The loss of Diogo Jota and his brother, André Silva, so suddenly and tragically has affected us all. Ripples were felt in our Liverpool-supporting communities as well as in the football world more broadly, though of course as we all were sent reeling the unimaginable pain of Jota’s new wife, Rute, and three children, as well as his and André’s wider families and friends seemed at once palpable and unthinkable. There was simply too much to conceive of at once, and the tributes from current and former Liverpool players and managers kept hitting throughout the day with heartbreaking, individual articulations of grief.
There is no such thing as an “easy” loss; even when someone’s passing is expected the feelings that come in the wake are complicated, and there is no full way to prepare. Nonetheless, the sudden loss of two young men — two brothers — is a shock hard to put into words.
The outpouring of tributes from those who knew Jota as a player have spoken to his immense quality as both a player and a man. The folk memorial that is ever-growing around Anfield gives us a visual and communal site to gather and remember a man who gave us so much joy as fans. The snatches of Everton blue and the red, white, and black of Manchester United speak to a tragedy felt by all of us, beyond petty battle lines.
A loss like this can be difficult to comprehend. As videos of Jota continue to circulate — all full of life and joy and good memories — it is hard to believe that he’s gone, that someone so alive will never again grace us with such pure footballing delight. We did not ourselves know Jota, and yet his loss feels so personal because he feels like one of us; in bringing us so much happiness, he was a part of our community, one built around football. Indeed, he had a firm hand in building it.
As Jürgen Klopp said amidst another tragedy, “Football is the most important of the least important things.” The game, the sporting aspect, is just a bit of fun. Silverware and other accolades recognize dedication and hard work and tenacity, and of course those things matter. But football makes its meaning in everything else: in memories, in connections, in communities. Winning doesn’t matter as much as who you’re with when you do it, something we should all perhaps remember a bit more often.
I mourn the loss of Diogo Jota so deeply not because I feel I have a personal claim to him in the way that his family and friends do, but because even from such a distance the man that he was did so much to shape my life over the past few years. His loss is and will continue to be felt, for me, in memories of particularly joyful moments. In celebrations. In bright colors and messy scrums in the stands.
I also can’t help but think about what to do with these feelings as we move forward. So much about grief is about celebrating someone’s life — in the words of Hanif Abdurraqib, “To offer gratitude for the fullness of whatever years someone chose to have their life intersect with your own.” Jota brought us so much joy, so much fun. I hope in his memory that I can hold onto the joy a bit better in the moment. In life and in football it can be hard to live in moments of joy without worrying about what’s coming next. We often dwell too much in the bad moments, the mistakes, the poor performances. For my part, I hope to be a bit kinder, to extend a bit more grace to others. Football itself is far less important than the people it brings into our lives.
The online book of condolence for Diogo Jota is available from the club here.