by
Sean Murray
The first time I saw Ricky Hatton walk into an arena, the crowd sang “Blue Moon” as a full-throated battle cry. He wasn’t just a boxer; he was Manchester in gloves, carrying the pride of pubs, terraces, and families on his shoulders. There was nothing polished about him. He looked like a fella who might serve you in the chippy or fix cars in a local garage. Yet, in the ring, he was ferocious and relentless, impossible to ignore — a council estate lad turned People’s champion, claiming the city with every punch, wide grin, and every word in that flat accent that belonged to a pub more than a press conference. The ring was everything for Hatton: a stage, a livelihood, and a sanctuary. But the roar of the crowd would not always be there, and the ring could only shield him for so long.
I understand the pull of the ring. I’m a writer who boxes, more than a boxer who writes, but watching Hatton claim the ring made me think of the moments I found my own corner of the gym — the tiny victories over my own mind. There’s a ferocity in boxers, not for show, but to survive our own battles. Boxing offers clarity: two people, one ring, measured movements, and a routine that makes the days bearable.
When I’m at my club, orbiting my bag, I’m at one with my body, and everything else fades. Feet moving, deep breathing, guard up, chin tucked — for a few minutes, body and mind are aligned, muting the noise in my head. It’s a kind of mindful euphoria, like swimming inside a vast blue chamber. That mindfulness didn’t just stay in the gym — it follows me outside. Bipolar disorder can feel like living in two separate worlds: one month light, the next dark. But in the gym, everything condenses to breath, movement, and survival; for a while, I know who I am. Even on days I couldn’t be bothered, I trained anyway, knowing the payoff was clarity, survival.
Boxing became a release when nothing else helped — after a painful breakup, I threw myself into training, finding clarity that neither therapy nor alcohol gave me. My gym’s projects — from youth sessions to mental health workshops — reminded me that boxing can be a lifeline for others, too, offering structure, discipline, and a small measure of triumph in the face of life’s chaos.
But the bell always rings. The fight ends, and you’re left with yourself, stripped of your gloves, gumshield, maybe even your pride, facing the opponent inside your head. Hatton found that out when the crowds went quiet — the same man who could mete out punishment and sell out arenas in minutes could not stand the stillness of his own mind. In retirement, the ring that had been a refuge became a reminder of absence. The discipline that once defined him slipped into despair; at his lowest, he put a knife to his wrist — a fact he later shared publicly, revealing the private battle that lay beneath the bravado.
His silence was not just a cautionary tale — it resonated with me. I’ve faced similar mental darkness. Now, six months without training has left me adrift, the din of my own thoughts louder than any crowd. I haven’t been able to train due to health reasons, and I’m worse off for it. I miss circling the bag, the feeling of being invincible, of escaping myself for an hour; the smell of sweat-soaked gloves, the ritual of wrapping my hands, the thrilling snap of hitting the heavy bag. Without it, I’m not myself. The quiet that follows — the same one Hatton spoke about after retiring — reminds me how brutal being alone with your mind can be.
Boxing, like life, teaches you to endure — not just in physical and mental pain but the expectation to endure quietly. Hatton’s story highlights how mental health struggles often go unseen, especially in boxing and working-class communities, where vulnerability is stigmatised. I know this personally. Bipolar disorder doesn’t pause for bravado. The highs and lows roll in regardless of what people expect of you. And yet there’s a weight in this world — especially in working-class communities — that tells men “just get on with it” or “keep it to yourself.” In the pub, in the gym, in the car, on the streets — talk of despair, doubt, panic, anxiety and depression is strictly off-limits.
Lessons in resilience in the ring can make men afraid to ask for help outside of it, leaving cracks invisible to the world. Survival is possible in small ways — an evening walk, shadowboxing, or remembering the rhythm of the gym that steadies me — and these acts become acts of courage. Survival isn’t dramatic or measured in applause and belts; it’s putting one foot in front of the other and staying present.
Ricky Hatton was the embodiment of that: beloved by the crowd, fearless in the ring, hiding the cracks beneath his bravado. To show weakness in the ring was almost unthinkable, and yet the cost was hidden, private, and brutal. When that adulation faded and the crowd disappeared, the silence closed in. Hatton later spoke publicly about turning to drugs and alcohol, and about his struggles with depression and suicidal thoughts.
For a time, he fought to survive. He spoke about therapy, the nights he nearly gave in, and the weight of expectation pressing down long after the applause had ended. He didn’t emerge unscarred, but in speaking, he gave others a way to see that survival is not a sign of weakness.
Hatton’s story reflects struggles familiar to many men, including my own. Like him, fighters such as Frank Bruno and Tyson Fury carried public expectation while wrestling private battles. Their stories remind us that survival often happens quietly, unseen, and with courage measured not in belts but in persistence. Without boxing for months, there’s nothing left to fight except the thoughts themselves. Evenings stretch endlessly, and my mind prowls familiar corners. The silence Hatton left behind is a warning: the battles we carry inside are often more dangerous than those in the ring. Boxing isn’t just about knockouts or glory; sometimes the greatest fight is staying alive and reaching for the help that makes that possible — the courage Hatton showed, in and out of the ring.
If you’re struggling: If you’re in the UK, you can call Samaritans for free on 116 123 or visit samaritans.org. You can also find support through Mind on 0300 123 3393 or mind.org.uk. If you’re elsewhere, please check for local crisis helplines. If you’re in immediate danger, call your local emergency number.
