How Big Floyd turned Hitman into a work of art

Floyd Mayweather talks about his shooting, painting, his son and why he's second to none
Ricky Hatton and Floyd Mayweather Sr
Floyd Mayweather Sr puts Ricky Hatton through his paces in training. Photograph: John Gichigi/Getty Images

"I don't know anyone else in the whole world with my talent," Floyd Mayweather Sr says as a look of amazement spreads across his battered old face. "In fact I want you to come over to my house tonight so I can show you why I ain't just a boxing trainer. Yeah, I'm transforming Ricky Hatton into a moving, grooving, thinking fighter. But that is just one tiny piece of a huge story. You get me?"

It's pretty easy to "get" the 56-year-old trainer, the rheumy-eyed strategist barking out commands at Hatton in between spinning me wild yarns about his brutally vivid life as a former fighter and drug dealer. This is a man, after all, who has been shot, jailed and bitterly estranged from his son, Floyd Mayweather Jr. Little Floyd, who recently retired with his status cemented as the world's outstanding boxer of the last decade, is the only fighter to have beaten Hatton. The way in which he dismantled and then knocked out the British "Hitman" was so startling that it eventually led to the recruitment of Floyd Sr into the Hatton camp.

Their surreal working relationship has unfolded down a suburban side street in Las Vegas. A makeshift gym at the bottom of a raggedy yard has echoed with a strange amalgam of Mancunian accents and Mayweather's American-gangster drawl. Mayweather claims he has the "supreme tactical ability and ring knowledge" to remodel Hatton's aggressive style so that he emerges tonight in Vegas as a more considered boxer against the slick Paulie Malignaggi. "I've been teaching Ricky that, after you punch, you gotta slip and move so you ain't rooted to the spot. That's why Ricky took so many punches in the past. But he's improving fast under my expert teaching. How could he not?"

And then, as is his way, whether issuing invitations to dinner or describing his life on the street, Mayweather turns an intimate conversation into an address to the world beyond. He scoops up my recorder and rhymes a few more husky words in homage to himself. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he says in the slurring rap of a man who is deeply amused by himself, "this is Floyd Joy Mayweather Sr, former fighter/now poetic writer/I will shock your mind/because I'm one of a kind/I'm the best in the north, south, east or west/I'm electrified, qualified/And that's got the world petrified, hypnotised and mesmerised/I'm the man of the hour/And too sweet to be sour."

Mayweather can cut an unsettling figure. He once chilled a New York Times reporter who timidly asked him why he had gone to prison. "Dealing coke," Mayweather snarled. "You wanna buy some?" It was meant as a joke but it summed up Mayweather's zany capacity for intimidation. Yet now, delighting in a British audience for his unique brand of showmanship, Mayweather is studiously charming.

When he hears I've got a plane to catch and so won't be able to talk to him about modern art over a "crazy hot" stir-fry at his house, on the north side of Vegas, Mayweather pats my arm. "I understand, man, but my work is incredible. Everything great about me comes out in my art. I'm second to none as a painter. Some of my paintings take two months."

So what kind of paintings does he produce? "I've got two pictures of Muhammad Ali. Two pictures of Bruce Lee. I've got a picture of Elvis Presley. They're all masterpieces."

But, perhaps, not quite in the style of Jackson Pollock? "My shit is way better. Next time you gotta see for yourself."

Mayweather becomes more serious when reflecting on his fractured family. "Painting gives me peace of mind because it's been a wild ride. I remember the day I got shot with a 20A shotgun. January 21st, 1978. The feller who shot me was the brother of Little Floyd's mother. He was staying in our house and I told him it was time to get his ass out. He reached for his shotgun to blow my head off. So I picked up Little Floyd, who was only one, and held him in front of me."

The trainer scowls as, stretching his arms towards me, he acts out the scene. "I says, 'Go ahead, motherfucker', thinking he ain't gonna shoot a baby. His sister tries to grab Little Floyd but I push her away. I'm still holding my son so this joker blasts my leg. Look what he gone and done."

Mayweather rolls up his trouser leg to show the great big dents of flesh where the bullets hit him. "You could put your whole fist through there," he says, pointing to the largest old wound. "They were gonna take the leg off when I got to hospital. But in the end I had five surgeries and, before a year had gone, I was back in the ring. Still, it didn't seem fair when he got six months for shooting me while, later, I got five and a half years for some dealing."

Two of those years were wiped from his sentence for good behaviour and after Mayweather completed an anti-drug programme. "I came out a wiser man. It was hard, but I can deal with anything. That's why even Little Floyd can't get to me."

When his father was in jail Little Floyd continued boxing. His uncle Roger, Floyd Sr's brother, became his new trainer. The difficult relationship between father and son plummeted when Little Floyd refused to leave Roger once Floyd Sr was released. "It got worse," Mayweather Sr grunts.

"Little Floyd kicked me out of his house. I was paying him rent but he did that. What he and Roger forget is that Little Floyd owes everything to me. I taught him to fight. He got my blood inside him."

He looks away when I suggest that, deep down, their estrangement must be a source of immense pain. Mayweather shifts in his seat and then shrugs. "I don't have time to wreck my brain over something I can't control. I don't have a relationship with my son. That must be the way he likes it. If something happens to him, I'll be there. But, until then, it's up to him to come to me."

What hurts him most about the break-up? "Well," Mayweather smiles sadly, "I've got two grandchildren whose names I don't even know. Little Floyd's eldest kids, Koraun, his first son, and Iyanna, his daughter, they know me. I might get a chance now and then to see Iyanna. She's seven and real sweet. But I don't know his other son's name. I don't know his younger daughter's name."

Big Floyd looks briefly stricken and, to lighten the mood, I suggest he looks in pretty good shape for a grandad. Mayweather pulls up his shirt. "Feel my stomach, man," he grins, displaying his flat belly.

Declining another opportunity to get to know Big Floyd a little better, I ask him how long his son's current retirement will last. "Not too long. He's gonna run out of millions one day. He'll be back."

There has been hopeful talk this week that, should he beat Malignaggi, Hatton could face Oscar De La Hoya next summer at Wembley with the winner meeting Little Floyd, who has beaten both of them already, on his return.

"I also trained Oscar," Mayweather murmurs, "so I know Ricky's got a shot against him if he keeps with me and stays in decent shape between fights. Little Floyd is different. I don't mind training Ricky to fight my son but Floyd is real smart. I don't know if Ricky can learn enough to ever beat Floyd. I taught Little Floyd a whole lot longer than I'm ever gonna be able to teach Ricky. We might not be talking but, one thing you gotta say about Little Floyd, the kid can fight. Sometimes, y'know, he looks almost as good as his daddy."

Hatton v Malignaggi is exclusively live on Sky Box Office and Sky Box Office HD