shed weight. Ms. Crews, a poor girl who wanted to be a singer (and still does), took to boxing like a fish to swimming. She's 19 now, holds both a national Golden Gloves championship and a Pan American Championships gold medal, and is training for a world amateur title bout. "Franchon is a mentor for these girls," says McDowell.

In fact, one girl came up the stairs six months ago with the same initial purpose Franchon had: to lose weight. Dominique McGlotte, 14, a ninth-grader, followed her brother, Tyrone, into the club.

"I lost 25 pounds," she says. (She still carries the 170 pounds of a light heavyweight.) "I've found friends here. My mother thinks it's great, keeps me out of trouble – not that I get in trouble."

After half a year of training she's not ready for a bout. "She won't have a fight until we see she has the technique," says McDowell. That is, when she can defend herself. Maybe she won't reach that point. Maybe it's not in her plans. It wasn't in Franchon's. Dominique says, with juvenile certainty, "I plan to go to college, get my law degree."

Why would McDowell bother to train her, and others, who stay a while then disappear? "It's frustrating," he admits. But, with sudden passion, he adds: "I'm on a mission to save lives. You might think boxing is brutal, but most of these kids are in a tough situation. Boxing changes their thoughts, their feelings. When you train you learn the value of dedication, discipline. It empowers them."

Dominique leaves the Umar classroom to prepare for a sparring session with Tyrone.

The gym – a square, white room, its floor strewn with mats, medicine balls, abandoned water bottles – breathes of purposeful physical effort, difficult in the lingering heat of a 95-degree day. But the work goes on, each boxer alone with his or her strategies, techniques. An older boxer assaults a heavy bag. Two young men, lightweights, shadowbox on the gray floor, fists flying like bullets. Dominique stands in the ring, her 170 pounds enlarged by immense headgear and protective shield covering her from the waist up and over her breasts. Her mouthpiece seems big as a bagel, her gloves puffy 14 ouncers.

Tyrone, 135 pounds, 12 years old, stands patiently in his corner, indifferent to the seeming asymmetry of the matchup.

A trainer tends to each boxer, whispers tactics. Tyrone is fast; he will hold his own. The bell rings: brother and sister approach each other, touch gloves, then carry on with all the tender fury of siblings the world over.

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