Even in Nashville, the Ricky Hatton fight was the talk of the town.
“So – y’all gonna be watching the fight?” It had become something of a mantra to greet us by, a group of Brits in Tennessee in mid-December.
Flying over, we’d been surrounded by Vegas-bound boxing fans in both Heathrow and Chicago O’Hare, and it was obvious that the hype had reached Nashville too.
The night began in lively fashion, courtesy of the bubbly honky tonk bars across the town centre. Jangling banjos, free-flowing whiskey and back-slapping singalongs – what Nashville is all about.
As fight time approached, we decamped en masse (along with half the town) to a heaving sports bar on the city outskirts.
The entrance queue was a long but jovial one. Inside, the bar was enormous – some 20 screens in all – and crackling with good-natured banter.
The ring of our English accents quickly won us celebrity status, and any reaction we’d expected to the Anglo-American bout on screen only came in the form of us not being allowed to get our wallets out all evening.
The fight fell flat – you probably don’t need reminding of that – but the night most certainly didn’t. Southern hospitality is quite some experience when you’re on the receiving end.
Delicacy stops me from revealing quite how late it was when we bade farewell to our new friends and got back to the hotel, cowboy hats askew and Folsom Prison Blues ringing in our ears.
Ricky Hatton? He’ll always remind me of Nashville.
