The Vanished Fight: Junior Witter’s Unfulfilled British Title Dream

When we talk about Ricky Hatton, we talk too about the superstars he fought, whereas Junior Witter’s legacy is defined by the great fighters he never faced.

Perhaps the most glaring missed chance in British boxing history, this unfulfilled bout left a conspicuous gap in Witter’s résumé.

It seems unfair that Witter is chiefly remembered for a fight that never materialised, overshadowing the many notable achievements he accumulated.

Witter captured and defended a WBC super‑lightweight title, earned a Lonsdale Belt, and secured European and Commonwealth championships. He stepped in on nine days’ notice to face a pound‑for‑pound elite boxer and then posted a 21‑fight winning streak that left Hatton and his camp eager for a showdown with the Bradford “Hitman.”

Ironically, Witter might be celebrated for his own accomplishments had his career not been constantly linked to Hatton’s. Instead of a narrative built around a missed bout, we could highlight his decisive defeat of DeMarcus Corley for the WBC title—arguably more dominant than Floyd Mayweather’s style—his thunderous knockout of Vivian Harris in defence, his memorable bout against Zab Judah in a football stadium, and a string of elite victories over fighters such as Jan Bergman, Giuseppe Lauri, Lovemore Ndou, Andriy Kotelnik and Colin Lynes (twice).

Witter would likely prefer to be remembered for those triumphs, but he accepts that his legacy is as much about the “what‑if” as the actual achievements—reflected in the title of his recent autobiography, *The Avoided*.

While his career is largely defined by the void that should have been filled by a fight with Hatton, Witter also asserts that several other top‑tier opponents repeatedly avoided him.

He notes that his landmark victory over Corley for the vacant title only materialised because Floyd Mayweather had ceded the WBC belt. Agreements with Amir Khan and Paulie Malignaggi collapsed, and his attempts to secure a bout with Shane Mosley never came to fruition.

He adds that while Hatton’s team clearly viewed him as a high‑risk opponent, Witter believes Ricky himself was not eager to face “The Hitter” from Bradford.

“Realistically, if he wanted it, he was in charge of his own career, so it would have happened,” Witter, now 52, observes.

“After leaving Frank Warren’s stable he had the freedom to fight anyone on the planet—if he’d wanted to fight me, he would have.”

Sadly, Hatton can no longer speak for himself, having passed away last year.

Witter still feels some regret that the fight never materialised, but he has grown more pragmatic, noting that the former rivals became friends once they were no longer sparring for a bout.

“There was maybe a bit of pride, a bit of needle, but it wasn’t a grudge,” he says. “The fight should have happened, but I didn’t hate him. It was more a case of trying to get that extra publicity.”

“The funny thing is, he had no banter with me. Every time, he won slagging matches with opponents, but every time he interacted with me, he seemed stiff, he didn’t flow, his words seemed premeditated, whereas I jumped around verbally and he couldn’t keep up.”

“I thought, ‘you’ve got no banter; how can we sell anything?’ I have friends who knew him and they all said Ricky’s got banter, but I just didn’t see it.”

“It’s interesting, because he got the better of Mayweather with the verbals, but with me he never.”

Then, around 2010‑2011, I began sparring at his gym. We met up again and he was cool. He just relaxed. The tension of ‘this fight could happen’ dissolved, and he returned to his normal form.

“And then his banter came out and he kept crushing me, and I’m thinking, ‘oh, you f***ing twat!’ I’m glad it wasn’t on camera. I said, ‘OK, I’ve got to give it to you.”

A cautious friendship developed.

“We’d see each other at shows and we’d have a chat, or I’d go over to his gym, and it got to the point where, in 2013, we were talking about going on holiday together. He asked me, but I had a fight coming up. If I didn’t have that fight coming up at that point, we’d have gone to Tenerife together.”

That illustrates how far the former rivals had come. Under different circumstances, they might have fought, or they could have become friends sooner.

Witter was as saddened as anyone by his death.

“I was so shocked,” he says. “It didn’t feel real. It took a long while to sink in. If I was going to a show, I’d think ‘oh, Ricky might be there,’ and then I’d remember, ‘no, he’s gone’. Still, every now and then I expect to see him somewhere.”

By the time the 2013 holiday idea was being floated, Hatton had concluded his competitive boxing career, and Witter was nearing the end of his. He retired a year and a half later with a record of 43‑8‑2 (23 wins by knockout).

If Witter had struggled to secure the fights he coveted even in his prime, he recognised that such opportunities would be even rarer at age 41.

“I still had some good upside at that stage, definitely,” he says. “I’d won a second British title in 2012, beating Colin Lynes—a superb technical boxer. I won it comfortably, which told me I still had plenty of ability.”

“I won that, but the Frankie Gavin fight (12 Nov 2012) was the worst camp I’d ever had. Nothing went right, nothing worked, and the desire wasn’t there, the fear wasn’t there. I wasn’t scared of Frankie Gavin, and that’s a terrible thing to happen, because you need some fear of your opponent. I just didn’t perform.”

“After Frankie Gavin, I went to box for an EU title, but I felt I was robbed. I thought, ‘I’m in my 40s; no one’s giving me a chance. No one’s given me a chance for 10 years.”

“Dom Ingle was saying, ‘keep at the weight and we’ll get you a last‑minute fight,’ but I felt that after doing that for 20 years, I wouldn’t walk around 3 lb above my fighting weight just to stay ready when I had no opponent.”

“So, I just went, if something isn’t pencilled in by my birthday, I’ll hang them up, move on to coaching. I’d been doing it for the last few years anyway.”

Having assisted at the Wincobank gym in Sheffield—the same venue where he spent his entire professional career—Witter naturally transitioned into coaching once his fighting days were over, eventually establishing his own club, Witters Boxing Club in Rotherham.

I began coaching at Wincobank in 2014‑2015. By that time Brendan Ingle was ailing from Alzheimer’s; his athletic physique had faded as his memory deteriorated. Andy Nice, formerly in charge of the amateurs, approached me: “We need you to be a coach.” I replied, “I ain’t got time for that.” He persisted, noting, “All the kids love you, they respect you and they all listen to you way more than they do any of us.” I agreed, “OK, we’ll figure out a way,” and took on the role, eventually becoming head coach.

“He spent half my time training kids and half my time training myself. When I decided I was packing up, I thought, right, I’m going to do this full‑time. Then in 2018, after Brendan passed, there was a gym in Rotherham that I knew the guy who ran it. He wanted someone to take over the gym. So, I took over, repackaged it, renamed it, and it’s been going ever since.”

I inherited the gym when it had only five kids, a modest operation. Within the first year I transformed it, attracting more young boxers, securing a national champion, and having a second competitor in national finals.

We also launched a mental‑health class, community initiatives and grassroots programmes. It’s not about the fame; it’s the grassroots work that brings the most satisfaction—seeing people grow and improve.

Few boxers have evolved as dramatically as Junior Witter. With no major backing, he started boxing on the periphery and rose to a world championship through persistence, several upsets, and a “fight‑anyone” mentality.

That attribute was never more evident than when Witter faced Zab Judah in 2000.

Judah, the new IBF 140‑lb champion lauded as a pound‑for‑pound talent, was slated as the main support on a Mike Tyson undercard in Glasgow. His original opponent, Jason Rowland, withdrew after his pet dog bit off part of his finger. Witter stepped in on nine days’ notice, bringing a 15‑0‑2 record—mostly earned at six‑round level—to face one of American boxing’s brightest stars.

Witter lost a unanimous decision but won several rounds in a performance that was more than credible, given the circumstances. The bout proved invaluable, prompting him to reassess his strategy and reinvent himself as “The Hitter.”

“I didn’t have enough belief in my punch power,” he says. “I thought I could win by out‑boxing him; a hit‑and‑run strategy might have secured the win. Standing for a war with him wasn’t my style at that time.”

But that marked the beginning of the fighter Witter would become. He posted 15 consecutive knockouts, capturing British, Commonwealth and European titles, while constantly building a case for a Hatton showdown.

That fight never materialised, but three further victories—each by unanimous decision—earned Witter his world title shot, which he captured with an impressive performance against “Chop Chop” Corley in London in September 2006.

“I boxed, controlled, even though I had so much more to give,” he says. “I landed an early shot and after that he never came out of his shell. He wouldn’t stand and fight, which is not like him, is it?”

It isn’t. Even Mayweather would acknowledge that, after an aggressive Corley gave him a scare in 2004. Corley’s performance against Witter arguably demonstrated more than the result itself how formidable Witter was in his prime, and why he was shunned by some—Mayweather among them, according to Witter, who believed he could have beaten him: “I watched him box Emmanuel Augustus [a highly unorthodox contender who gave Mayweather fits in October 2000 before losing on a ninth‑round stoppage] and I thought Augustus was absolutely unreal.”

“As I see it, he does a lot of the stuff I do, just I’m better at it. I hit that bit harder, I’m that bit sharper. I was confident I’d beat him.”

We’d never find out, but Witter secured two more world title victories, including a resounding knockout of Vivian Harris, which he cites as the pinnacle of his career.

“I knew he was good, I knew he was strong and he could punch. I needed that challenge. I went out and delivered a seventh‑round knockout. It was the performance I wanted against a boxer everyone recognised as dangerous.”

In September 2007, the stage seemed perfect for a Witter‑Hatton clash, with both men holding world titles and having just delivered outstanding performances (Hatton had just knocked out José Luis Castillo). However, Hatton then signed to face Floyd Mayweather for a megabucks showdown in Las Vegas.

Witter lost his title in his subsequent fight, falling to Timothy Bradley, and failed in an attempt to reclaim it from Devon Alexander 15 months later. Like most fighters, he has his explanations for these defeats, and the inconsistent form that followed.

At his peak, Witter’s form spoke for itself. It’s a shame it didn’t resonate strongly enough to fill the void left by the fight that never materialised.

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