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Ricky Hatton faces the fight of his life against Kostya Tszyu next Sunday. But the tough Mancunian reckons he is ready
It is dark and silent as the young boxer looks down Rock Street, stretching and shadow-boxing by his front door. The air he smokes in is crisp and cool, his demeanour cheerful. When he sets off on his run at 2am — the hour at which he will be tested as never before next Sunday in the MEN Arena, when he squares off against the feared light- welterweight world champion, Kostya Tszyu — his mind is not burdened by the masterly inquisitor he will face.
“I have some fun planned tonight,” Ricky Hatton promises, his eyes and feet dancing with mischief. “See, this time of night, I’m usually in my prime.”
A few nights ago, while he was running along Stockport Road, his mates, all “steaming drunk”, drew up in a taxi on their way home from a club in Stalybridge, dropped their trousers as the cab crept past and cried out, “Want a lift, Ricky lad? The night’s not over yet.” But such nights are history for Hatton. “I was out along here the other morning, had my hood up and a police car pulled up alongside,” he says, breathing evenly, not breaking stride, throwing punches in impulsive bursts.
“The officer got out and said, ‘Excuse me, mate. Do you mind me asking what you’re doing?’ When I stopped and turned around, he recognised me. ‘Sorry, Ricky’, he said. ‘I should have known it was you. What other ****head would be out running at two in the morning?’ When I’m not fighting, everyone knows that I like to let my hair down and enjoy myself, down a few pints. But when I go into training, this is all I do. The first morning I came out running at 2am a fox came tearing out of a field and scampered right across my path. I was back home in record time, I can tell you.
“A couple of mornings later I saw this plane flying past and was convinced it was a UFO. I think I’m still convinced. Anyway, that morning I set a new record. Those first few mornings were unnerving: no cars, no people, mostly silence. I decided to get my body clock adjusted to the time of the fight, but the mind can play tricks at this kind of hour.”
So can Hatton. As he turns into the Hattersley estate, where he grew up and where many of his friends still live, he stops at a number of houses and knocks on doors and windows until the occupants are awake and cursing him for rousing them up. “Come on, you bastards, rise and shine!” he shouts before moving on. By the time he returns home he is almost in hysterics: “Listen to this. My mate Steve left a message on the phone: ‘I hope that Russian knocks your ****ing head off’. They won’t be shoving their arses out the window of a cab at me again in a hurry. That was a good laugh tonight.” He is still laughing an hour later as he heads for bed.
EVERYTHING he has worked on will have to come into play when that bell rings amid the din and expectation of 22,000 people. Respect. He must earn Tszyu’s respect. Make the IBF light-welterweight champion wary of throwing that wrecking-ball right hand by firing left hooks into his face. Keep punching. Force the pace. Be first. Get close. Nudge him, push him, shove him back. Remember, closer is safer. Show no fear. Show him all you’ve got.
In November 2001 Hatton stepped up to Tszyu in the lobby of a Las Vegas hotel and introduced himself: “I’m Ricky Hatton from Manchester and in three years’ time I’ll be fighting you.” Tszyu eyed him carefully, as a serious collector might examine a work of art. He had destroyed the brash New Yorker, Zab Judah, in two rounds the night before, so he could afford to be magnanimous to this young pretender while showing no weakness. “Good luck,” he said with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“He hadn’t the slightest clue who I was,” Hatton admits.
But Tszyu remembered their encounter. “It showed the confidence he has, that he said we would meet in the ring, which is why I take him seriously,” he revealed when the fight was announced in February. “For me, fighting Ricky Hatton in his backyard is a great physical and mental challenge.” For Hatton, known to his fans as “the Hitman”, it is his destiny. He was 14 the night he was taken by his uncles, Ged and Paul, to Old Trafford to sit with 40,000 people and watch the second fight between Nigel Benn and Chris Eubank. Now the stars come to see him.
Steven Gerrard, Michael Owen, John Terry, Stuart Pearce, Nicky Butt, Shaun WrightPhillips, Gordon Ramsay, Phil Taylor and most of the cast of Coronation Street are regulars at ringside whenever he fights.
The epitome of northern working-class pride, he has sold out the MEN Arena quicker than Mike Tyson and U2. Last season, when Kevin Keegan was recovering from a bad back and could not attend Manchester City’s home match against Fulham, his assistant, Arthur Cox, asked Hatton to come into City’s dressing room before the game to “gee up the lads”.
Hatton chuckles: “It was an abysmal game that finished 0-0. My pep talk didn’t work at all and they never asked me back. But imagine that, being asked into the dressing room to gee up the lads before a match, a diehard City supporter. And if you’d ever told me the Manchester City manager would now be coming into my dressing room before my fights, that he’d actually be a mate, I’d never have believed it. The way it’s all taken off, it’s hard for me to comprehend. I still look on myself as a little kid from Hattersley. Last year I moved out of my parents’ home to a house just round the corner. But if I stood in my back garden and my mum stood in hers, honestly, we could have a conversation — and sometimes we do.”
It is dark and silent as the young boxer looks down Rock Street, stretching and shadow-boxing by his front door. The air he smokes in is crisp and cool, his demeanour cheerful. When he sets off on his run at 2am — the hour at which he will be tested as never before next Sunday in the MEN Arena, when he squares off against the feared light- welterweight world champion, Kostya Tszyu — his mind is not burdened by the masterly inquisitor he will face.
“I have some fun planned tonight,” Ricky Hatton promises, his eyes and feet dancing with mischief. “See, this time of night, I’m usually in my prime.”
A few nights ago, while he was running along Stockport Road, his mates, all “steaming drunk”, drew up in a taxi on their way home from a club in Stalybridge, dropped their trousers as the cab crept past and cried out, “Want a lift, Ricky lad? The night’s not over yet.” But such nights are history for Hatton. “I was out along here the other morning, had my hood up and a police car pulled up alongside,” he says, breathing evenly, not breaking stride, throwing punches in impulsive bursts.
“The officer got out and said, ‘Excuse me, mate. Do you mind me asking what you’re doing?’ When I stopped and turned around, he recognised me. ‘Sorry, Ricky’, he said. ‘I should have known it was you. What other ****head would be out running at two in the morning?’ When I’m not fighting, everyone knows that I like to let my hair down and enjoy myself, down a few pints. But when I go into training, this is all I do. The first morning I came out running at 2am a fox came tearing out of a field and scampered right across my path. I was back home in record time, I can tell you.
“A couple of mornings later I saw this plane flying past and was convinced it was a UFO. I think I’m still convinced. Anyway, that morning I set a new record. Those first few mornings were unnerving: no cars, no people, mostly silence. I decided to get my body clock adjusted to the time of the fight, but the mind can play tricks at this kind of hour.”
So can Hatton. As he turns into the Hattersley estate, where he grew up and where many of his friends still live, he stops at a number of houses and knocks on doors and windows until the occupants are awake and cursing him for rousing them up. “Come on, you bastards, rise and shine!” he shouts before moving on. By the time he returns home he is almost in hysterics: “Listen to this. My mate Steve left a message on the phone: ‘I hope that Russian knocks your ****ing head off’. They won’t be shoving their arses out the window of a cab at me again in a hurry. That was a good laugh tonight.” He is still laughing an hour later as he heads for bed.
EVERYTHING he has worked on will have to come into play when that bell rings amid the din and expectation of 22,000 people. Respect. He must earn Tszyu’s respect. Make the IBF light-welterweight champion wary of throwing that wrecking-ball right hand by firing left hooks into his face. Keep punching. Force the pace. Be first. Get close. Nudge him, push him, shove him back. Remember, closer is safer. Show no fear. Show him all you’ve got.
In November 2001 Hatton stepped up to Tszyu in the lobby of a Las Vegas hotel and introduced himself: “I’m Ricky Hatton from Manchester and in three years’ time I’ll be fighting you.” Tszyu eyed him carefully, as a serious collector might examine a work of art. He had destroyed the brash New Yorker, Zab Judah, in two rounds the night before, so he could afford to be magnanimous to this young pretender while showing no weakness. “Good luck,” he said with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“He hadn’t the slightest clue who I was,” Hatton admits.
But Tszyu remembered their encounter. “It showed the confidence he has, that he said we would meet in the ring, which is why I take him seriously,” he revealed when the fight was announced in February. “For me, fighting Ricky Hatton in his backyard is a great physical and mental challenge.” For Hatton, known to his fans as “the Hitman”, it is his destiny. He was 14 the night he was taken by his uncles, Ged and Paul, to Old Trafford to sit with 40,000 people and watch the second fight between Nigel Benn and Chris Eubank. Now the stars come to see him.
Steven Gerrard, Michael Owen, John Terry, Stuart Pearce, Nicky Butt, Shaun WrightPhillips, Gordon Ramsay, Phil Taylor and most of the cast of Coronation Street are regulars at ringside whenever he fights.
The epitome of northern working-class pride, he has sold out the MEN Arena quicker than Mike Tyson and U2. Last season, when Kevin Keegan was recovering from a bad back and could not attend Manchester City’s home match against Fulham, his assistant, Arthur Cox, asked Hatton to come into City’s dressing room before the game to “gee up the lads”.
Hatton chuckles: “It was an abysmal game that finished 0-0. My pep talk didn’t work at all and they never asked me back. But imagine that, being asked into the dressing room to gee up the lads before a match, a diehard City supporter. And if you’d ever told me the Manchester City manager would now be coming into my dressing room before my fights, that he’d actually be a mate, I’d never have believed it. The way it’s all taken off, it’s hard for me to comprehend. I still look on myself as a little kid from Hattersley. Last year I moved out of my parents’ home to a house just round the corner. But if I stood in my back garden and my mum stood in hers, honestly, we could have a conversation — and sometimes we do.”
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