The outpouring of love at Ricky Hatton’s funeral will live with me forever
Hatton was so much more than a terrific boxer – and he will be remembered that way
Staring down from an adjacent building, Ricky Hatton in his neon pomp, championship belt draped across a shoulder as if he were calling the audience to his next show. Alas, the image carried a heavy tariff, a reminder of the dynamic life that was, but is no more, erased at the tragically premature age of 46.
In the street below, a who’s who of boxing faces gathered outside The Mitre pub adjacent to Manchester Cathedral. Proud old pugs, broadcast executives, promoters, cornermen, trainers, buff boxing types and dignitaries all here to connect and pay tribute to a figure who wove himself inalienably into the fabric of this surging northern metropolis.
As the clock ticked towards noon, a soft drizzle began to fall on mourners crammed against temporary railings, the solemnity broken only by a brass quartet belting out episodic renditions of “There’s Only One Ricky Hatton”.
The final walk in Hatton’s wonderland began at The Cheshire Cheese pub in his native Hyde, winding its way past the landmarks of his youth, past the Hatton Gym and Hyde Town Hall, entering Manchester from the east, skirting the Manchester Arena he filled so many times and on to the cathedral.
Inside, more than a thousand guests, including members of the Manc royal family, Liam Gallagher of Oasis and Shaun Ryder and Mark “Bez” Berry of Happy Mondays, sat in reverential silence awaiting the arrival of the funeral party.
Tyson Fury was among the galaxy of attendees from British boxing’s elite, alongside Conor Benn and his father Nigel, the venerable Frank Bruno, Barry McGuigan, Frazer Clarke, Julius Francis, Billy Schwer, Mickey Cantwell, Matthew Macklin and Carl Frampton and many others.
The occasion was overlaid with a weighty sense of bewilderment and sadness at the inexplicable loss of a universally popular figure. And when the sky-blue casket made its way to the altar, grief swelled the throats of all in attendance.
End-of-life rituals are self-evidently overwhelming, even for those outside the intimate family circle. There was no escaping the suffering of Hatton’s relatives, particularly his children, a pitiful unravelling that saw tears streaming down the broken faces of more than one hard man in the room.
Hatton’s daughters, Fearne and Millie, dissolved into the arms of their mother as the service progressed. Hatton’s brother Matthew stared resolutely at the floor, for that way he was able to gain some purchase on the ground beneath his feet. In the seat in front, Hatton’s son Campbell wore the glazed expression of the bereft.
Campbell fought 16 times as a pro but never faced an opponent that hit as hard as the torment he felt when he rose to his feet to read a eulogy to the father he worshipped. Amidst the heartbreak, Campbell captured the banter-soaked spirit of his father with an aside about the jokes they shared, jokes Ricky insisted were stolen from him when in fact the reverse was true.
There were recordings of his finest moments in the ring, 45 wins in 48 bouts, the epic nights in Manchester and Las Vegas, moments that drew boxing crowds uniquely bound to the blonde dynamo scything through the super lightweight division.
There is, however, no neat ending to this story, nor can there be until the family is ready to speak openly about the cause of death.
Recordings of tributes by Millie and Fearne revealed the anguish felt by Hatton’s loved ones. Eldest daughter Millie, 14, wrestled with her trauma, searching for an answer that might explain how her father could have blown such a devastating hole in her delicate world. How would the memories he left behind survive the anomie and pain gnawing at her soul?
There is still no official account of Hatton’s passing, no coroner’s report to shed some light on what happened on that awful September weekend. We are left to form our own conclusions from sotto voce asides and now Millie’s heart-rending testimony.
It was never meant to end like this, weaving through the streets of Manchester in the back of a hearse before his half-century was up. That said, he would have been proud of the send-off and the numbers that swelled the route and who surrounded this sacred ground in the heart of Manchester. He always wanted to be remembered as one of them as much as the champion he was.
Farewell then, Richard John Hatton, MBE, man of the people and a hero to all in this parish.
