CLUB FIGHTERS
Or maybe popular British folk songs from the 1970s that have strong parochial resonance. No? Well, that’s what happened in Nottingham, England, on February 21, 2026, when former two-time world titleholders Josh Warrington and Leigh Wood settled their simmering feud. Warrington walked to “Marching On Together,” written by Les Reed and Barry Mason, the duo responsible for Tom Jones’ 1968 smash hit “Delilah.” Wood’s selection was from a more well-known songsmith out of Liverpool by the name of Paul McCartney: “Mull of Kintyre,” the former Beatle’s bagpipe-laden 1977 ode to his life in remote southwest Scotland. Each piece of music has its merits, but they hardly scream, “Let’s get ready to rumble!” Except they do when they have the throaty backing of thousands of fired-up and beer-soaked fans in a sold-out arena. Without all the context, if you knew nothing of Wood and Warrington’s backgrounds, it was an unusual scene. Maybe just Brits being weird and drunk. On one level, sure, it was definitely that. But “Marching On Together” is the anthem of Warrington’s beloved soccer club Leeds United, a song recorded by the playing squad prior to its 1972 FA Cup final victory over Arsenal. Fans of Wood’s hometown team, Nottingham Forest, adopted and adapted the words of “Mull of Kintyre” around the time the club won England’s First Division title in 1978, a success that preceded its unlikely European Cup triumphs of 1979 and 1980. Wood and Warrington are two of the most popular examples of a very British phenomenon: the boxer who wins the loyal backing of their local professional soccer club. The trappings extend far beyond intro music, too. Their trunks come in club colors, usually with the team’s badge embroidered into the fabric, initials and other assorted slogans. For those with the biggest fan bases and most successful resumes, the chants and songs are hollered from the
“A t the time, [Manchester] City weren’t the type of football club they are at the moment. So we sort of viewed it as someone who was pissing in the wind, really,” chuckles Jamie Moore, the former British, Commonwealth and European junior middleweight champion who, from the time they scrapped as 15-year-old amateurs, was firm friends with Ricky “The Hitman” Hatton. Hatton was a fanatical supporter of Manchester City F.C., the 10-time English champions. Although historically one of England’s most popular clubs, eight of those championship wins have come since Man City’s horizon-altering takeover by Sheikh Mansour bin Zayed Al Nahyan, the vice president of the United Arab Emirates and a member of Abu Dhabi’s ruling family, in 2008. When Hatton plotted his thrilling path to the top of the junior welterweight division, crescendoing on that unforgettable night at a raucous Manchester Arena against the great Kostya Tszyu in June 2005, Man City was just emerging from a tumultuous period that saw it relegated to the third tier of English soccer for the first time in the team’s history. They changed divisions in five consecutive seasons between 1998 and 2002. That didn’t stop Hatton from emblazoning his trunks with Man City’s signature sky blue, white and navy shades and ringwalking to its adopted melancholy anthem of “Blue Moon.” “He’s there supporting a club that wasn’t really going to get any success, but it was sort of blind loyalty anyway, so you admired that in him, whereas Manchester United were really flying,” Moore recalled. “When I turned
Sunderland A.F.C. fans celebrated Josh Kelly’s title-winning victory.
bleachers they sat in as kids as they fight in a ring at center field. These football fighters or soccer sluggers have generally ranked among the U.K.’s most-loved boxers in the 21st century. They tend to be the biggest guaranteed ticket-sellers, so promoters are pretty fond of them too. They’re a lovable part of the furniture within their country’s fight game, but it wasn’t always this way. S occer fever is set to hit North America this summer, when the FIFA World Cup is hosted by the United States, Canada and Mexico. It will be the second time the U.S. welcomes a global event that, in terms of scope, only has the Olympic Games
for comparison. Back then, in 1994, boxing and soccer in Britain were not so intertwined as they often are today. Traditionally, soccer and boxing have drawn the vast majority of their support from Britain’s working-class heartlands. Where rugby union and cricket’s broad appeal have their roots in the backing of the private school system, soccer and fighting were more easily the preserve of the common man. During the 20th century, boxing was more than capable of holding its own in the popular imagination. Soccer venues would be called upon to provide the stages for the biggest fights, from Muhammad Ali’s bouts against Henry Cooper at Wembley Stadium (1963) and Arsenal’s Highbury Stadium
(1966) to Chris Eubank and Nigel Benn’s 1993 rematch at Manchester United’s Old Trafford. Eubank vs. Benn 2 played out before an audience of 16.5 million on free- to-air television, but Britain’s sports broadcasting landscape was in the early stages of changing beyond all recognition. The advent of the Premier League, fueled by an injection of cash from pay-TV disruptor Sky, was the beginning of twin phenomena: soccer growing to the extent that it dwarfed everything else, much like the modern
NFL and NBA stateside, and other sports making the calculation that going behind the paywall was a financial imperative, even set against the resulting loss of eyeballs. As soccer pulled further and further away from other mainstream sports left scrambling for attention, one prodigiously talented and football- crazy youngster was ready to let his fists do the talking and take the masses with him.
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