And then I read you are making a comeback in December, and the milk curdled in my tea. Visions of Mike Tyson embarrassed by Jake Paul stabbed at my synapses, a great champion persuaded by the echoes of what he once was. He was going to put the imposter on his arse. Look what happened.
Oh mate, this isn’t the golf Champions Tour, where yesterday’s men strain for a 250-yard carry, or the over 50s five-a-side team, where old pros flicker, dropping a shoulder now and again to bang one past the keeper.
www.instagram.com/rickyhitmanhatton/p/DLpURZeMMxy/?hl=en&img_index=1But this is not what you think it is. Damn those adrenalin highs and the utopian ends they promise. They conceal the risks, paying nil heed to the consequence of failing and the impact that might have on your wellbeing.
Poor Tszyu, he never knew what hit him. He was taking lumps straight from the bell. He was an outstanding champion and hit you plenty but could not keep you off him. He quit on his stool in the end, utterly broken. That was 20 years ago and a moment of quiet satisfaction for me.
Ten years later you shared a Las Vegas ring with Floyd Mayweather Jnr, one of the greatest of all time, a genius defensively and vicious with it. You jumped all over him, caught him with a beauty straight down the pipe in the fifth. It was, I believe, your greatest performance. You went down with fists cocked, caught by a brilliant counter left. No shame in that.
You reached that conclusion yourself when, three years later, you entered the ring again to lose for a third and final time. I was not in attendance that night. I couldn’t see the point. Still less can I see it now.
Everybody loved you then. They still do. They love you for what you were and what you are, unsparingly honest, fearless, generous and funny, making light of your problems, bringing them into the light so that others would never walk alone. You are enough. You always have been. Even Mayweather knew that. You took him to the edge, made him reach for victory. Not many did that.
Afterwards you made a joke. “I was alright till I f**king slipped,” you said, those flat Manc vowels made for self-deprecation. And then Mayweather offered some advice that is even more apposite now than it was then. “Never let boxing retire you. You must retire boxing.”
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