He was ten years old, and already there was something in the way he moved. Not fast, not flashy but exact. The short legs of a boy of that age and the long instincts of a born natural, stepping into Phoenix ABC in Nottingham and finding, to his surprise and no one else’s, that the ring fit him like a second skin. Boxing didn’t claim him. It recognised him.

The gym smelled of polished purpose. The leather was old, but the lessons were permanent. In that crucible of breath and bruises, Chris Slatcher boxed 57 times. Won national titles. Became the first fighter from Phoenix to wear the England vest. The club, raised a lion. And then came the others: Froch. Wood. Daws. But first is always Slatcher.

He stopped boxing and started building. with grace, not bought. But brick by brick, habit by habit. In 2022, he started his own gym. No website launch, no manifesto. and even today when I tried to drive to his gym I could not easily find it, but its there, large and very busy, standing on the boxing landscape as a cathedral of skill to be marvelled at through its achievements. Yet back then at the very start it was Just a ring and a mission. In its first season: produced national champions. I asked Chris: How many? He doesn’t quite remember. “Six? Maybe eight?” He remembers their nerves, not their medals. That tells you everything.

In those early, uncertain months, there was Clare Lynch, who knew him long before he had callouses or corners to command. He had come, as a boy, to her father’s gym in Braunstone — came to spar, stayed over, formed friendships that refused to fade. When Chris needed help in the shape of a secretary, matchmaker, chaos-tamer Clare said yes, and didn’t blink. Because Slatcher is a rare kind of man: impossible to say no to for reasons that have nothing to do with pressure and everything to do with principle.

His day job is also that of a leader and a mentor. A teacher in an alternative provision school. Maths, English, boxing. In that order, though all three carry equal weight. His students are the castaways of the education system, told they are too much, or not enough. And yet, under Chris’s guidance, they show up. They stay. They try. Because he does.

Years ago, he moved to Spain, studying the language for two years before living and working there for five. Not for the romance of the coastlines, but for the lesson of discomfort. He worked among South Americans, among Spaniards, among people who did not speak English and did not care. Chris adapted, absorbed, delivered. He made himself understood by the purity of his presence. and that rare ability to speak another language fluently.

It would be remiss not to mention that Chris is, rather inconveniently, very handsome in that maddening, ageing-backwards sort of way. The George Clooney / Brad Pitt of the boxing world, if Clooney swapped red carpets for gum shields. Other men shake their heads and laugh. The women beam a smile little longer than necessary. But the most disarming thing about it all is that Chris is entirely unaware of it. No posing, no posturing too focused on the tasks of coaching. 

It’s no exaggeration to say that both the England national team and Team GB would welcome Chris Slatcher as one of their own. He has the pedigree, the talent, and the respect of everyone who matters in the sport. But Chris isn’t interested in prestige. Given the choice between coaching at an international camp or driving a novice with no bouts to a small show in Riddings, he’s already in the car, playlist set, water bottle packed. That’s the man: loyal to the beginner, uninterested in the spotlight, and utterly committed to the journey — however long, however quiet.

He could be a regional coach. Could be on the council. He isn’t. He won’t be. Not out of modesty though it can be, but out of clarity. when I have asked him repeatedly he should stand in elections his replay is always the same He is where he’s needed in the gym, not the boardroom. In the corner, not the committee. And in the off-season, in Spain again, with Paula.

Let us speak of Paula properly. For over thirty years, she has shared him with the sport. With no envy, no complaint. She has seen him leave the house exhausted and return hoarse from corners. She has heard every name but his chanted after wins, and never asked for more. What boxing doesn’t say out loud is this: without people like Paula, the sport collapses.

And there are two others who deserve to be spoken of: his daughters, Moly and Poppy. Two extraordinary young women who have also shared their father not with jealousy, but with grace. Who have watched him give his time and tenderness to countless young boxers, many of whom never had a father-figure of their own. Moly and Poppy have lent him to the world, and their generosity has gone unsung. Until now. Because only a father can offer what Chris offers — and only daughters like his could let him do it.

So when people ask, as they occasionally do, “Who should lead the region?” they know the answer before the question is done forming.

But Chris Slatcher will be at the gym, not hearing them. He’ll be holding mitts. He’ll be speaking softly. He’ll be making champions. Not always of records. But of people.