And then there was Ricky Hatton. That one is still wrong. Because so many people saw themselves in him. The noise, the laughter, the dark corners he never hid from. Losing him the way we did left a silence that didn’t lift.
Even now it feels unfinished. Anthony Joshua’s accident in Nigeria has shocked everyone who has stepped near a ring. One minute you are planning camps and flights. Next you read names of people who didn’t make it home. Sina Ghami. Latif Ayodele. No belts involved. No drama. Just the kind of loss that reminds you how thin the line really is.
The Names we carry forward
George, Dwight, Greg, Ricky. Different eras. Different styles. The same truth. They gave everything and left pieces of themselves behind. Some in the ring. Some long after.
People talk about legacies as if they were trophies. Most of the time it’s just memories carried by tired people who were there. Memories of sweat, blood, laughter and nights that never really end.
As this year closes, no one is pretending it was easy. No one is pretending boxing has gotten any softer. All you can do is acknowledge who’s gone, keep showing up and try not to waste the time you’re still allowed.
That’s how it’s always been.
That’s how it still is.
