EXCLUSIVE: Former Trainer of Ricky Hatton Reveals a Private Voicemail from Just Last Week β His Words Stunned Even Those Who Knew Him Best
In the shadow of tragedy, whispers from the past can cut deeper than any left hook. Just ten days ago, the world was still reeling from the sudden death of British boxing icon Ricky Hatton, the 46-year-old “Hitman” whose relentless ring style and roguish charm made him a folk hero. Hatton was found unresponsive at his Hyde home on September 14, 2025, by his long-time manager Paul Speak, after failing to show for a local boxing event the night before. The cause of death has not been officially confirmed, but those close to him speak of a man who, despite his outward bravado, wrestled demons that even his inner circle couldn’t fully grasp.
Now, in an exclusive interview with this publication, Billy Graham β Hatton’s legendary trainer during his glory years β has broken his silence. The 72-year-old “Preacher,” as he’s affectionately known, left a floral tribute at Hatton’s gated residence, “The Heartbreak Hotel,” reading: “Sorry I wasn’t there for you. Love Billy (The Preacher) x.” But what Graham held back until now was a private voicemail from Hatton, left on his phone just last week, on September 17. The message, raw and unfiltered, has left even Graham β a man who’s seen Hatton at his highest highs and lowest lows β grappling with shock and regret.
“I wasn’t going to share this,” Graham confesses, his voice cracking over a crackly phone line from his quiet Bolton flat. “Ricky was private about his pain, always had been. But after the tributes, the stories pouring in… I think he needs to be heard one last time. Not as the Hitman, but as Rick β the lad from Hattersley who just wanted to make people smile.”
The voicemail, timestamped 2:47 a.m., lasts just 47 seconds. Graham plays it for me, the room falling silent as Hatton’s unmistakable Manchester drawl fills the air. “Billy, it’s me, mate. Look, I know it’s late, but I couldn’t sleep again. That elbow’s killing me β doc says it’s from the old wars, but you know me, I’ll tape it up and get back in. Just… thanks for everything, yeah? For the pads, the bollockings, for believing when I didn’t. You’re the dad I needed in the gym. Tell the lads at the academy they’re next β no excuses, no pints till the bell. Love ya, Preach. Speak soon.” There’s a pause, a shaky breath, then the line clicks dead.
Graham’s hands tremble as he sets the phone down. “Stunned me, that did. He sounded… peaceful, almost. Like he’d made his peace. But that ‘speak soon’ β it haunts me. We hadn’t talked properly since his 2022 exhibition against Barrera. Fell out years back over the comeback, the risks. I told him he was too old, too battered. He laughed it off, called me a soft southerner. But deep down, he knew I was right.” Graham wipes his eyes, the weight of their fractured bond evident. Their fallout was public knowledge β a messy court case in the early 2010s over management fees that left scars on both sides. Yet Hatton, ever the reconciler, reached out sporadically, a text here, a beer there. This voicemail? It was different. Final.
Ricky Hatton wasn’t just a boxer; he was Manchester’s beating heart. Born Richard John Hatton on October 6, 1978, in the Stockport suburb of Hattersley, he rose from council estate scraps to world titles at light-welterweight and welterweight. His professional debut in 1997 was a gritty points win over Colin McAuley, but it was the 2001 demolition of Kostya Tszyu in Manchester that ignited the frenzy. Over 20,000 fans packed the MEN Arena, belting out “Blue Moon” as Hatton snatched the IBF light-welterweight crown. He defended it nine times, each victory a riot of beer-soaked celebration.
Hatton’s style was pure chaos: pressure-fighting with a body-snatcherβs precision, fueled by an unshakeable belief in his chin. Victories over Dennis Hobson, Michael Stewart, and Ayub Kalule built his legend, but it was the 2005 win over Teddy Henry that cemented him as “The Pride of Hyde.” By then, he’d outgrown light-welter; moving to welterweight, he chased bigger fish. The 2006 bout with Luis Collazo in New York was a wake-up β a controversial loss that tested his mettle. But Hatton rebounded, stopping Juan Lazcano and then, in a dream fight, outpointing WBA welterweight champ Carlos Maussa in 2007.
Las Vegas beckoned next, the neon-lit coliseum where dreams and nightmares collide. June 2007: Hatton vs. Floyd Mayweather Jr. The Hitman, trained by his uncle Matthew’s old coach, entered with 41 wins, zero losses. Mayweather, the undefeated wizard, dismantled him in ten rounds β a humiliating stoppage that left Hatton concussed and questioning everything. “I felt like a fraud,” Hatton later admitted in his 2023 documentary Hatton. The defeat spiraled him into depression, alcohol, and cocaine β battles he chronicled with brutal honesty. Rehab stints followed, family estrangements, even a 2010 arrest for affray outside a Manchester nightclub.
Yet resilience defined him. In 2008, under Floyd Mayweather Sr.’s guidance, Hatton avenged his demons somewhat, stopping Paulie Malignaggi in the 11th to claim The Ring’s light-welterweight title. But 2009 brought Manny Pacquiao β another Vegas heartbreak, a second-round KO that shattered his aura. Hatton retired, unretired for a 2012 loss to Vyacheslav Senchenko, then hung up the gloves for good. Post-ring life was a mixed bag: He became a promoter and trainer, guiding talents like Nathan Gorman (great-nephew of bare-knuckle legend Bartley Gorman), Zhanat Zhakiyanov (who won a bantamweight world title in 2017 under Hatton’s watch), Paul Upton, and even Tommy Fury, Tyson’s half-brother. Hatton cornered Fury for his 2018 win over Deontay Wilder, a full-circle moment for the Mancunian mentor.
His gym in Hyde buzzed with promise. Blain Younis, a former amateur turned trainer there, idolized Hatton from boyhood. “They say never meet your heroes,” Younis posted on Instagram after the news broke. “But Ricky was different. A local star, a beast in the ring who lit Manchester up like no one else.” Younis worked alongside Hatton for 15 years, winning titles from regional to world level. Their bond peaked in 2022, when Hatton tapped Younis to train him for the exhibition against Marco Antonio Barrera β a nostalgic nod to Hatton’s prime.
Hatton’s personal life mirrored his career’s highs and lows. Devoted to Manchester City β he was at the Etihad just days before his death β he embodied the working-class ethos. His mother Carol still manned the family carpet stall in Glossop Market; father Ray managed him and brother Matthew. Girlfriend Jennifer Dooley shared “The Heartbreak Hotel,” a Hyde pad named for his Elvis obsession, complete with a Union Jack phone box in the garden and his yellow Reliant Robin from Only Fools and Horses. But loneliness crept in. The 2024 BAFTA-nominated documentary delved into his isolation, echoing Frank Bruno’s and Tyson Fury’s own post-fame struggles with mental health.
Tributes flooded in after his passing. Fury, who called Hatton “the legend,” posted photos with the caption: “Rip to the legend Ricky Hatton may he rip. There will only ever be one.” Amir Khan: “A friend, a mentor, a warrior.” Frank Bruno, another mental health warrior, recalled their dressing-room chats: “We spoke about depression… He made me laugh so many times.” Ryan Burnett, whom Hatton promoted, shared: “My friend, youβll be so sorely missed.” Even Manchester City mourned: “One of City’s most loved supporters… a glittering career.”
And then there was that final act of kindness, revealed days after his death: A video message to a bullied schoolboy, recorded just 48 hours before he was found. “Don’t let ’em grind you down, kid,” Hatton urged, his eyes twinkling despite the visible wear. “Stand tall, throw hooks if you have to β but talk to someone. Every day’s a fight, but you finish with your hand up.” Broadcaster Dan Walker, who interviewed Hatton post-prison visit, echoed it: “Every day is a fight… even if you get knocked down.”
Back to Graham’s revelation. The voicemail arrived amid Hatton’s preparations for a December comeback in Dubai against UAE prospect Eisa Al Dah β a bout announced in July 2025. He’d been training, posting clips on social media as late as September 11, shadowboxing with that trademark snarl. Friends like Stacey Copeland saw him Thursday prior, joking about his aching elbow. “He was excited,” she said. Family insisted he was “in a good place,” “not alone.” Yet the message to Graham suggests a man tying loose ends.
“I’ve replayed it a hundred times,” Graham says. “That ‘love ya’ β Ricky didn’t say that lightly. We built an empire together: Tszyu, Mayweather prep, the Vegas runs. He was 20 when I took him on, a scrawny kid with heart. By 30, a millionaire messiah. But the ring takes more than it gives. The crowds chant your name, then silence hits like a sledgehammer.”
Graham pauses, staring at a faded photo of them on pads, Hatton mid-snarl. “He stunned me with those words because they were him β grateful, tough, vulnerable. Even at the end, he was coaching from the grave. If this helps one lad speak up… then Rick’s last punch landed.”
Hatton’s legacy? Forty-five wins in 48 fights, yes. But more: A blueprint for battling back. As fans laid Manchester City scarves at his gate, one read: “Ricky The Legend.” Author Dominic McGuinness, who penned The Real Hitman, noted the duality: Camp Hatton was monastic β no junk food, no booze β but downtime was pints and laughs. “That’s how he needed to be,” McGuinness said.
In death, Hatton unites. Boxing’s “worst open secret” β the post-career void of addiction, isolation β is laid bare. Fury battles on, Bruno advocates, and now Hatton’s echo urges: Talk. As the voicemail fades, Graham whispers, “Speak soon, kid.” For once, the Preacher has no sermon left β only silence, and a stunned heart.