Ricky Hatton will beat Pretty Boy Floyd Mayweather on Dec. 8th

Saturday November 17, 2007

The Guardian

"I do apologise for the condition I've turned up in today, because I think it's fair to say that I am several pounds over the light welterweight limit again, and they have nicknamed me Ricky Fatton. Mind you, I have had a lot on me plate lately! It's common knowledge that I put on weight in between my fights. They've even nicknamed me the Pavarotti of boxing now. F***ing Pavarotti of boxing. God rest his soul, but what a miserable bleeder that Pavarotti was - he didn't like you joining in, did he? This suit I've got on now, I got measured for it the other week. I was even bigger a few weeks ago, before I went back for training. He measured me pants, measured me jacket, measured me from top to bottom. 'F***in' 'ell, Ricky,' he said, 'you're a Mark F.' I said, 'What's a Mark F?' He says, 'It's a size up from a F***in' marquee.'"

We're at the Queen Elizabeth Hall in Oldham, celebrating the 10th anniversary of Oldham rugby league club. Ricky "The Hitman" Hatton is the after-dinner speaker. As well as being the world champion light welterweight boxer, he is a great comic; a natural storyteller with the timing and one-liners of an old-fashioned stand-up. He delivers without notes and the act lasts an hour. There are no pauses, except for the beats he introduces to delay a punch-line. The hall is in hysterics. Later that night, a professional stand-up takes the stage and dies a horrible death.

These days Hatton, 29, is almost as famous for his weight as for his boxing. Most boxers fluctuate between fights, but not quite like Hatton. At light welterweight he fights at 10 stone, and regularly balloons to 13 stone. In 2004, when he fought four times, he lost more than his body weight over the year. In his next fight, he's going up a class to welterweight, half a stone heavier.

Even his closest friends, perhaps especially his closest friends, call Hatton a freak. There's his unfeasible capacity for drink (he can knock back 20 pints of Guinness on a decent night out), ditto food (until recently, his fight-day breakfast was the Mega from his local greasy spoon, the Butty Box: four sausages, three rashers of bacon, two pieces of Spam, three fried eggs, two slices of black pudding, two hash browns, baked beans, tomatoes, mushrooms, two slices of toast and coffee). But more freakish than anything is his strength. His nutritionist, former British bodybuilding champion Kerry Kayes, says he has three times the strength of other athletes he has worked with, and reckons, when Hatton throws in the towel as a boxer, he could turn him into a world champion powerlifter within nine months.

But for now the immediate challenge is to defeat Floyd "Pretty Boy" Mayweather on December 8 and become undisputed welterweight champion of the world. It's not an easy task. Mayweather, like Hatton, is undefeated professionally; he has won world titles at five different weights and is regarded as the best pound-for-pound fighter in the world. Hatton has won six world titles at two different weights. If he wins, it will be the most significant British boxing victory since Lennox Lewis beat Mike Tyson in 2002 - perhaps more, because by then Tyson was past his peak. And if Hatton becomes the world's greatest pound-for-pound fighter, he will probably be regarded as Britain's greatest ever boxer.

I first meet Hatton in London in September, when he and Mayweather are promoting the fight. The two boxers could not look more different. Mayweather is all bling and beauty - his bone structure as stunning as his diamond watch. He is surrounded by his half-dozen world championship belts, minders and big men in even bigger fur coats carrying gold sticks. Hatton is with his dad, in a grey suit - small, stocky, unassuming. He could be a local office worker out on his lunch break. Only the boxer's nose is a giveaway. In Hyde, Manchester, where he lives, he's famous for driving round in his beaten-up Robin Reliant, a tribute to one of his favourite TV shows, Only Fools And Horses. Hatton doesn't do flash.

They stand nose-to-nose for the photographers. Mayweather talks and taunts, Hatton chews gum and grins. "You're not going to kiss me, are you, Floyd?"

Mayweather says he has never bothered watching videos of Hatton fighting - the implication being it's not worth it because he presents no challenge. He thanks God and his hands for his achievements, and talks about his forthcoming appearance on the American reality TV show Dancing With The Stars. If he gets through to the final (he doesn't), he'll be working on the show up to two weeks before the fight with Hatton. Again, the implication is obvious.

Reporters ask Hatton if he thinks Mayweather has any respect for him. Hatton is staring at his opponent's hand, somewhat distracted. "His watch is bigger than my belt... I don't know whether deep down he's got a bit of respect for me." Does it bother him? "It's not keeping me awake at night, no."

Hatton says he has never been so determined. He is convinced Mayweather never will have fought anybody with such heart. "Anyone who says I've not got a prayer doesn't know what they are talking about. I think he's going to have to kill me to beat me."

A senior executive from HBO, which owns the US TV rights to the fight, is talking to Hatton's father, Ray. He tells him Mayweather might be the pound-for-pound champion, but he doesn't have the personality of his son, and that's what the promoters and the boxing fans are looking for. Mayweather is a defensive master who out-dances and out-thinks his opponents. Hatton is known for his 100mph style, his body punching and knockout blows.

A few days later the promotional circus finally reaches Manchester via the US; by now, the tension between the two is real. After going nose-to-nose in LA, with Mayweather whispering more sour nothings to him ("I wish I was in prison with you, so I could F*** you"), Hatton counterpunches on live TV: "I've missed my six-year-old son for a week, but not as much as you'd think because I've had the fortune to spend the full week with another F***ing six-year-old." The embarrassed Sky presenter explains that the boxers have been under a lot of pressure and apologises for the language.

"If my dad was on this stage with me now, the first thing that would go through your mind is how has this man produced a F***ing world champion. He's about five foot tall. He's the only man I've known with a full-length photo for his passport. It looks like he just fell off a F***in' keyring. Honest. He could hang-glide off a Dorito. God knows I love him, but I don't like midgets. I had a girlfriend leave me for a midget once. I never thought anyone would stoop that low... Me mum is a different story. I love her more than anyone on the face of this earth, but the best way I could describe my mum to you is... a F***in' monster. That's where the left hook comes from. She's frightening, my mum. Scary. Her Rice Krispies in the morning don't go, 'Snap, crackle, pop', they go, 'Ssshhh, she's F***in' coming.'"

Ray Hatton says his son is exaggerating - actually, he's 5ft 5in. He was on Manchester City's books in the mid-60s. The team were about to enjoy a success they have never repeated, Ray was in the reserves alongside future household names and was on the verge of breaking into the first team squad when an achilles heel injury ended his career. He was 21, and when he talks about collecting his boots and kit for the final time, it still devastates him.

Ray believed in getting on with things. He took over a pub, on a council estate in Hyde, and eventually he was running three. Then he bought himself a carpet shop, and kept one of the pubs going in case it didn't work out. For two years Carol, his wife, ran the pub during the day while Ray worked on the carpets, and after a quick tea he'd be behind the bar all evening.

Their two sons, Ricky and Matthew, grew up above the pub. Ricky was two and a half years older, and both were mad for sport. Whatever was on the telly, they'd be out playing it later. Both were talented footballers - Ricky was the tougher ("Hard as nails," Ray says), Matthew had the greater vision. Their father hoped they'd succeed where he had failed.

When Hatton was eight he began kick boxing. He had a great punch but was stymied by his short legs. His coach suggested boxing. Matthew followed suit. It soon became obvious both were talented and Ricky was a prodigy. "He was doing things that were incredible," Ray says. "All the shots. Great balance."

At the time he was at Manchester City's School of Excellence, but he kept missing training because of the boxing. He was only 11 when City told him he had to make a choice between football and boxing.

When I say I presume he must have been a scrapper at school, Hatton looks surprised. "No, not at all. No, I was never in any trouble at school. But I was very, very lazy - foolishly. If I hadn't been a boxer, I'd have been in a sheet load of trouble." Well, says his mother, it's true he wasn't a troublemaker, but not quite true he wasn't a scrapper. "One day he came home with a black eye and I said, 'How d'you do that?' He said, 'Ooh, I had a good day today.' I said, 'Good day? You've got a black eye.' He said, 'I was lucky I didn't get two.' We went to the school to see what was going off and they said, 'Oh, he never gets into trouble, but he likes to join in if there's a fight.' I wish I could say they were a couple of buggers, but really they were good as gold."

When Ricky left school at 16, he entered the family carpet business. His parents say he was probably the worst carpet fitter ever. They bought him a carpet shop because they hated the idea of him lying in bed all day and going to the gym three nights a week. "But he wasn't so sparkling at selling carpets neither. He was too much of a soft touch. He was in the shop for 18 months and we never made a penny."

Hatton fought 75 times as an amateur, losing three times, and won world titles as a junior. At 18 he went pro, and his parents weren't happy. "We didn't want him in boxing, we wanted him in football," Ray says. Why? "What?" he asks, astonished by the question. "How would you feel if one of your kids said, 'I want to take up boxing'? We said OK. We didn't like it, but we weren't going to start him off on the wrong foot by giving him negatives from the word go. If they go into something half-hearted, they're just wasting their time."

Three years later, Matthew turned pro, too. Does Ray still worry before fights? "Oh terrible, terrible. So worried and nervous. That's why we never go in Richard's dressing room, never, in 43 fights."

Do they worry he'll lose or get hurt? "Get hurt. Losing is awful, disappointing, but losing is all about pride. When we're watching Richard and Matthew, we want first for them not to get hurt, second to perform to their best, and the icing on the cake is if they win. Their attitude is different. First they want to win, second they want to put up a good performance, third they don't want to get hurt."

When the boys fought in Manchester, Ray and Carol kept out of the way. "We'd say, 'You know what you've got to do, no use talking about it now, we've talked about it for 12 weeks. Good luck, get in there and get it done.' That was it. Very upsetting. We'd get in the car and be very quiet. With my wife, the tears would flow, but mine would be in my eyes."

It sounds as if they are going off to war, I say to Ray. "But it is. They are going off to war."

"You should see my missus. She's a babe. You've seen the film, haven't you? When I was fighting in Atlantic City, I thought, 'Brilliant, it doesn't get better than this.' But what people don't realise is you have to go over weeks in advance to acclimatise. I'd be running, then in the gym, then running, then in the gym, day after day, and it's really hard work. You're away from your friends, your parents. I came back from the gym one day absolutely knackered, lay on the bed, and I looked down to the bedside cabinet and there was a little leaflet and it said 'Massage'. So I thought, I'm a long way from home, feeling nervous, stressed out... a bit of a massage and a bit of female company will do me the world of good. No one will know. So I picked up the phone and a voice on the line says [sultry voice], 'Hello, can I help you?' So I said, 'Yes, I want a blonde, a six-foot blonde. I want her to throw me on the bed, get baby oil, rub it all over me, walk up and down me back, throw me over her back, squirt cream all over me...' And the voice says, 'Excuse me, sir, you've got to dial 9 for an outside line.' That one's a joke, by the way."

I'm sitting next to Ricky at the rugby club before he does his stand-up turn. Does he get nervous? "No, it's easy, this. Nobody's hitting me. Stick a few carrots on there, please, mate, and just the one potato." What's it like being hit hard? "Not very pleasant, I have to say." Have you ever cried in the ring? "No, you're in the wrong sport if you do that. Eheh!"

At this point, Hatton's just about to go into 12 weeks of training for the fight, and is looking pretty porky. He says what sets you apart in any sport is dedication. As a lad he boxed kids with as much ability as him, but they fell by the wayside. "They lose interest, their priorities changed." With him, it was the other way round. The more people said he could go places, the more he believed it. From age 11, he'd study boxers on TV: "My heroes were Nigel Benn and Roberto Duran. Duran was something else." The thing he loved was he had personality; always looked to entertain, always looked for the knockout.

Was he always funny? "I was always a witty kid, a bit of a character, practical joker and that. There's no point in being a good fighter if you're boring as F***." That's one of his favourite sayings.

Away from the ring and stage, Hatton is quieter than you'd expect, almost shy. He's staring at a message on his mobile. " 'What time you gonna be in?' F***in' 'ell, the missus!" He's been going out with Jennifer for three years; they have lived together for one. His six-year-old son, Campbell, is from a previous relationship. Campbell and Manchester City are his two favourite subjects. He transcends the city's traditional red-blue divide. Wayne Rooney is a close friend, and his "farewell dinner" before he heads for Vegas will be at Old Trafford.

He is talking about the sportspeople who have most impressed him, and mentions David Beckham. When he was in LA, Beckham invited him to an LA Galaxy match. As he walked to his seat, everybody applauded, so he waved, then realised Beckham had come on to the pitch. "Yep, it was a bit embarrassing. Everything about him was immaculate. Every eyebrow plucked, and his suit, I thought, 'Jesus, I've never looked like that in my life.' Wayne's a bit like me."

I say he's spent so much time with Rooney, he's starting to look like him. He's not pleased. "You'll F***in' look like him in a minute if you talk like that."

Hatton prides himself on not having changed. Apart from the odd celebrity mate, his friends are the same. He still lives in Hyde and Campbell goes to the same primary school he went to. "A few of the old teachers are still there. They all say, 'You were a lovely lad at school, you just never did nowt.' "

Does he let Campbell watch him fight? "No, I don't even let him watch it live on the TV. It wouldn't be nice to get knocked out and for him to see it."

"WBA champion Carlos Maussa, he was a really awkward guy. He had a jerky style, like he was made of rubber, and I'm swinging and swinging, and falling short, and each round is going by and the cuts are getting worse. And I'm sat on my stool at the end of the seventh and I'm saying, 'Billy, I can't get him, he's pulling away and I'm swinging and swinging. What d'you think I should do?' He says, 'Keep swinging, Rick, hopefully the draught will give him pneumonia.'"

Betta Bodies is a few minutes from Hatton's house; there's a bed warehouse below, Denton Karate Club on the same floor. Scruffy is an understatement - the roof is held together with plastic and tarpaulin. This is the heart of working-class Manchester, where a world champion boxer trains alongside aspiring bodybuilders, the unemployed and locals on their lunch break, and no one makes a fuss about it. As Hatton says, he could so easily have been one of the local unemployed, so why would he live differently now? It's almost unheard of to be able to walk into the gym of a champion as he trains for a big fight.

Behind a closed door is Billy "The Preacher" Graham's famous Phoenix Camp. Punchbags, skipping ropes, jumping equipment and, in the middle, a boxing ring. The two Hattons and the middleweight Matthew Macklin all train here. On the walls are any number of pictures of Ricky, most revelling in his fatness - Ricky lying on a settee in underpants alongside Bernard Manning in underpants; Ricky with belly hanging out in a mock-up of a Burger King ad: "I am bigger, fatter and more round than ever, and it's all thanks to Burger King"; Ricky in blond wig with a pint in his hand. There's a photo of teenage Ricky standing in a boxing crowd. Two speech bubbles are attached to his mouth. "When will I be famous?" he asks. "Sit down, you big-headed c***," comes the reply.

Graham was a promising boxer, but things didn't work out. He started coaching Hatton 11 years ago. Hatton always talks of them as a team. Much of his stand-up involves Graham in a double act, whether it's them running up a huge hotel bill in Germany when they didn't have a penny, then doing a failed runner, or Graham trying to build the confidence of a shattered Hatton who had just seen his huge opponent - "Look, Ricky, if he was any good he wouldn't be fighting you!" Billy the Preacher is a charismatic, intimidating-looking man, with more than a touch of the Ian Durys about him.

I ask what makes Hatton special. "The first day I put him in the ring, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. He's blessed with wicked balance, rhythm, great anticipation, fantastic peripheral vision. He's a predator. A lot of people, especially the Americans because they're full of shit, think he's just a strong battler, a little come-forward fighter, but he's not. He comes at you, but with a right load of class. He's an aggressive counter-puncher and they are the most dangerous men in the world to fight because it makes you lead first and you throw a shot and you'll F***in' pay for it, and he hits you in vital areas - pit of the stomach, under your heart, ribs. He gets massive power from punching up because of his huge thighs." Graham says his only weakness is he gets cut easily.

"What shocks people about Ricky," Matthew Macklin says, "is how strong he is, how ferocious, the stamina, intensity. Then subtle things. I didn't realise how hard he was to hit till I sparred with him. His little feints, his jinks, his anticipation, how quickly he reads you, and he's got such variety of angles and punches, he's hard to work out. On top of that he makes you fight faster than you want to fight, so you get tired and he exploits it. He studies, plays chess with you. I'm two weights above him, a stone heavier. I don't think there's another light welterweight in the world who could spar with me the way he does."

In Billy the Preacher's office, Matthew Hatton and Kerry Kayes are talking about the old pre-fight ritual at the Butty Box:

"You've never seen anywhere as disgusting," Kayes says.

"They've smartened it up, believe it or not," Matthew says.

"I bet there are 2,000-3,000 calories right there," Kayes adds.

"We used to be sat there, me and Ricky," Matthew says, "if we were fighting on the same night, and we'd be looking at each other. It was like a challenge to see who could get the most down us."

Kayes can joke about it now, but at the time it was a nightmare. Who was it harder to get away from the Butty Box? "Oh, Ricky. Matt's more disciplined. When Ricky finishes a fight he doesn't train; when Matt finishes he'll still come in to tick over."

Kayes says it took him six or seven fights to get Hatton to accept that the pre-fight breakfast was clogging up his digestive system. "I told him, 'Just stop doing it, lad. You've gone 12 weeks on very clean nutrition, you've got one day left, arguably the most important nutritional day of the 12-week regime, and you F*** it up with the Butty Box.' "

Is it unusual for boxers not to train between fights? "No," Kayes says. "Boxers have a switch on their forehead, on or off. They're very extreme people. But Ricky's a Buddhist monk when he starts training."

Matthew Hatton has just finished his training and is heading off to Birmingham for a fight. Billy Graham, who coaches him, too, thinks he'll be ready to fight for the British title at welterweight next year.

Has being Ricky's brother made it easier or tougher for him? "It's opened doors for me, but there's a lot of expectation. People are going to compare us. I just concentrate on my boxing and be the best I can be. I'm getting there, improving all the time, and my ambition has always been to be a world champion one day myself." And there's no jealousy? "Oh no. I'm so proud of Ricky and what he's done. I'm his number one fan and I know he's mine. Even now we're older, we're best friends." Ricky is Matthew's manager; Ricky, once managed by Frank Warren, now manages himself.

"Me Dad was very, very fortunate to play for the reserves of the greatest football team the world has ever seen - Manchester City. Who F***in' booed then? Sven-Goran Eriksson says this year we'll make it into Europe... and he doesn't care if he has to sing the F***in' song himself. If there's one thing I can't stand more than Manchester United, it's Cristiano Ronaldo. He's on his arse more than his feet. I was flicking through the channels the other day and United were playing, so I thought I'm not watching this, I'll Hoover up. So I got the Hoover out, went round the settee, round the coffee table, round the fireplace, and as I was going round the telly I accidentally caught it with the Hoover, and Ronaldo fell over in the F***in' box. He's falling over that fast he'll be fighting Audley Harrison next."

This is surreal. We are in a banqueting suite at Old Trafford and a punk version of Blue Moon, the theme song of both Manchester City and Ricky Hatton, is being blasted over the PA system. Half the crowd boo before remembering they are here to pay tribute to Hatton. They start to cheer. It's a typical boxing gathering. Some of the hardest men in Manchester, with their huge necks and jingle-jangle jewellery, stand up for Hatton, who is sitting next to Wayne Rooney on the top table. They look so sweet together, genuinely good friends. It's the normal running order: food, charity raffle, Ricky and the unfortunate professional comic. This time it's Jimmy Carr, and he dies an even more painful death than the last one.

I'm chatting to Hatton's mum, Carol, and I ask if she's really as hard as he makes out. She laughs. "That Rice Krispies line's mine. I gave him that one."

Rooney, who was Hatton's talisman at his last fight in Vegas when he carried out his belts, says he can't be there on December 8 because of the football season. I ask what he likes about Hatton. "He's funny, down to earth, good company, just like a normal lad." Rooney's uncle used to own a gym and he did a fair bit of boxing in his teenage years. Does he think he could have Hatton? He giggles. "He'd probably win, but I'd put up a good fight."

Freddie Flintoff, another friend, is also at the farewell. He says virtually the same thing about Hatton. "He's just a normal fella, isn't he? He's obviously had so much success, and is the best in the field, but he's completely unaffected." Flintoff is about twice his size. Does he think he'd be able to have him in a fight? "No chance. I did something for Sky last year where I went in the ring with him, and put a body bag on, and he came at me. I'm a bit bigger than him, but no chance. No chance whatsoever!"

"The fight I hope I'm going to be remembered by is Floyd Mayweather on December 8, but up to now the fight I'm most remembered for is the night I took the undisputed title from Kostya Tszyu. It was at the MEN Arena in Manchester, 22,000 people there at 2am. All the American press came up to me and said, 'Ricky, how d'you think you're going to find it fighting at two in the morning?' and I said, 'Every F***er fights at two in the morning in Manchester.' "

I climb the steps past the bed warehouse to the gym. Ricky Hatton's body is transformed. He has lost more than two stone since I first saw him, his stomach is an ironing board and he is within pounds of the 147lb he will be fighting at for the welterweight championship. He has a slight cut above the eye. He shadow-boxes for the crowd, then takes to the ring with Billy the Preacher, who is protected by his body bag. Hatton is grinning, wisecracking, until he spars, then his concentration is total. "Wah. Wah-wah. Wah. Wah-wah." The noise emanating from Hatton as he punches is primal, like a dog yelping. The veins in his neck rise, his tattooed muscles bulge (a boxing bulldog on one arm, boxing gloves and his name on the other). Six inches away from the ring, we are showered with his sweat. The heat and stench rise through the gym. There's something exhilarating about it. "Wah. Wah-wah. Wah. Wah-wah."

Graham winces as he is hit. Hatton smacks him one more time. "Now F*** off," he says.

Graham is dripping with sweat (a couple of years ago he broke two ribs when Hatton punched through the body bag). He's smoking a Benson, getting his breath back. He knows Mayweather is a brilliant boxer, but having been on the road with him he came away convinced his man would win. Mayweather has also won a world title at light middleweight and Graham had been expecting a bigger man. "You look at someone and you can size them up, and when I saw him, I thought, he's no bigger than Ricky, and if you're not bigger than Ricky, you're F***ed."

After this fight he'd like to see Hatton retire. "Look, there's nothing more he can achieve to enhance his reputation and his legacy. Generally when you've got the glory, the money comes with it, so he'll have enough money, and for me it would be a fairy-tale ending. A fairy-tale ending to a wicked story." He knows it's unlikely, though. "How can you ask a man who's at the physical peak of what he does to retire? I think it's too big an ask. But if you stay in boxing too long, boxing damages you. If it can happen to Muhammad Ali, it can happen to anybody. And it happens to a lot of them."

As for Hatton, he says he's likely to fight on for another couple of years. It's not really the money, nor even the glory, but there's something in boxing that he can't get anywhere else. "If you've not been in a ring, nobody knows what it's like to have one-on-one combat and to win. You've trained hard, and the referee then holds your hand up, and you've won - in my case now in front of thousands of people - and it's like a dream."

I'm better than Ali - Mayweather

Mayweather is regarded as a modern-day boxing great

Floyd Mayweather has stepped up his war of words with Ricky Hatton by claiming to be the greatest boxer ever.

The unbeaten American welterweight insists he is even better than legends Sugar Ray Robinson and Muhammad Ali.

The 30-year-old, who fights Hatton in Las Vegas on 8 December, said: "I can quit today and be known as the best fighter that ever lived.

"I respect what Robinson and Ali did for the sport. But I am the greatest, and this is my time."

Hatton, who has held world titles at both welterweight and light-welterweight, is also undefeated and lists Jose Luis Castillo and Kostya Tszyu as his most notable victims.

But Mayweather, who has beaten the likes of Castillo, Oscar de la Hoya, DeMarcus Corley, Zab Judah and Sharmba Mitchell, has dismissed the Briton as "dirty" and one-dimensional.

"I didn't get the chance to watch him against Kostya Tszyu," said Mayweather.

"I already knew what it was - punch, hold, punch, hold. From what I've seen, it was extremely dirty.

"And that's what I'm saying - that Ricky Hatton is a very dirty fighter."

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/boxing/7109353.stm

Mayweather is not in the same league as Muhammad Ali. Time for Ricky to teach him a lesson.

Ricky Hatton will beat Pretty Boy Floyd Mayweather on Dec. 8th

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