You'll Never Walk Alone, Diogo
The strange intimacy of losing a footballer.
I search ‘Jota’ in my WhatsApp chat with my friend Varun. It shows 127 results. The last result is from today, 3 July 2025. We’re trying to process the tragic and sudden death of Liverpool footballer Diogo Jota. Devastating, heartbreaking, shocking, surreal. It feels so strange. We’re desperately hoping for this to be Twitter bullshit, fake news. No, it isn’t. Diogo, who just won the league with Liverpool, the Nations League with Portugal, and got married two weeks ago, is really gone. 28 years old. His brother, Andre Silva, 26, was also in the car. He too has died. We cannot imagine how their family must be feeling when we, who have never even met, are feeling devastated. A punch in the gut.
The first thing Varun and I bonded over in the first semester of first year of college was our love of football, and more importantly of Liverpool FC. It was our favourite club. There was no looking back. We’ve been watching Liverpool matches together for over ten years now. We have gone to screenings together, watched them at home, and most often, texted through them. Even as we grew up and life got busier, messier, and more adult, we still manage to catch most of the season. And most of it is accompanied by a running text commentary between the two of us.
I can’t believe we’re texting through this too.
I keep scrolling through the search and land on the match against Fulham last season. Jota was returning from nearly two months out with injury. He came on, twisted, turned, and finished clinically in the 86th minute to score Liverpool’s second equaliser. He was always a razor-sharp finisher, and despite being only 5 ft 10 in, he was a truly wonderful header of the ball. Football fans don't agree on much, but his exceptional heading ability was one thing that earned unanimous praise.
I remember screaming in my living room as my Arsenal supporting husband looked on in disbelief, a mix of amusement and horror. Liverpool were 10 men down, a goal down. Jota got us a point that day. It felt like magic. “Beauty is not the goal of competitive sports, but high-level sports are a prime venue for the expression of human beauty,” wrote David Foster Wallace in one of the greatest pieces of writing ever, Roger Federer as Religious Experience. On his day, and there were many, Jota was just that—a beautiful, sublime footballer to watch. It's a beauty that will be deeply, painfully missed.