There are days when football seems to matter more than anything else.
And then there are days like this—when it doesn’t matter at all.
Today, the scorelines blur. The colours on our shirts fade. Rivalries dissolve into irrelevance. Because grief has no allegiance. It does not care who you support, what you chant, or where you sit. It simply is. Heavy. Cruel. Unforgiving.
Today, we learned of the tragic passing of Diogo Jota. Twenty-eight years old. A father. A husband. A brother. A teammate. A talent. And above all, a man.
He was meant to be preparing for pre-season. Instead, the football world prepares to mourn.
It is hard to comprehend, let alone accept. A car accident. A flash. A moment. A tyre, they say. And then—stillness. Silence. Shock. Alongside him, his younger brother André, just 25, full of promise, full of life. A footballer too, following his own path with quiet determination. Two sons, taken. One family, utterly broken.
There is no script for this. No commentary that can do justice to the sorrow. But there is unity. There is grace. And there is love.
Tonight, it does not matter that he wore red in Liverpool, or that others among us bleed a different shade. Because tonight, every corner of the footballing globe will pause. Not for a player, but for a person. A husband, newly married. A young father with three children who will now grow up with only stories and songs. A brother, a son, a friend.
And when the rawness has softened—and it will, as time cruelly insists it must—we will celebrate the way he played: fearlessly, selflessly, joyously. We will remember the goals, yes. The movement, the menace, the mercurial flash of brilliance. But more than that, we will remember the man. The one who smiled even when it hurt. Who grafted for his place. Who never stopped running—for club or country.
Liverpool FC called it an “unimaginable loss.” And perhaps that’s the only line that truly captures this: there are no words. Only the aching echo of what should have been.
So tonight, hold your loved ones tighter. Whisper gratitude into the stillness. And if you are of faith, say a prayer. If you are not, spare a thought. For Rute, now a widow. For those three children. For a family mourning not one, but two beautiful souls lost on the same devastating day.
Football is just a game. But Diogo Jota made it beautiful. And the world is poorer without him.
Sleep well, number 20.
You’ll Never Walk Alone.