MANCHESTER, England — Once all the punches had been thrown, the wins and losses tallied and the accolades distributed, Ricky Hatton was asked how he wanted to be remembered.

“Yes they might say, 'Oh he was world champion,'” Hatton had once said. “But I want them to say, 'He was just one of us.'"

On Friday in Manchester, 26 days after he was found dead at his home, the one and only Ricky Hatton was laid to rest. These were scenes reminiscent of a state funeral or that of Muhammad Ali in Louisville, Kentucky, nine years back as Manchester turned out to pay tribute to the "People’s Champion" — their champion.

Hatton’s city stood still to salute him as the funeral cortège, fronted by the yellow Reliant Regal he owned, moved slowly from his home in Gee Cross, past a number of his favourite pubs, including the one once owned by his parents Ray and Carol, to Manchester Cathedral. “New York, Paris, Peckham” it read on the Trotters Independent Traders Co motor Hatton once bought for £4000 — but his story reached far wider than that.

Before making its final stop at Etihad Stadium, the home of his beloved Manchester City FC, the procession came to a halt at Manchester Cathedral, where 900 invited guests gathered inside. Thousands more waited in the ancient building’s shadow and, as the cortege approached, they sang his famous son "there’s only one Ricky Hatton" with all the vigour they once did when they invaded Las Vegas.

Those inside the Cathedral could hear the singing through the walls, as Hatton would have done inside the many dressing rooms he occupied over the course of his glittering 48-fight career. They continued to sing and applaud as his sky blue coffin, engraved with Blue Moon, his entrance song, was carried inside. His brother Matthew, long-time manager and friend Paul Speak were among the six men who carried upon their shoulders.

On the other side, Hatton’s only son, Campbell, also bore the weight. Much like he did with his heart over the course of his 16-fight boxing career, the 24-year-old wore his grief on his sleeve. He stood in front of the 900 guests and paid tribute to his famous father. “I looked up to my dad in every aspect of life,” he said. “I can’t explain how much I’m going to miss you, Dad.”

Something changes when a son loses their dad, the world will never be the same for Campbell, the kid who once sparred his father at their gym in Hyde. His daughters Mille and Fearne, 13 and 12, also spoke, via pre-recorded video messages, delivering heartbreaking eulogies outlining their confusion around the situation. “Why did you feel that way?” Millie said. “Why didn’t you reach out about how you felt?

“I can’t help but think about how you will never walk me down the aisle, how you will never meet my children and your grandchildren, that you won’t be here to see me leave school and you won’t even see me grow into an adult.”

Although thousands gathered, sang, waved flags and raised glasses, this was no carnival. Millie's eulogy in particular was a stark reminder that, just beyond the glowing tributes about his incredible career, his rise from local lad to Las Vegas attraction and his status as Manchester’s favourite son, there is a family left shattered in the background. They deserve the time and space to heal.

Once the talking was over, the coffin was hoisted back upon the shoulders of the men tasked with carrying it as the procession continued east to the Etihad where close friends and family gathered for their last tribute.

A helicopter, filming wide shots, circled above as news crews on the ground delivered their final verdicts against the backdrop of the cathedral. In the pubs, hundreds stood with Guinness in hand discussing the absent champion.

“Nigel Benn, Joe Calzaghe, Frank Bruno, Ricky Hatton,” he had once said about his own standing in the small pantheon of British boxing greats.

“When they mention Ricky Hatton among my heroes,” he said. “I’ll never ever wake up from that.”

But more importantly for him, he was simply one of us.