Here in the North, Ricky Hatton wasn’t just a boxing great – he was one of us. The Hyde lad who loved Manchester City and blasted Oasis on repeat grew into “The Hitman”, a two-weight world champion whose every win felt like a win for the region too.
Born in Stockport in 1978, Hatton learned graft early – first helping in the family carpet business, then learning fast that he was far better with gloves than with a Stanley knife. He cut his teeth at Sale West Amateur Boxing Club and in a makeshift basement gym beneath the family pub, the classic northern apprenticeship: smoky clubs, hard rounds, and a style that made crowds lean forward. Even then, those body shots told you he was built for the pros.
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As a kid he had trials with Manchester City. As a young fighter he found a kindred spirit in trainer Billy Graham in Salford, the pair sitting on the gym steps dreaming of Las Vegas and New York. They made it. First, though, Britain fell for him — the relentless pressure, the rib-crunching hooks, the grit. His pro journey began at Kingsway Leisure Centre in Widnes and climbed all the way to the MGM Grand, taking a traveling army with him. By the time he faced Floyd Mayweather Jr in 2007, an estimated 30,000 Brits had turned the Strip into a Manc takeover, bar staff still swapping stories about the week the fridges couldn’t keep up with the singing. “There’s only one Ricky Hatton.”
He didn’t have it easy. Early cuts around the eyes threatened progress, and there were questions about whether he could scale the highest peaks. He answered them the northern way. In 2002 he got off the floor to beat Eamonn Magee, showing as much character as talent. Manchester knew it had a hero. The arena sold out time and again, and in 2005 he authored a career-defining night against light-welterweight king Kostya Tszyu. Staged in the small hours for American TV, it entered British sporting folklore as Hatton broke the champion’s will so completely that Tszyu stayed on his stool before the final round. The celebrations? Days, maybe weeks. And unlike many stars, he shared them — the infamous ‘not very nice shirt’ nights became part of the legend.
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This was fame with northern fingerprints. When big names came calling — even Oscar de la Hoya — Hatton was as likely to show them Hyde’s pubs as any glossy city bar. He defended the IBF title, jumped to welterweight to take the WBA belt from Luis Collazo in Boston, and then, after a maiden Vegas win over Jose Luis Castillo, walked into the Mayweather fight unbeaten in 43. He gave it everything, was stopped in the 10th, and it hurt — more than most realised.
The aftermath brought a split from Graham amid financial rows that took years to heal. He rebounded at the City of Manchester Stadium against Juan Lazcano, then beat Paulie Malignaggi in the US. But the toll was real. By the time Manny Pacquiao dealt a brutal defeat in 2009, Hatton was already struggling. He later spoke openly about addiction and suicidal thoughts — an honesty that mattered across the North, where straight talk has power. Through it all he remained a devoted dad to Campbell, later joined by Millie and Fearne, and became a grandad in 2018 when Lyla was born.
There was a one-night comeback in 2012 against Vyacheslav Senchenko that ended with a body-shot knockout. The record will forever read 45 wins, just three defeats — two to all-time greats. After hanging up the gloves, Hatton poured himself into the sport as a trainer, manager and promoter, helping guide son Campbell’s short professional stint and working alongside his brother Matthew, himself a world title challenger. He was still active in boxing right up to his death at 46, with talk of a Dubai bout in December — a plan that now lands with a lump in the throat.
Ricky Hatton embodied what this region celebrates: hard work, humour, loyalty to your own, and the courage to say when life hits back. He headlined on the blue half of Manchester’s turf, turned Las Vegas into a temporary annex of the North, and carried with him the sound of thousands who believed. For countless young fighters in clubs from Sale to Salford and beyond, he proved the path from a council estate to the world stage is walkable — if you keep moving forward.
There’s only one Ricky Hatton. And up here, we’ll stand among the greats!