by Ricky Hatton
In the Town Hall we got on the stage and I started saying, ‘We’ve been on this tour for several days. We’ve been to Los Angeles, Grand Rapids and New York, and I’ve been away from my little lad Campbell for more than a week. But it’s not been too bad because I’ve spent the time with another fucking eight-year-old, this dickhead here.’ The crowd loved it. He might have had the edge in America but at the press conference in Manchester I was relentless with the microphone and I let him have it.
Floyd, in his Manchester United shirt, started dancing to my fans, singing: ‘There’s only one Ricky Hatton.’ He was about to be on Dancing with the Stars in the USA and I went on, ‘If you dance like that on Dancing with the Stars, you’re going fucking nowhere, pal.’ I bet he couldn’t wait to get back home. Over Floyd’s shoulder, however, I could see the Sky Sports cameramen shouting, ‘Ricky, we’re live.’ It was only about lunchtime. ‘Stop swearing.’ Nobody had told me it was live – I had been effing and jeffing, and they had to cut it and start making excuses, saying how heated it was becoming. ‘Emotions are running high,’ they tried to explain. I was doing my after-dinner speeches and was in full flow. Friends of mine were watching outside on the big screens and they were in stitches.
On the train to London, Oscar De La Hoya and Richard Schaefer told me Floyd was absolutely seething, saying I’d been disrespecting him. Still, it was no more than he’d been doing to me for the last nine days. People would ask me if I was insulted by him filming Dancing with the Stars at the same time as he was training but I wasn’t. I was still watching City, still playing darts on a Friday night and doing what I wanted to do.
Once we hit America, I stayed in the same apartment we had for the Castillo fight and training camp went well. I was also given a boost thanks to a phone call.
‘Ricky, it’s Kostya,’ he said, with the familiarity of an old friend.
Kostya Tszyu phoned to wish me luck, even though we had not seen one another since the morning after our fight. ‘Believe in yourself, Ricky,’ he said. ‘I know you’ve got the heart to do it. Stick to your game plan, no matter how hard it gets.’
That is the only time I’ve spoken to him since. He offered me help on the night of our fight but our paths hadn’t really crossed since. I appreciated the call.
Jen had been working as a schoolteacher, and in that job the staff only have their breaks when the kids are on holiday. She asked for permission to come to Vegas to support me with it being such a high-profile fight against the best boxer in the world. ‘I’ve got to be there, Rick,’ she said. ‘If something happens I’d never forgive myself.’
It was unfortunate, and I thought it was poor of the school, but Jen ended up retiring from her job because she couldn’t be at the fight otherwise. She came out the week of the fight.
By then Las Vegas was buzzing with thousands upon thousands of Brits and the event was billed as ‘Undefeated’ because Floyd’s record stood at 38–0 and mine was 43–0. It was huge. He had defeated Sharmba Mitchell and Judah (like Tszyu had) and the Argentine hardman Carlos Baldomir – all at welterweight. Not only had he grown into the bigger weight, but he had even stepped up to light-middleweight to beat Oscar De La Hoya in the fight that grossed more than any other in boxing history.
The final press conference in Vegas saw us go head-to-head for nearly two minutes and the media shots taken that day clearly did the trick. The day before the fight, fans started queuing at six in the morning for the afternoon weigh-in. It snaked through the casino floor, the beer was flowing and the fans were in fine voice. By the time I got to the scales on the makeshift stage in the Grand Garden Arena, where we would fight in the MGM Grand the next day, I was on fire and more than ready. More than 8,000 fans were there waiting for me – I’d never seen anything like it. They were in half of the arena that had been curtained off, and they were singing, cheering, shouting – it was a huge occasion in its own right.
We both weighed in and I grabbed the microphone. ‘Who’ve you come to see?’ I shouted. ‘Floyd?’
‘No,’ they yelled, with the unison of an army battalion.
‘Me?’
‘Yes,’ they screamed.
‘Who’s taking the belts?’ I shouted.
‘You,’ they yelled back.
‘Let’s fucking have him.’
Maybe I got caught up in the occasion and the selling of the fight but I wasn’t stressed out or worried. Not at all, I was living for it. It was electric in there. The Brits absolutely shouted the house down, singing and chanting, ‘You’re supposed to be at home’, and ‘Who are ya?’ at Floyd.
I weighed in at ten stone five. Fine. Mayweather, who fired off a pointless throat-slitting gesture in my direction, was bang on the welterweight limit of ten stone seven.
I roared at the fans, threw my T-shirt into the crowd and felt great. Then I went head-to-head with that mouthy dick-head. At every press conference he had been all: ‘Yeah, come here, give that face-to-face shit,’ and finally, after we weighed in, I motored up to him, got in his face and went, ‘Now’s the time for the nose-to-nose stuff, you prick.’ I got right in his face, pushed forwards and he raised his arms to hold me back. I think he was really taken aback – what with the crowd and me getting right in his face, it worked. There was a little bit of pulling and pushing. Nothing major. But I was fired up.
People thought he’d wound me up and that I’d lost my cool but I hadn’t. I came straight off the scales, posed for pictures, went round the curtains and laughed with Billy, ‘We’ve got him riled here.’ I was laughing and joking, I didn’t lose my cool. I knew what I was doing and I was loving it.
When I got in his face I wanted to show Floyd I didn’t give a fuck who he was, I wasn’t scared. Everyone thought I’d lost it a bit, but I promise you I hadn’t.
The place was alive. Oscar De La Hoya said to me he’d never even seen it like that for his weigh-ins, and he was the biggest draw in boxing for a decade. The casinos were running out of beer, then they were running out of spirits. My fans sang songs up and down The Strip, and in and out of the casinos. The Brits had taken over Las Vegas.
I was the underdog, but there was still a school of thought that I was going to be the stronger man. I’d seen a lot of Floyd’s fights and I drew heart from his fights with Castillo, in particular the first one, which I thought he lost. Although the fight was at welterweight, where Floyd had won the WBC title we were fighting for, I was a fully fledged light-welterweight, whereas Floyd had been moving up in weight over the years.
It was always going to be important who the referee was. Would he let me fight up close? What pace would he let us fight at? Would it be one who would let us fight, or was it going to be a referee that was going to break us every five seconds?
‘Absolutely fantastic,’ I thought, when I heard it was going to be Joe Cortez. ‘Great.’ It was like 1–0 then – ‘Advantage Hatton’. Against Castillo he had let us go toe-to-toe.
The MGM Grand Garden Arena wasn’t as big as the MEN, and I’d argue this night was not as big as the Tszyu one for me personally, because that was a Mancunian in Manchester. That was my moment. But this was Mayweather’s hometown and beforehand all you could hear was the fans chanting, ‘There’s only one Ricky Hatton.’ I thought, ‘Jeez, if that was my hometown and they were singing “there’s only one Floyd Mayweather ”, I’d be gutted.’ The crowd was ramped up, deafening; it was one of boxing’s glamour nights, with Denzel Washington, Bruce Willis, Gwen Stefani, Jude Law, David Beckham, Will Ferrell and Kid Rock all ringside. Tom Jones sang the national anthem for me, while R & B artist Tyrese did the honours for America. The crowd booed Tyrese and the American anthem; a few people later told me referee Joe Cortez was holding his heart at the same time as it was being played, shaking his head at the boos and apparently looking disgusted. I don’t condone booing a national anthem and never would.
The game plan was to ease into the fight, try to time Mayweather’s speed first and not be too careless because
he was a master of defence. But the first thing I noticed was his speed. Against Tszyu I felt that if I stood at a distance he would get me with the big right hand, but here I thought, ‘I’m not going to win this fight by outboxing him.’ I thought I’d be the stronger man – Floyd isn’t a big welterweight, but he looked bigger than me by a fair bit. I was never a welterweight.
Floyd’s speed and defence was really outstanding, it nearly took my breath away at times. He hit me with one lead left hook and it was that fast I didn’t see it. I thought, ‘Jesus Christ! I’m going to ease into the fight here’ – and then – ‘If I stand-off, he’s going to have a field day; he’s got the speed, he’s got the technique, that’s the distance he likes, so you’re going to have to do what you do best – get in close and bully him.’ That left hook was that fast – bang! ‘Fucking hell, I can’t stand on the outside here.’ So I moved in on him, although I still struggled to get my punches off he was so slippery.
But within seconds Joe Cortez was stepping in – even though I had some early success with my jab. One knocked Mayweather off balance in round one but moments later Cortez was getting stuck in again. And again. And again. Where was the Joe Cortez who’d said ‘Break free’ and ‘Punch your way out’ during the Castillo fight? He was ruining my rhythm.
In the early going there were times Floyd and I were both punching and Cortez still told us to break. I landed a left to the body and Cortez was in again. Floyd picked me off with a few shots, but I thought I won the first round.
Yet for me Cortez got worse as it went on, and I was promptly becoming more and more frustrated. Increasingly I lost my shape. My blood comes to the boil in the second round even when I watch it back now. I was catching his shots, getting in close and then we were told to break. Of course it’s Floyd Mayweather and he’s going to get you with a few punches, but he was holding me sometimes and Cortez was ticking me off. By now, Oscar De La Hoya was on his feet at ringside asking Cortez what he was doing. He was holding his hands up in disbelief.
Mayweather grabbed me at one time when I wanted to punch and we were told to break before I could do any work. I got through with jabs here and there, took a right, but after I’d scored with another lovely jab the referee was straight in there again.
As you can imagine, it’s a hard enough task fighting that fucker Mayweather at the best of times – he was holding me constantly before I’d had the chance to throw anything. Cortez called a timeout and warned us both he was going to take a point from each of us, when I felt all he needed to do was sit down, shut up and let us fight.
At ringside people were shrugging their shoulders, wondering what the hell was going on, but I felt I won the second, too. As well as I was doing, though, I couldn’t get a rhythm going. Cortez would break my momentum. Seconds after round three started the referee was involved again. Then, after me and Mayweather nailed each other, Cortez intervened once more – I felt he wasn’t even giving us time to see if we were going to throw a punch.
‘Hatton, Hatton, Hatton’ chants echoed around the arena but they sounded understandably frustrated. I got Floyd on the ropes and I felt good with him there but I still couldn’t hit him cleanly. His defence was so masterful that if I did get a shot in, and I was landing occasionally, it was never solid. He would get something on it or just get out of the way. He was catching me with the odd clean one, too, but I was still getting jabs in. My work rate was good.
Then he started doing something different, ducking low in a defensive position, falling beneath my waist and that was not legal. He landed some lovely shots, clean punches, and I took a right and then a cut opened above my right eye. Damn. I was doing all right, though, it was a nothing cut. Not when you think of the wounds I’d had before. I was landing shots but could never really hit him full on. He would slip, shoulder-roll or duck.
I can’t emphasize it enough: he had a brilliant defence – the odd one would get through but nothing clean, or with any venom that would do Floyd any damage. But because of my work rate there was not much in it by the time the fourth round started.
Cortez was again on my case. ‘Ricky, no holding.’ ‘Ricky, let go.’ I couldn’t hear Floyd’s name but it takes two to tango. He did get a warning for using his elbow to keep me off – and rightly so – but for me Cortez was not picking up on how low Floyd was ducking, and, although I was still having some success, Cortez never seemed to let the fight flow. The crowd was also getting impatient with Cortez. There was a buzz as people talked about what he was doing, but the volume increased when I shipped some flush shots in the fifth.
It was Floyd’s best round of the fight up to that point and when he opened up he was something else. It wasn’t just the referee who was infuriating me; I was frustrated by how good Mayweather was – the prick.
I walked back to my corner just thinking, ‘This fucking referee. I have a difficult enough job as it is and he’s not letting me fight.’ Whether I was right or wrong that is what I was feeling and it was affecting me. Mayweather was dipping low again, below my waist, and when I didn’t nail him cleanly I just had to admire what a master of defence he was. It was so hard to nail him. I still was getting one or two through, but not whacking him cleanly. He was exceptional. It was impressive, to say the least. Again, with no one holding but with us both in close, Cortez bellowed, ‘No holding.’ Cortez kept pulling me away, and pulling me away, making a difficult job virtually impossible. I couldn’t go to the body as much as I wanted because Floyd was so good in defence. Some thought I’d won round five, others thought he was slightly ahead, but I don’t think there was masses in it.
But the frustration within me was coming to the boil and from the sixth onwards, the fight just started to drift away from me.
I forced him to the ropes, turned him and threw a right hand in the direction of the back of his head and it missed. It actually connected with the top rope he was sheltering under. Usually, if a referee is going to take a point off you he will delay the action and warn you, one-to-one, formally in front of everyone. Cortez deducted a point from me for a punch that did not even land. Oscar and Bernard Hopkins at ringside were incensed. So were the fans. They sounded disgusted. That is when I really lost it.
When Cortez waved it on I turned my back and gave Floyd a free shot, sticking my arse up into the air. I was fuming. He’d turned his back so I asked Cortez, ‘Where do you want me to fucking hit him?’
Then Floyd was using his shoulder here and there, but by that time it really didn’t matter as I had played into his hands. I was like a bull in a china shop – reckless. He was elbowing me, ducking low, the referee was straight in and, from the moment that point was taken away from me in the sixth round, that’s where the fight slipped.
‘The referee’s a wanker,’ the Brits sang. I couldn’t have agreed more. ‘Break, break,’ was all I could hear. Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying Cortez was being dishonest in his refereeing. I did feel though that he was having a bad day at the office and that his calls were wrong, but I am not saying he was trying to cheat me.
I was deviating from the game plan now, and, instead of fighting with a strategic mind, I was trying to take my anger out on Floyd. At the end of the sixth Floyd hit me on the back of the head and Cortez did nothing. Great.
In all of the years I had Mick Williamson in my corner I’d hardly heard him say anything to an official. In between rounds six and seven, with the crowd still singing a less than flattering song about Cortez, Mick turned to him and said, ‘Watch his facking elbows.’ You’d never hear Mick do that.
According to HBO, I was a point up. That might not have been a common view, although it showed I was in the fight.
You could see Floyd’s class when he opened up again in the seventh with quality shots, though. I was working hard but the success was becoming more restricted because I’d lost my rag. He was really finding the gaps in the eighth. He landed a flush right. I didn’t lose my legs, he was not a concussive puncher, but he could pick th
e right shot. That’s the difference between the good fighters and the great fighters. I still had some good bursts but the referee was in again, even when there was no holding. The fans, as it was slipping away, still sung their hearts out, every one of them.
When Floyd cracked me with a few more consecutive shots in that eighth that was probably the moment when it dawned on me that night: the fight had gone. My senses were there, my legs were under me and I was firing back, but his punches were having an accumulative effect. It was not the single punch power that bothered me, he was chipping away at me.
Along with me getting frustrated, as the rounds progressed, Floyd started to show what a clever fighter he was. I was throwing punches ten to the dozen but he was throwing the ones that counted. That’s a good champion, who knows when to put his foot on the gas and when to try and soak it up a bit. That’s why he is what he is. I was losing it bit by bit. He just missed me with a lead left hook as round nine was coming to a close. It didn’t miss by much. It was a warning shot. When you think that boxing is all about hitting and not getting hit, Mayweather is everything a fighter should be.
As I sat on the stool before round ten, Cortez said he wasn’t going to let me take too much punishment. ‘I’m firing back,’ I said, not that it had made any difference to him so far. Roger Mayweather, Floyd’s uncle and trainer, had been saying to his nephew in the corner, ‘He’s ready to go now, just put the finishing touches on him’, while Oscar De La Hoya stuck his head through the ropes and said to me, ‘Ricky, you’re five rounds down.’ Billy advised, ‘Ricky, just jab, move, keep out of the way and keep low. You’ll be okay. You’ll see the final bell. And I said, ‘Billy, I’m five rounds down, I need a knockout.’ ‘Ricky, don’t do this to me,’ he said. ‘Don’t do this to me. Keep out the way and jab and move.’ ‘Billy, I didn’t turn up to go the distance, I turned up to beat him. I’m five rounds down. I need a knockout.’ He put my gumshield in and sighed. That was my mentality and it always had been. I didn’t turn up to win on points or go the distance. I turned up to impress and win well. ‘Okay, Rick. Go for it,’ he said.
