The boxing world’s been floored. Ricky Hatton, Stockport’s own, the bloke who took Manchester noise to Las Vegas and back, has been found dead at his home in Hyde. He was just 46.
Police were called to Bowlacre Road in Gee Cross early Sunday morning, where a body was discovered at 6:45 a.m. Greater Manchester Police confirmed the death, and according to Manchester Evening News, it is not being treated as suspicious. GMP stated: “We can confirm that we have found a body at an address on Bowlacre Road in Gee Cross at 6:45am today, Sunday, September 14. The death is not being treated as suspicious.”
A Fighter Who Let the World See His Scars
Truth be told, Ricky was never just another world champ. He fought for belts, sure, but he also fought himself. He spoke straight about the darkest stuff—drink, drugs, depression, even suicide attempts. Most would’ve hidden it. He didn’t. He laid it out, raw, because that’s who he was.
And just months back, he was talking about one more run, one last fight this December. That little spark of comeback, and now this news—it feels cruel. Like life’s slipped in a low blow no one saw coming.
Beloved, Flawed, and Always Ours
Inside the ropes, Hatton was pure Manchester. Fierce, scrappy, relentless. He stacked up world titles, took Fighter of the Year in 2015, and gave us nights abroad where Brits took over Vegas, pint glasses and all. If you were there, you’ll never forget the sound. Thousands of fans belting out “Blue Moon” until their throats went. He carried that with him into every fight.
He wasn’t polished. He wasn’t perfect. That’s why he mattered. He was one of us—a grafter, a lad who made it to the top but still looked like he could walk back into any pub in Hyde and buy his own round.
Ricky Hatton would’ve turned 47 next month. He’s gone far too young, but he leaves behind something no belt can measure. Nights, memories, and the feeling that a kid from down the road really could fight the world.
Boxing’s lost a proper one. Manchester’s lost a son. And us lot—we’ve lost Ricky.
Cheers, champ. Always ours.
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