Years ago I was a member of a gym (or “Health Club”) located on Wisconsin Avenue in Chevy Chase. Joining this gym was an easy choice for me, since the gym occupied the penthouse floor of the same building in which my office was located. For a time, in the late 1990s — when he was past his heyday as the heavyweight boxing champ of the world — Mike Tyson occasionally visited my gym. He would arrive in the early afternoon, I was told, accompanied by his trainer and a couple of bodyguards, and spend a couple of hours working out. Because I could schedule my visits to the gym only after work, in the late afternoon or early evening, I never laid eyes on Mr. Tyson myself.

The reason for Tyson’s choosing this particular gym — patronized mainly by individuals whose offices were in the building or by retired people who lived in the neighborhood — was a matter of speculation. At the time, Tyson was married to a Georgetown University medical student; he had purchased for his bride a mansion in Potomac, where she resided, and he stayed there, too, whenever it was convenient. There were other gyms located closer to their house, and there may even have been a gym in the house, but for some reason he chose to frequent my gym. Maybe he just wanted to get out of the house and out of the neighborhood.

On our daughter’s 19th birthday, in September, 1999, my wife and I had arranged to take her out to dinner. We agreed that my wife would drive, with our daughter, to the street behind my office building and I would meet them there at 6 o’clock. That allowed me enough time to visit the gym for a quick workout and a shower. After I had showered and dressed, I walked into an adjoining locker room where there were two wash basins, intending to brush my teeth. However, my way was blocked by a very muscular black man — naked except for a towel around his waist — who was positioned between the two wash basins, combing his hair in front of the large mirror mounted on the wall. His back was to me. There were two other black men in the room, both very large individuals, who were standing against a row of lockers and talking to one another. Instantly I had an intimation of déjà vu.

“Excuse me,” I said to the muscular black man, in the blandest tone of voice that I could muster. “Would you mind moving just a bit to the right or the left, so that I could use one of the wash basins?”

“Oh, sure,” he answered, as he immediately took three paces backward. “I’m sorry … please go ahead.” There was no mistaking that high-pitched, squeaky voice, which I had heard on several occasions when Mike Tyson was being interviewed on TV. Beyond any doubt, the man who was speaking to me was Mike Tyson. Iron Mike. Formerly known as “the baddest man on the planet.”

I quickly brushed my teeth, rode the elevator down to street level, hurried across the street and entered the car in which my wife and daughter were waiting. While driving, I provided them with an account of what had just transpired in the locker room of the gym. They both laughed appreciatively, and then my daughter asked a question: “Dad, let me get this straight. You and Mike Tyson were in the same locker room. You told Mike Tyson to back off and he backed off. Do I have that right? Is that what happened?”

I pondered her question for a second or two. “Yes” I said. “That’s about right. That is what happened.”

In all fairness to Iron Mike, I should acknowledge that he was clearly on the downside of his career at the time of our confrontation.