Farewell Ricky Hatton, the people’s champion

Few professional sporting endeavours can create legends of men quite like boxing. And few can take so much out of them, physically and mentally at the same time. We have been reminded of this once again with the tragic death of the British legend, Ricky Hatton, who was found at his home in Manchester on Sunday. He was only 46.

Hatton was known as ‘the Hitman’ for good reason. He was an attacking fighter renowned for his power, in particular his signature punch, a mincer of a left hook to the body. This style won him two world titles across two weight divisions – one at light welterweight and a second at welterweight – and 45 victories from 48 professional fights. His 2005 world title win against Kostya Tszyu, in which he forced the legendary Russian-Australian to quit on his stool before the 12th round, remains one of – if not the – most iconic nights in British boxing.

Hatton’s skill alone cannot explain his popularity. Born in Stockport in 1978, he was everything the public wanted from a sports star and in particular a boxer. He was a working-class kid whose father ran the local pub. Hatton himself dreamed of playing for Manchester City as much as he did winning boxing world titles. His home outside the boxing ring was one of Manchester’s pubs, where in between bouts he honed his other great skill: drinking for hours on end and remaining on his feet. Everyone in the city knew him, or at least felt like they did. Hatton was for British boxing what Oasis are for British music.

His supporters were certainly just as fanatical. Indeed, boxing had never quite witnessed anything like it. The deafening chants of ‘There’s only one Ricky Hatton’, ‘Walking in a Hatton wonderland’ and ‘Blue Moon’, which serenaded his fights, introduced gobsmacked Americans to the noise and atmosphere of a football terrace. Indeed, there will be many a Las Vegas bartender whose ears will still be ringing from what became known as ‘Hatton Nights’ – when thousands of supporters would travel from the UK to Sin City to watch his fights there. It was estimated that 30,000 fans accompanied Hatton for his 2007 superfight against Floyd Mayweather.

However, it was a level of adoration that Hatton struggled to deal with, particularly when he felt as though he had let his supporters down. He experienced this for the first time after the iconic fight against Mayweather, when he was knocked out in the 10th round by the American champion. Hatton had hardly embarrassed himself – Mayweather is arguably the greatest boxer of all time, and Hatton was fighting the referee as much as his mercurial opponent. But it was a different story when he returned to the Strip two years later against Filipino champion Manny Pacquiao. Dropped three times in the first round alone, Hatton was unconscious before he hit the canvas after Pacquiao ended the fight with a left hand in the second round.

It was a brutal knockout that exposed the violence inherent to this most noble of sports. Hatton was left unable to move his limbs, effectively paralysed, his chest heaving in desperate inhalations and violent contractions. After the fight he wisely announced his retirement, only to make the inevitable mistake that every professional boxer succumbs to in the end – the comeback. He did this in 2012, and was stopped by unheralded Ukrainian Vyacheslav Senchenko in the 10th round.

Hatton’s life post-boxing was marred by the depression, addiction and lack of purpose that too often blights the lives of former professional sports stars. He had always had a weakness for heavy drinking and, later, cocaine – substances for which he was eventually admitted to rehab. Without the spartan training camps, Hatton’s notorious weight blow-outs became a permanent rather than temporary state. He constantly battled depression and suicidal thoughts, which he said began after his defeat to Pacquiao.

The all-consuming nature of a fighter’s life, the extreme highs of adrenaline, and the incredibly young age at which most begin their boxing journey, can make it very difficult to join civilian life. Like Tyson Fury, Nigel Benn and countless others, Hatton’s post-boxing void was filled with alcohol and drugs.

Hatton’s career and personality, however, will always remain undimmed by his personal struggles. Indeed, his reputation is only likely to grow, particularly when we consider the uninspiring crop of British fighters trying to walk in his footsteps. The carping, precious and thin-skinned generation we’re stuck with – exemplified by nepo-boxers Conor Benn and Chris Eubank Jr – could not be more different to Hatton, who fought for his family and fans more than money and fame.

Rest in peace, Ricky Hatton, a true legend of British boxing and one of Manchester’s favourite sons.

Hugo Timms is an editorial assistant at spiked.