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Prison left an imprint Buddy Harrison still carries. After his release, he would eye up a ballpoint pen lying on a desk and consider how good a shank it would make. His dark tattoos were made from cigarette ash and a cassette player motor. He neatly lines up his socks, toilet paper and other personal items at home as he did in his cell.

"[Prison] stays with you. You just can't get it out of your system," Harrison said. "Quite a few of the kids here are from foster or group homes and don't have any parents. I don't want to see them go that same route."

Harrison, 50, is the owner of Old School Boxing, a gym in the basement of Rosecroft Raceway in Fort Washington. Until recently, the arrangement was mutually beneficial — the gym drove foot traffic to the track with its weekly fight nights, and in return Rosecroft gave Old School a break on rent. The arrangement allowed the gym to remain open as an affordable refuge for kids who needed an outlet and trainers looking to direct their young energy down a productive path and keep them off the street.

The partnership was shattered by Rosecroft's recent closure, as the raceway succumbed to costs associated with broadcasting simulcast races and decreased revenue. The track had held out hope for legislation that would allow table games or slots funding, but such help never arrived.

Harrison is searching for a new home for his gym, but now has a powerful ally in his corner. The Prince George's County Council has allocated $30,000 in its fiscal 2011 budget, effective July 1, toward relocation costs and rent for the new location once Harrison finds it.

But Harrison says he has been burnt before by politicians, and isn't convinced. For a man who has spent his life fighting — on the streets, in the ring and now for forgotten kids — a gift with no strings attached seems too good to be true.

Fighting as an escape

Against the backdrop of the track's cinder racing oval, a densely muscled fighter fires the speed bag in a tight rhythm. Across the room, a thin 6-year-old teeters under the weight of his full-sized gloves, heaving them at a trainer's padded hands, where they land with a thud. The smell of sweat and vinyl permeates the air, and a neat row of boxing gloves hangs from a ceiling beam running the length of the room.

With his tattooed arms, stiff flattop and weathered features, Harrison looks like any other hard-bitten boxing trainer — until he speaks. His voice is startlingly soft, difficult to hear over the din of leather smacking wet skin.

Many of the fighters are here to escape the lure of the streets. Many are successful. Some are not.

Harrison was once one of those kids. His father was an alcoholic, and Harrison was in and out of reform school throughout his childhood.

"I wasn't so much as asked for a report card," Harrison said.

Rejected at home, Harrison turned to the streets. At age 11 he landed at a juvenile detention center. He spent his teens cycling in and out of similar facilities until he was charged with armed robbery and sentenced to 19 years in jail beginning in 1980. He served 10 years in facilities in Baltimore, Jessup and Hagerstown.

Harrison's violent past clashes with his gym persona. He is tender with the children, pulling them aside to tell a reporter their personal success stories, lavishing attention on them he himself never received.

"After prison, if I was walking down the street and I saw a person get shot, I would step right over him. At the same time, [now] if I hear about a kid's bike getting stolen, I break into tears," Harrison said.

Many of the younger fighters at Old School Boxing can't afford their own equipment. Siblings come in together, sharing the same mouthpiece for their turn in the ring. Fighters use boxing gloves of two different colors, or broken gear is duct-taped back into service.

"The ones that can afford to pay, they pay gym dues," Harrison said. "The majority of them, if I charged $3 a month, they wouldn't have it. They come for free."

Richard DePhillip of Accokeek views the gym as critical to the surrounding community. His reasons are personal: his son Chip, 19, was hanging with gang members, and found himself in juvenile court.

DePhillip was scared he was losing his son and knew he needed to spend more time with him. He tried fishing, and then church, with limited success. A friend recommended Old School Boxing.

Harrison listened to his story and recommended that DePhillip, 60, and his son train together. The two started in March 2009.

"Now we're like friends, and we can talk," Richard DePhillip said. "We broke the barrier, and it has really brought us closer together."

DePhillip credits Harrison for pulling his son away from the lure of a life of crime. Chip has stopped smoking, is now pursuing his GED and has a job as a steamfitter at Gallaudet University in the District waiting for him upon graduation.

"What can I say? [Harrison] saved my son," DePhillip said. "I think of him as a guardian angel."

‘A million-dollar lottery ticket'

Harrison's criminal record blocks him from most jobs. He works on old cars, restoring and selling them for cash, which he uses to furnish his gym and keep kids in boxing gloves and headgear.

His best hope to control his gym's long-term future is his 16-year-old son, Dusty, a quiet, confident 138-pounder who has been swinging a gloved fist since he was old enough to walk. Dusty has had almost 200 fights in his young career — the average 16-year-old has 40 to 50, Buddy Harrison said — and has dominated most of them. He has earned nearly every accolade available to a boxer his age, including the Junior National Golden Gloves title in 2007, '08, and '09, and a bronze medal in June at the USA Boxing Junior National Championships held at the Marine Corps base in Camp Lejune, N.C.

As his son grew older, Harrison drove him around the country to compete. Some nights they would sleep in the car so that Harrison could afford a hotel room the following evening if his son advanced in the tournament. The younger Harrison always kept winning.

On a recent fight night, the crowd scattered at tables throughout the room, leaning forward in their seats, as Dusty stepped through the ropes to take on a 152-pound challenger a few years older. The younger Harrison often has trouble getting other boxers Dusty's age to step in the ring with him.

Dusty Harrison conducts himself like a fighter twice his age, sizing up his opponent, memorizing his tendencies and picking apart his weaknesses. He moves with preternatural speed, seemingly aware of each punch a millisecond before it arrives.

His father says that recently, Dusty seems to be losing his passion for boxing. He worries about Dusty playing basketball more often, and hasn't been in the gym as much as he should be to maximize his talent.

"It's like he has a million-dollar lottery ticket," Harrison said of his son's ability. "He's either going to cash it in, or leave it in a drawer."

On an average night in the gym, Harrison's shouts echo throughout the room. On fight night, he is stone-faced as he watches Dusty dart and strike in the ring.

‘We had to find a way'

The once-great sports of boxing and horseracing are long past their respective glory years. Racetracks have watched profits erode at the hands of online gambling and the sports book at casinos. Boxing lost its target audience to the comparatively violent world of mixed martial arts.

On Rosecroft's quiet 123-acre pocket of Fort Washington, the sports had joined together in a final stand for mutual survival.

Harrison even testified in April before the Maryland General Assembly on behalf of Rosecroft during its appeal to bring card games to the track to generate revenue. He caused a stir in the chambers, with state legislators abandoning the slots issue to ask him questions about boxing. Several of them promised him money to subsidize his gym. He never heard from them afterward.

However, Harrison had a powerful ally. Gregory "Steve" Proctor, president and CEO of Upper Marlboro-based lobbying firm G.S. Proctor and Associates, set about securing local government funding for Old School Boxing. Proctor's son started boxing at the gym three years ago, and Harrison made an immediate impression on the Prince George's County lobbyist with ties to the statehouse.

"I saw all the work he was doing, and I thought it was really worthwhile," Proctor said. "If that went away, it meant those kids' lives would be affected because they wouldn't have a place to go in the evenings."

Proctor said he approached the Prince George's County Council about Old School's financial needs, and they agreed to allocate $30,000 in funding toward renting a new gym, once Harrison finds one. He can keep his gym open at Rosecroft until Labor Day.

The office of County Councilman Tony Knotts (D-Dist. 8) confirmed the grant, effective July 1. Knott's district covers the area occupied by Rosecroft Raceway.

"We had to find a way to save this program," said Betty Horton-Hodge, Knotts' legislative aide. "This gym improves the quality of life, and teaches these kids discipline. Many of these kids are at-risk, so we either pay now, or pay later in the justice system."

Harrison is cautiously optimistic. He expresses gratitude for the help from local politicians, but in the same breath says he is keeping his expectations in check. He worries about generating the money to put a deposit on a new home for his fighters, although the grant will reimburse him for his costs.

Harrison is reluctant to put his faith in the charity of others, when he sees how kids from the neighborhoods where he draws most of his fighters have been forgotten over the years.

"I do believe them, but who's to say something won't interfere," Harrison said. "I've seen that happen before, over and over again. I used to get my hopes up for things. Not anymore."