The ‘Hitman’ was extraordinary in his fleeting prime with his career bringing adoration and the demons of fame
Ricky Hatton used to look like a ghost-faced urchin as he slipped into an old hat factory on the edge of Stockport. It was easy then to imagine him in a past life, stealing through Victorian Manchester as a gaunt fingersmith, his nimble hands relieving rich men of their excessive wealth. But the gory marks on his face always brought us back to the jolting present and his bruising reality as a young and aspiring boxer.
In 2003, when I interviewed him for the first of many times in the atmospheric setting of that converted factory turned into a boxing gym, Hatton was 24 years old. The troubles of the future lay deep in the unknown because everything Hatton did then burned with an immediacy and urgency. He didn’t care that his gaunt and sickly face was mottled with dark blue bruises and crimson nicks which had yet to scab over and start to heal. “Basic wear and tear,” he said with a little grin, “and my skin’s abnormal”. “When I go out into the sun, no matter how long I spend outside, I stay deathly pale. I change colour in the ring. I mark up and I cut.”
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