Ricky Hatton is embarking on an odyssey into the most traumatic and ecstatic recesses of his past. This helps cement his belief that he has now found a future after heroic prize-fighting and epic binge drinking.
First to Las Vegas, to exorcise the last of his demons by witnessing the two maestros of the fistic arts who sent him crashing to comatose defeats – and to the precipice of self-destruction – as they resolve which of them is the greatest boxer on earth.
Then back to Manchester, to paint the town Man City blue by way of celebrating the 10th anniversary of that bestial victory over another fearsome warrior, Kostya Tszyu, on the tumultuous night he won his first world championship.
The shrinks call it closure. The Hitman sees a door wide open to life after fighting, after battling to the peak of the hardest game, after grappling with the depths of depression.
A life dedicated to guiding the stable of young prospects at his gym in Hyde around the pitfalls into which he stumbled, then on to world titles of their own.
He is bustling over that threshold.
Happy at last to leave Floyd Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao to occupy the stage which they turned into his scaffold.
Excited to be one among the many heading to that glittering Strip in the Nevada desert which was twice flooded by 30,000 of his roisterous English followers.
They say what happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas but there is nothing to prevent Hatton going back to retrieve that part of his soul which he left behind.
Mayweather and Pacquiao knocked him out, in their differing ways. America’s Money man with the accumulation of his ring genius, the Filipino PacMan by the application of his nuclear hitting power.
He will watch them dispute boxing’s mythical pound-for-pound throne – and bank their very real hundreds of millions – without envy.