Growing up on the Upper West Side, Eytan Sugarman was chubby, depressed, and practically friendless. He didn’t bother with the club scene that dominated most of his high school classmates’ social lives, preferring to stay in and watch television instead. “I didn’t have a prayer,” he said. “Even if I wanted to, I totally would not have gotten in.”

How Mr. Sugarman, now 30, ended up co-owning Suede, the West 23rd Street boite that Britney Spears, Cameron Diaz, and Leonardo Di-Caprio have all taken a shining to, is a bit of a mystery. Yes, he’s lost the baby fat, but he’s still far from the slickster you’d imagine lurks behind a place People magazine recently called “Nightclub of the Year.” He’s boyish and soft-spoken and, mid-conversation, has the tendency to give off the impression of wishing very intently he could click his heels and disappear.

His job requires that he carry a standard cell phone and one of those Blackberry devices that doubles as one, but when either of his contraptions rings he often doesn’t answer. If and when he does opt to pick up a call, he prefaces it with a face that says he’d rather do anything but.

On a recent afternoon, he was seated deep in a banquette overlooking the dance floor at Cherry Lounge, the new West Harlem nightclub that he co-owns with rap producer Timbaland. Mr. Sugarman and a few associates were indulging in Chicken McNuggets and apple pies. The club’s opening only hours away, scores of handymen were scattered throughout the space, nailing and drilling the finishing touches. Several busboys were behind the bar, unloading boxes and tossing scraps of cardboard in a heap near the dance floor. A man who looked to be in the throes of a midlife crisis, with his blue-tinted sunglasses and digital camera hanging around his neck, was hurling obscenities at nobody into particular. “He does lighting,” explained Mr. Sugarman. “He’s been around since the original Studio 54.” Another dirty word shot through the space, prompting the club owner to shrug and pop a final piece of chicken into his mouth. “That’s just how he is.”

Mr. Sugarman has a childlike face, with cropped bushy hair and ears that poke out a little. He was wearing a Nike T-shirt, fresh white tennis shoes, and a pair of blue jeans that weren’t particularly baggy. He was going to run home to put on his party clothes. “I have to remind myself to wear suits when I’m working at night,” he said.

Even though the opening night was supposed to draw the likes of Ashley Olsen, Avril Lavigne, and Jay Z, he claimed to be very nervous. “An opening night really matters,” he said. “It sets the tone of the club. People remember the first night’s buzz.” Worst-case scenario? That the party empties out early on in the evening. “If people are still dancing and having a good time at 3:30, it’s a pretty good sign.”

His parents still live in New York. His father is a retired schoolteacher and his mother a retired gallery curator. Neither of them has come to either of his clubs when they were in full swing – only during the afternoon, when they’re empty.

It wasn’t until a few years ago that Mr. Sugarman had any inkling of what he’d end up doing. “I was a good student up until the second grade and it kind of ended right there,” he said. He went to Brooklyn Tech for his freshman year, and transferred a year later to High School for the Humanities and Performing Arts, which was a happening place. “Yeah, too bad I wasn’t such a happening guy.” He was more of a “nerdy guy”- that is, without the good grades. In the middle of his junior year he dropped out. “I was diagnosed with A.D.D., but I didn’t buy that. I just had a hard time focusing on things I had absolutely no interest in.”

He says high school was not a happy period. His guidance counselors told him he had no hopes of arriving anywhere in life, and before proving them wrong, he spent quite a while living up to their predictions, doing a lot of nothing, returning to school only to drop out again, and studying for the stockbroker’s licensing test, which he proceeded to fail.

“I was spiraling down,” he said.

And then motivational speaker and former baseball legend Tommy Lasorda entered the picture and things started looking up. Mr. Lasorda, who worked with a friend of Mr. Sugarman’s, took the floundering kid under his wing and encouraged him to start taking care of himself. “To this day he’s still a second father to me,” said Mr. Sugarman, who credits Mr. Lasorda with his losing 130 pounds and applying himself. It wasn’t long before Mr. Sugarman was organizing events for Mr. Lasorda’s friends in the sports and entertainment industry, such as Derek Jeter and ‘NSync. As the parties became increasingly regular, opening a club started to seem like the logical progression, and that’s exactly what he did two years ago. Eventually he hopes to grow out of the club business and open hotels.

Through Mr. Lasorda he also met Frank Sinatra on several occasions. “What I liked about him was he recognized people might be intimidated or shy around him, so he made a point of going up and introducing himself.”

Do any of the famous people he knows through the nightclub have the same attitude towards the hoi polloi? “No way. They suck.”

Mr. Sugarman leaves the ID-checking to his staff. He sees his role as a host, circulating throughout the evening and ensuring that the party’s mix is right. To this end, he’ll occasionally ordain that no more men are allowed into the club until the female population’s numbers are boosted. Doesn’t he find it a bit tacky when the doormen tell wannabe guests only women can come inside? “A club has got to be like a salad – its got to be a mix of ingredients.”

He maintains he doesn’t do drugs, he’s never set foot in the Hamptons, and he’s not in the business for the girls. Isn’t dating a model an unofficial requirement for somebody in the profession? “It’s been a while,” he blushed.