Carnett: He had a hand in feeding boxing lore

His name was Harry, and he was probably 70 years old.

To be truthful, I was only 10 and had difficulty distinguishing the age of people over 18.

The year was 1955 and Harry (I don’t recall his last name) worked — or volunteered his time — at the Boys Club of the Harbor Area, at Center Street and Anaheim Avenue in Costa Mesa.

On lazy summer afternoons, I’d ride my bike from my home on Costa Mesa’s Eastside to box or play basketball in the Boys Club gym, fashion a toy rifle in the wood shop, work on a craft or play baseball.

Harry, as I recall, helped out in the wood shop. He was a character!

He’d walk up to a group of boys, thrust out his hand and say: “Shake the hand that shook the hand of John L. Sullivan.”

We’d shake his hand.

It became a ritual of sorts that Harry repeated regularly. I must have shaken his hand a hundred times. But I didn’t have a clue as to who John L. Sullivan was.

At least not at first.

“Who’s John L. Sullivan?” I asked my dad.

“He’s a famous boxer,” dad replied.

I, of course, knew that Rocky Marciano was the reigning heavyweight champ. Every kid knew that. He was a god.

But who was John L. Sullivan, Harry’s claim to fame?

“Is he still alive,” I asked my dad.

“No, he died long ago,” he responded. “He died before I was born.”

Wow, Harry’s really old, I thought.

Many times I thrust my hand out to my younger brother, Bill, and said: “Shake the hand that shook the hand of Harry, who shook the hand of John L. Sullivan.”

Known as “The Boston Strong Boy,” Sullivan was born to Irish immigrant parents in Boston’s South End in 1858, three years before the opening salvo of the Civil War. Sullivan died in 1918 at the age of 59, after reigning as world heavyweight champion for a decade. His professional record was 40 wins, one loss and two draws.

If Harry was indeed 70 in 1955, he might actually have shaken Sullivan’s big mitt. I had no reason to doubt him at the time, though as adulthood approached, I wondered if Harry had really done what he said.

Why would he claim over and over that he shook Sullivan’s hand if he hadn’t? Plus, the numbers seemed to add up.

Harry would have been about 7 years old the year Sullivan won the crown, and 17 when he lost it. Harry was 33 the year Sullivan died.

In 1956, a year after I began shaking Harry’s right hand, Rocky Marciano retired as unbeaten heavyweight champ. My favorite all-time fighter, the classy Floyd Patterson, succeeded Marciano. Floyd, known as “The Gentleman of Boxing,” exhibited style and grace and rolled up a 55-8-1 career record.

Floyd was known for his “peek-a-boo” style. Patterson held the crown for three years and then lost to the big Swede, Ingemar Johansson, in 1959. I was devastated.

Floyd won the crown back a year later in 1960, however, knocking Johansson out in the fifth. He held the title for two more years. Patterson defended his crown against Johansson with a sixth-round KO in 1961. But a guy named Cassius Clay was waiting in the wings.

Floyd was my hero, but I liked Johansson because he gave such a good accounting of himself in his three fights with Patterson. Johansson was known to his fans as “Ingo.” He referred to his huge right fist as “Toonder and Lightning” –- obviously for its concussive power.

In 2011, two years after his death, I unintentionally visited Johansson’s hometown of Gothenburg, Sweden. I asked our tour guide, “Isn’t this where Ingemar Johansson lived?”

He looked startled.

“You’re American, right?” he asked.

I conceded that I was.

“Americans don’t know about Ingo,” he responded. “Only Swedes!”

Ingo may have been the Swedish Babe Ruth, but this Yank liked him too. I’d have relished the opportunity to shake Toonder and Lightning!

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.