BRITISH boxing was rebuilding its identity after the Chris Eubank–Nigel Benn rivalry and needed someone to come along and give it a facelift.
Not a complete makeover – UK fans have never warmed to fighters who choose bling and style over grit and integrity. Working-class heroes and likeable fellas always do well on these shores, and Ricky Hatton ticked both boxes.
When the Manchester Arena became Ricky’s second home, his working-class anthem Blue Moon – disguised as a pop song – would belt out in front of crowds of up to 20,000. There were 18,000 inside when Hatton fought Eamonn Magee in June 2002, the sixth man to try to take Hatton’s WBU light-welterweight belt. It was a fringe title, but it kept Hatton ticking over while he waited for his shot at a genuine world championship.
Whenever Hatton walked out to Blue Moon – 100 per cent ferocious and 100 per cent ready for anything – it wasn’t just a ring entrance. It felt like a communion, something that brought everyone together from the first beat of the drums to the moment Hatton, draped in Manchester City blue, climbed through the ropes to rapturous applause. He was a man of the people, ready to go to work and make them proud. A victory, then a pint, and fans walking home singing that iconic tune – all because of Ricky Hatton.
Whether before or after his rise to stardom, it’s difficult to think of many British athletes who were loved quite as much as Ricky. His era wasn’t built on clean-cut marketing or catchphrases. He was from Stockport and never pretended otherwise. He never polished the accent or tried to be anything other than who he was – and that was an identity people could relate to.
The same man you could share a pint with was the same man who could break Kostya Tszyu’s heart in the small hours of a June morning. Hatton never wanted to be above the people who followed him, spoke so warmly of him, and metaphorically had his back. He wanted to remain just like them, to belong to them. It just so happened that he was also a world-class fighter.
When Hatton fought, you fought with him. I remember watching the Tszyu fight on a mattress on the floor in a flat with my girlfriend next to me. I threw air punches as he ripped into Tszyu. I roared silently when he won, trying not to wake her up. The Hatton effect grabbed hold of you – when he won, it lifted you; when he lost, it saddened you. You never wanted to see someone who felt like one of your own getting hurt or knocked out.
He carried British hopes with an honesty we all admired – that in itself was a gift. He may not have been the most gifted boxer of his generation, but he was arguably the most genuine. “In the trenches” is a phrase often associated with boxing, and Hatton would have been the perfect soldier to fight alongside: relentless, imperfect, but brave. He took on problems and hit them with the same ferocity he did an opponent’s midsection. All of which made him both a hero to so many and human to everyone.
It’s been said often since his passing, but it may be some time – if ever – before we again see thousands upon thousands of fans leaving the UK to travel to America in support of one man, whether it was against the little-known Juan Urango or the superstar Floyd Mayweather. That was the effect he had on people. Not everyone knew him personally, but it felt as though we did – because we’ve all known someone who looked like Hatton, acted like Hatton, or joked like Hatton.
At a time when the conversation around mental health grows stronger, Hatton showed his vulnerability by openly admitting his own struggles. When the cameras left and the adrenaline faded, he faced the quiet that comes after a career built on noise. Few fighters spoke as openly about what that silence can do. He was brutally frank about the problems he faced outside the ring, and even when it hurt, he didn’t hide from them.
That honesty gave others a voice they didn’t know existed, allowing them to talk, too – fighters and fans alike. The fighting tornado was no longer in the ring, but a different kind of battle continued. His human side never vanished; it was perhaps greater than ever when he let the world see him struggle. He wasn’t trying to be “The Hitman.” He was trying to be Ricky Hatton. He was trying to be okay.
That, more than the belts or the fame, made him a champion all over again.
Ricky Hatton left this world too soon, but what remains from his legacy isn’t just a rip-roaring highlight reel – it’s the feeling he left behind. We remember his achievements, but people might tell you more about nights that began at the Manchester Arena, swept away by Blue Moon, and ended with a story – memories for the grandkids. People witnessed one of their own conquer the world.
When people gather for his funeral this Friday, the city will sing for him again, whether out loud or in their hearts. Because Ricky Hatton’s meaning was never just in the fights he won – it was in the way he made people feel they were part of something too.
