It’s been exactly 135 years since Jack Dempsey was born and we still feel the ripples from the waves he made. Dempsey, born William Harrison Dempsey, helped usher forth major rule changes in boxing as the heavyweight champion became one of the biggest figures in sports during an era with many of them. He drew crowds so large it shattered the idea of what an event’s gate could conceivably be. They even named a mean fish after him.

Dempsey was known by several names or nicknames throughout his life: first Harry, then “Kid Blackie.” Then Jack Dempsey, as in the new Jack Dempsey, after the 19th century middleweight champion. Then the unforgettable one: “The Manassa Mauler.” Later it was Commander Dempsey. Finally it was just “champ.”

Few boxing nicknames were as appropriate as “The Manassa Mauler,” though. Dempsey was the indefatigable battler from Manassa, Colorado, who mauled his way out of the hobo jungles, mauled his way to the heavyweight championship, then mauled his way into the heart of household Americana. It was perfect.

One of the great things about fighting names is they can be silly or menacing, descriptive or completely non sequitur. There’s room for layers. But it’s not something one can take; it has to be given.

Dempsey was said to have been nicknamed by Damon Runyon, the iconic writer who coined so many phrases that 100 years later, quirky characters from a certain period are called “Runyonesque.” Runyon’s choice for Dempsey was matter-of-fact and fit well enough that the rest of the press corps fell in line and called him “The Manassa Mauler” ahead of his title-winning bout against Jess Willard in 1919.

In the current age of routine millions, anyone can make some money, sell some tickets and claim to be revolutionary. The truth is they walk these paths because Dempsey walked them first.

It’s not just that Dempsey’s knockout of light heavyweight champ Georges Carpentier in defense of the heavyweight title was boxing’s first million-dollar gate. That milestone was impressive and memorable, and in those days 90,000 people rarely gathered for anything. But millions around the world waited for news of the bout.

Many were able to hear the first to be broadcast to a wide audience on radio, while crowds of thousands gathered outside newspaper offices in cities around the U.S. where results were written on chalkboards and yelled from bullhorns. Some gatherings had impromptu betting. Back in Paris, Carpentier’s countrymen were signaled of his defeat by several huge army planes that shone white lights and released white smoke over a crowd of hundreds of thousands in the Place de la Concorde.

And it was that Dempsey kept outdoing himself.

The champion went from destroying Carpentier in a purpose-built arena in 1921 to all but leveling an entire Montana town in 1923 when promoters overbid and couldn’t get the money together to pay both fighters. Shelby, Montana, still hasn’t recovered.

Dempsey moved on from Shelby to make a hero of Argentine heavyweight Luis Ángel Firpo by stopping him in two knockdown-filled rounds. It was a ferocious display, but a more one-sided fight than anyone cared to remember because of Dempsey’s star power. Firpo didn’t have to win or even last the distance. He just had to show up willing to fight, which he did, before living a lifetime off those four minutes with Dempsey.

After three years away from the ring, Dempsey somehow became an even bigger attraction as more than 120,000 spectators gathered in a storm to see him lose the title to Gene Tunney. The fight made an unreal $1.8 million at the gate, which they eclipsed with a $2.8 million gate in their 1927 rematch.

The loss convinced Dempsey to retire, and he may not have fought dozens of exhibitions well into his mid-40s if he hadn’t lost a fortune in the stock market crash of 1929. But even as he turned away from boxing as a participant, he continued working in the sport as an official until he was nearly 70, refereeing more than 400 professional fights by the time he got out for good.

In fact, Dempsey only fought eight times as a pro at the height of his fame. As such, his impact away from the ring shouldn’t be underestimated.

After failing to join the armed forces during World War I, Dempsey was dogged by the term “slacker,” or draft-dodger, and compared unfavorably to opponents who did serve. So when World War II broke and the U.S. got involved, Dempsey tried to join the Navy before eventually being accepted into the coast guard.

It was a symbolic gesture, but not without real world consequences: the great Dempsey joining the war effort boosted morale and righted a wrong in the former champion’s eyes. Even more interesting, Dempsey served as a hand-to-hand fighting instructor and even taught a number of combat maneuvers in a famous instructional book titled “How to Fight Tough” that was used for decades. In the book, Dempsey and wrestling great Bernard Cosneck demonstrated legitimate submission moves and effective close quarters striking today’s mixed martial artists would readily recognize.

But what made Dempsey who he was, more than anything, was his connection to people. Sure, he starred in a few films and even a stage production or two, but they never stuck. Whereas most heavyweight champs before him won the title and more or less retired to get paid on the vaudeville circuit, Dempsey traveled the world and shook hands. After WWII, he rebranded his old restaurant as “Jack Dempsey’s Broadway Restaurant,” and it stayed open until 1974.

A stereotypical night at Dempsey’s restaurant read like a boxing fever dream from another time. The great Dempsey was on hand to greet guests as they walked through the door, celebrities were grabbing a drink and a bite to eat, and players from the New York fight scene made deals and talked shop, all within footsteps of one another. Other ex-champions held birthday parties there. It was the place to be because Dempsey was there.

We’re generations removed from knowing Jack Dempsey now. He’s been gone more than 40 years, and in time everyone who gripped the giant paw of Manassa’s heavyweight champion even just in passing will also fade away. It’s just that Dempsey cast the kind of shadow that sticks around for 135 years.

Happy Heavenly Birthday, champ.