Thousands of people are expected to fill the streets of Greater Manchester as Ricky Hatton takes his last ride through the city he fought for, bled for and was proud of. The 18-kilometer procession will start at 9:45 a.m. from ul Cheshire Cheese Pub in Hydeone of Hatton’s senior haunts where pints once flowed as freely as his left hook.

The route will pass through places associated with his life and career – the gyms, pubs and roads that shaped ‘Hitman’ from a working-class kid into a world champion who catapulted Manchester into the boxing spotlight. Everything ends at Manchester Cathedralwhere a private memorial service will be held for family and close friends.

Ricky Hatton has never been the glamorous superstar type. It wasn’t made for velvet ropes or dainty tributes. He was Manchester to the core – cheeky, working class and true. And four days before his death at the age of 46, he said that what mattered most to him was to be remembered as “one of the boys.”

The man we knew Hitman was found dead at his home in Manchester on Sunday, September 14. The shock shook British boxing and beyond. He spent decades throwing hooks that shook arenas, and yet he had no desire for more belts or headlines. It was belonging – being loved like Frank Bruno, adored by his hometown and accepted by fans who saw themselves in him.

“I was a man of the people”

In a conversation with former world champion Darren Barker in what became his final interview, Hatton laid bare the information. “I’m very proud when people say ‘our Frank’ and ‘our Ricky,'” he said. “I’m not saying we were the best, but we were probably the two most loved. I was a man of the people, the boy next door who couldn’t give it his all and told it like it was. The best thing that came out of my retirement was the love I received from the fans. “

He added: “I’d rather be Ricky Hatton than the greatest of all time, but for everyone to think I’m a publicity head.” For a player who has amassed 22,000 in the MEN Arena and 30,000 in Las Vegas, that says it all. People remember me as a damn warrior, but also as one of the boys.

Fame never changed a mansion kid

Hatton told Barker that his life remained close to his roots even after the glory. “Life changed for me, my children and my family the moment I beat Kostya Tszyu. But I don’t think I’ve changed much. Even today, the gym I run and the house I have are just 10 minutes from the council estate I grew up on. I haven’t moved beyond a 10-mile radius.”

“Even with all the frosty things I’ve achieved through boxing, I still go to the local venue and play darts on a Monday night and play football for the vets on a Sunday afternoon. My mates now are still the same mates I went to school with, no delayed newbies, always the same mates.”

This stubborn loyalty – to pubs, friends, Manchester City and the same senior streets – was what fans felt. He was a hero who could walk into any pub and not have to buy beer. Kids who have never seen him fight live still stop him to take photos because they’ve seen the clips and got a sense of realism.

Fighting your own shadow, helping others in their shadows

Hatton has made no secret of life after his boxing injury. Losses to Mayweather and Pacquiao left scars and depression set in. But he didn’t want to stay down. He received lend a hand. He then used his pain to lend a hand others.

“I didn’t want to tell my friends or family, I didn’t want to worry them, so I kept it a secret,” he told Barker. “I went to the gym or the pub and I was the life of the party, even more than usual, because I was trying to compensate for what was going on inside me.

“Nobody knew and it was very challenging. I thought I could deal with it on my own, but I couldn’t. The best thing I did was realize that I could beat him, I could do this or that, but I couldn’t solve it on my own and I had to talk to someone and that’s the best thing I did.”

“You feel like you can talk to a stranger better than your family or friends. You don’t go out with boys – and I have good friends – but you don’t feel like that. I had a fight with my mom and dad, I broke up with my wife, and I didn’t want to worry the rest of the family. So you keep it inside, you keep it inside, and it festeres.”

Once he got lend a hand, Hatton used his experience to lend a hand others. “Some of my boxers tell me they paid off their mortgages and thank me. That’s what I mean,” he said. Letters arrived from people who heard his story and found hope. This gave him a purpose: “I’m glad I helped others.”

A warrior who never left us

Hatton didn’t want statues or sainthood. He wanted to be the boy from down the street who made it, but he never looked down on anyone. That’s a rarity in boxing – or anywhere else. And maybe that’s why the news of his death touched us so deeply.

He endured brutal nights, public defeats, private battles, and still found the strength to tell a bullied kid to keep his head down in the days before we left. If that’s not greatness, then what is?

Take it effortless, Ricky. You were one of us and you will always be one of the Boys.

Watch the full interview: