“Of course I remember,” Billy Graham says quietly as he pushes back his straw trilby to show me his wounded expression. “I can remember everything.”
Graham, who trained Ricky Hatton for all but the last three of his 48 fights, used to sit with his fighter on the grimy steps outside their first boxing gym in Salford in the late 1990s. It was a more innocent time and, rather than being called The Preacher and The Hitman, they were just Billy and Ricky then.
They were still years away from the mass adulation and the desperately lonely end. But, even when reminiscing, The Preacher can’t escape the fact that, this weekend, it will be exactly three months since his lost friend is thought to have taken his own life at the age of 46. On 14 September, Hatton’s body was found at home, in Hyde, six miles from where we sit now in Mossley, on the outskirts of Manchester.
For weeks there was an outpouring of grief and love for Hatton in Manchester and boxing. The pain continues, privately, among the fighter’s family and friends. But a national story brought a sobering acceptance that such glory and fervour will not return soon to boxing in this country. It is hard to imagine a fighter today being able to conjure up the magic which Hatton once created. Tens of thousands of fans, most of whom considered themselves personal friends of The Hitman, followed the wise-cracking, ferocious urchin-faced boxer from Manchester to Las Vegas with roaring joy.
Before then, in mid-December 1999, two years into his pro career, Hatton’s record was a pristine 16‑0. But, rather than thinking about endorsement deals or pay-per-view sales, the boxer and his trainer had history in mind. “We sat on the steps all the time,” Graham says. “All the other fighters had gone and we’d talk about what we were going to do. I told him how good he was and that he’d definitely get in the Hall of Fame.”
Last year, 15 months before his death, Hatton was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame in Canastota, upstate New York. It completed a 25-year odyssey to reach the pantheon. “You can’t get better than that,” Graham says. “There’ve been loads of great fighters who can’t make the Hall of Fame. You can be a ‘world’ champion or even the undisputed but the Hall of Fame is the ultimate, innit?”
The Preacher covers his eyes as tears slip through his fingers. “Can you get me some tissues?” he mumbles. “I’m not a soft fucker. When I get angry, I don’t cry. But I am now …”
In 2010 Graham took legal action against Hatton and his father, Ray, in a dispute over money owed to the trainer. The Hattons settled out of court. Ricky and his parents, meanwhile, became bitterly estranged and did not speak to each other for years.
Graham still feels bereft. But he wipes his eyes after I mention a specific bout, in June 2000, when Hatton fought Gilbert Quiros in Detroit. Against Quiros, who was nicknamed The Animal, Hatton was tested like never before. “That fight was the most important fight of Ricky’s life,” Graham says.
“Ricky handled nerves better than any fighter I ever had. But he was agitated because he’d found out his girlfriend was pregnant [with his now 24-year-old son Campbell] and he was cutting weight. We went down to the Kronk [the famous Detroit gym] as I wanted to see Quiros. He looked so dangerous on the bag, like Thomas Hearns. Tall, skinny and every shot he landed was really hard.
“Nobody else wore body belts [the protector which Graham used to absorb Hatton’s blows in training] then. I was also wearing ridiculous shorts because I’d forgotten to wash my kit. So everyone was laughing at us. We were the only white guys – and Ricky was the whitest kid they’d ever seen. I didn’t want to exhaust Ricky but I said: ‘I want one fantastic round where you show everything and back me up against the ropes.’ They were taking the piss out of us but then, when Ricky started throwing punches, they were whooping: ‘Wow! Whoa!’ They all fell in love with him.”
Graham shudders. “The fight was horrendous. Quiros was scary, landing jabs, uppercuts, body shots. But Ricky never panicked, even after a huge cut above his eye. He came back to the corner after the first round and went: ‘I’ve got double vision and he winded me.’ I said: ‘You’ve got to back him up because this is drastic.’”
Hatton tore into Quiros and stopped him with a deadly body shot after a blistering series of combinations. Graham says: “The natural reaction of any young fighter when cut like that is to back off. It’s not normal to walk straight into the tornado. That’s when I really knew how special Ricky was because he came through a terrible situation. The last doubts were gone.”
Five years later, in June 2005, Hatton reached the summit of his career when he faced the formidable Kostya Tszyu at the MEN Arena in Manchester. Hatton had won all 38 of his previous contests but the IBF junior-welterweight title showdown between two driven men was framed by a darkness.
“A lot of people didn’t want that fight because Tszyu was so dangerous,” Graham recalls. “But Ricky was mad for it because he wanted the glory. That was our dream – to be the best in the world. We knew how good Tszyu was and that his style was really dodgy for Ricky. I was confident but I knew Tszyu could knock him out. I went to his house the day before and said: ‘Listen Ricky, you’re going to try to break each other, and it’s going to be really hard.’”
When Graham was picked up by a car the following night, he was “absolutely shitting myself. But by the time I got to the dressing room I was completely different. As I walked in, Ricky was shadow boxing in front of the mirror. I started shadow boxing in front of him. Ricky held his nerve like Clint Eastwood in a gunfight.”
Graham adds: “When I was a boxer people used to ask: ‘Are you looking forward to the fight?’ I’d go: ‘No, I’m looking forward to getting it over with.’ When it’s over you think: ‘That was fucking fantastic!’ But it’s horrible until then.”
The intensity, he confirms, was “unbelievable. We all have dreams but it’s very rare they come true. Ours did that night.”
Tszyu was rescued by his corner before the last round. “I turned around and saw what had happened,” Graham says. “I told Ricky: ‘It’s over. It’s over.’ Oh, the relief on his face. I went: ‘You fucking did it.’ And Ricky said: ‘No, we did it.’”
Graham cries silently, his chest heaving. I try to comfort him, telling him that tears are understandable. “No, they’re not,” the 70-year-old says gruffly. “I’m sick of crying.”
The Preacher believes “the lunatics took over the asylum” after their momentous victory. Money and fame rolled in and Hatton, needing to feel loved, revelled in the adoration. But he also drank too much and, as his searing focus diluted, the demons gnawed at him. Hatton had eight more fights in four years but they included two cataclysmic knockout defeats by Floyd Mayweather Jr and Manny Pacquiao.
He slipped into a deep depression, fuelled by alcohol. In 2012, Hatton told me: “It got to a point where I didn’t care if I lived or died. I’d been this working-class hero, this down-to-earth Manchester lad, who people liked so much that 25,000 of them flew to Vegas to watch me fight, singing: ‘There’s only one Ricky Hatton …’ They ended up with another Ricky Hatton altogether – a drunk, crying in the corner of a pub. They used to say: ‘What a fighter! What a cracking lad!’ and then they saw this weeping wreck.”
Hatton’s comeback that same year ended in another stoppage defeat to Vyacheslav Senchenko, an unheralded Ukrainian. The next dozen years were difficult but his greatest achievements in the ring meant the Hall of Fame came calling in 2024.
Jane Couch, who had defeated the British Boxing of Control in court in 1998 when they refused to grant a professional licence to her or any female fighter, became a hall of famer that same summer. She was a courageous pioneer who suffered enormously from cruel prejudice. Hatton was one of her staunchest supporters and they shared their personal struggles.
It was a beautiful ending in boxing for both of them when they travelled to Canastota to be honoured. Couch says: “When I got the call from the Hall of Fame I was in shock. I sent Rick a message: ‘We made it.’ Ricky rang me and he went: ‘I can’t fucking believe it.’ We met at Manchester airport and had a Guinness before we got on the plane to New York. We then had to get a car to Canastota and we had a natter for the next seven hours – but I’m good at reading people and I knew he wasn’t right.
“A few days later we went for a wander round the grounds of Canastota and he told me the story of him and Billy sitting on the steps of the gym and dreaming of being in the Hall of Fame. I knew they hadn’t spoken much for years but I said: ‘Should I ring Billy now?’ Ricky was like: ‘Er … yeah. Go on.’ I tried but we couldn’t get hold of Billy.
“I could tell Ricky was agitated and not well. When he had to go on stage in Canastota he turned it into a comedy show because he liked to make everybody laugh.”
A few weeks later Hatton said he had spoken to his old trainer.
“That never happened,” Graham tells Couch and me.
“Ricky was struggling,” the 57-year-old Couch reminds him.
“Of course,” Graham stresses. “I should have been the bigger man. But I couldn’t understand how he was fearless in the ring but would let people manipulate him outside. He couldn’t stand up for himself.”
Hatton tried previously to speak to him and Graham looks mortified. Even when we urge him to think of all he did for Hatton over the years, rather than torturing himself for not calling the fighter in the last few months, he is adamant: “There’s no way I can stop feeling guilty.”
The day after Hatton died, Graham left a bunch of flowers outside the fighter’s house, with a simple note: “Sorry I wasn’t there for you. Love Billy (The Preacher) x.”
Earlier that devastating Sunday, Matthew Hatton, Ricky’s brother, was at home when the police arrived. “I immediately knew something was wrong and I think I was the first person they told,” Matthew says at his brother’s old gym in Hyde. “My wife, Jenna, was out and [their children] Jack and Lola were still in bed. Jenna and I agreed we’d tell them together but Jack came downstairs. I couldn’t talk and so Jack just asked me: ‘What’s wrong?’ I told him.”
Seventeen-year-old Jack and 13-year-old Lola are both boxers. They were close to their uncle and Matthew says: “We went on family holidays together to Tenerife. Ricky wanted to be with us and he felt wanted and needed by Jack so they had a great relationship. Ricky was a coach so he also saw that Jack had plenty of boxing ability.”
Reflecting on how his family has coped these past three months, Matthew believes “the boxing has been a distraction because, after a break, Jack and Lola have done so well. We speak about him every day and, while it’s easy to get down, people’s stories about Richard have helped us so much.
“But it’s still like a bad dream – even though he’s so well thought of round here you see pictures of him wherever you go. For two weeks I didn’t leave the house much or answer my phone. I only went to see Mum and Dad, Campbell and the family. But I started drifting back into the gym because people depend on me. My own kids need me and they’ve kept me busy.”
Matthew, who is 44, was good enough to face Canelo Álvarez in a WBC world title fight in 2011. But he was different to his big brother. “Rick liked being in the spotlight but, as we get older, we fade away and he’d have hated that. He had a big soul and his problems with alcohol – but Ricky crammed more into his life than some people would cram into three lives.”
Hope surges through the gym where Jack and Lola are as thoughtful as they are confident. When I ask them to describe Ricky, Lola says, “I never saw him as a legend like the world did. He was just our uncle and we’d go around for tea and on holidays together. I’d describe him as loving and funny.”
Jack nods. “You wouldn’t think he was this big, famous person from the way he acted. He were just funny, down‑to-earth and caring.”
Ricky loved the fact that Jack and Lola were boxers. “Definitely,” Jack says. “He was my uncle but on other days he’d be my coach. We miss him a lot.”
Do they watch his fights? “Yes,” Lola exclaims. “I remember watching the Kostya Tszyu fight and he was such an entertaining fighter. He was on the front foot constantly.”
Lola has won eight out of 10 bouts and her two narrow losses came against a girl on the England team. “She was good,” Matthew says, “but we thought Lola possibly won the last one.”
“Next time,” a determined Lola says. Her immediate aim is to box for England while Jack dreams of fighting professionally. He has won three national titles, the most recent being last month, and 43 of 48 fights.
“Jack asked me to do the amateur badges so I could go in his corner and it’s gone extremely well,” Matthew says. “He’s had 18 fights and won them all since I’ve started working his corner. But I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t get nervous.”
How does Lola feel when watching her brother? “If he’s fighting someone good, I’m a bit nervous. But I don’t doubt him. He always wins.”
“I like that answer,” Jack says with a grin.
“We were on holiday in Tenerife,” their father remembers, “and someone wanted a picture of Jack as he’s quite well-known already. I started laughing when Lola said: ‘I want some of this.’ We’ve never really encouraged the boxing. But we’re a sporting family, with my boxing background and their mum swam for Great Britain. Jack used to tell me he hated boxing. I thought: ‘Yeah!’ But we started doing a little in lockdown to keep fit. He got into it and then joined an amateur gym. Lola’s interest started when she saw how well Jack was doing.”
Asked if they feel the weight of the Hatton name, Jack and Lola answer sensibly by stressing that they can just do their best. “Ricky was such a fantastic fighter and character that I suffered criticism in my career,” Matthew says. “You get great opportunities but with it comes pressure. At first I didn’t want them to box because of that pressure but, now they’re doing it, they’re going to do it properly. I’m quite tough because people always perform better against them. They want that Hatton name on their record. That’s got to push these two on in difficult moments. But they really embrace it.
“When Jack won his latest national title we took a coach [of supporters] and everyone enjoyed it. People are itching to get behind Jack. It will be the same with Lola. I think there are going to be some really good nights ahead.”
There was a special night last month as, on his way to that title as National Boys club champion in the 57kg division, Jack won two fights in Fleetwood, Couch’s home town. Couch, who organised the show, says: “It seemed fitting for Ricky that we were all together – Matthew, Jack, Lola, me and Billy.”
Graham trained Matthew for a considerable period. And Couch, who headed Hatton Promotions for a spell, helped promote Matthew to the European welterweight title in 2010. “I love Matthew,” she says. “He’s such a good guy and went straight over to Billy. They shook hands, hugged and had a good conversation. Then Jack and Lola met Billy. It was beautiful and Billy told Jack his body shots reminded him of [the light-heavyweight] Callum Smith. I loved seeing Billy look happy again.”
The Preacher smiles. “It was great. Jack and Lola were fantastic and I was proud they wanted photographs with me.”
As the sadness ebbs a little I ask Couch how she will remember Ricky. “As my friend,” she says.
Couch plays me the last voicemail he sent her. The boxer’s familiar voice echoes from her phone and, after a rambling but grateful message to his old pal, Ricky Hatton says a last few words: “Hope you’re all right, sweetheart. See you soon.”
In the UK and Ireland, Samaritans can be contacted on freephone 116 123, or email jo@samaritans.org or jo@samaritans.ie. In the US, you can call or text the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline on 988, chat on 988lifeline.org, or text HOME to 741741 to connect with a crisis counsellor. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is 13 11 14. Other international helplines can be found at befrienders.org.
