By day, Joe is an upholsterer. At night, he teaches men and women to box. He knows the ropes. He was a lightweight in his day, the North American Golden Gloves champ in 1973. He's become a good judge of character. He's also, in equal measure, a personal trainer, a motivational therapist, a psychologist, a drill sergeant. And an optimist who keeps his hopes in check.

Because it's a heartbreak job, training fighters. You keep your eyes open, but prospects come a dime a dozen. Joe can teach the jab and the hook, how to slip a punch, how to bob and weave – after that, it isn't up to him. Private things happen when a fighter gets tagged. Hope never knocked anybody out.

Sully left the gym to Joe when he died. The two were close; they knew each other more than 30 years. "I looked after Sully. I trained with him. We worked together. I was with him at the end. He trusted me." That's important in boxing – trust.

Not to mention fast hands, a big heart and a good chin. Three willowy high school girls are off to the side of the ring, learning how to kick box, and a girl with the tattoo of a vintage blender on her forearm shadowboxes by a floor-length mirror.

Why a blender? "I collect them."

Joe thinks about blenders while a weedy guy runs laps, a skinny guy thumps the heavy bag, and a short guy slaps at the speed bag to the tune of guitar rock and the dr-r-r-ring of the bell that times the rounds for sparring fighters. He keeps an eye on the Greek twins, teens training for a shot at the Athens Games.

Sully's is a rough democracy. Age, race, religion, sexual orientation – what matters most is the ability to dish it out or take it on the chin.

Joe drops a word of encouragement here and there, and glances at the action in the ring, where a dynamo of a girl named Rosie spars with a boy named Conroy. Although Rosie punches harder than a lot of guys – some of whom won't fight her – she's also a bit of a project. Her hook is fast and her punch is heavy but she's hard to teach and reluctant to jab. And, in the ring, everything flows from the jab.

"Don't let him get close, Rosie! You gotta be first. Don't wait! Now, now, now, right now! Pop him, get him off his track!" Instead, Rosie bulls Conroy into the corner and works a hook to his ribs. Like Joe says, you keep your hopes in check.

He's been keeping them in check for 35 years. What's the biggest change he's seen? Is it the equipment, is it the rules, is it the presence of women in the gym, is it the rise in the number of poor kids who prefer shooting hoops to shooting jabs?

"It's the media. In the old days they wrote about boxing, they built it up. Now it's like they're not anxious about the sport any more."

Two words, Joe: Mike Tyson.

Why bother to train boxers? "It's a funny business. You never know. It's not the money. It's tradition."

The untraditional Rosie climbs out of the ring, breathing hard, covered with a sheen of sweat, proud of her heavy hook. Joe shakes his head. "Rosie, I'm going to make you fight with one hand tied behind your back." He's smiling as he says it.

It's tradition.