Loss

On the tragic loss of Diogo Jota and André Silva.

There’s news that stops you in your tracks. And then there is a story like this, a moment that leaves you reeling, clutching for answers, trying to make sense of it all.

The passing of Diogo Jota and his brother André is an utter tragedy. It’s a moment that breaks down all sporting barriers and leaves you wondering what it’s all about. That life can be so cruel. That you can have everything you could ever wish for and it can be pulled away from you in a millisecond.

It’s a human who was beloved by many, known across the world, who leaves behind a loving wife and three beautiful children. He had just gotten married. When we laugh and cry about our favourite sports teams, when we live and die by results and transfers and inconsequential nonsense, it’s moments like this that bring you back down to earth, a timely reminder that life is short and to cherish what we have while it’s still around.

But just as it pulls away the fragments of sport that we consider important, it’s a reminder that sport itself is an extremely powerful vehicle for togetherness, for uniting rivals and providing support and comfort in a time of need. The outpouring across the world has been devastating but lifting. Not just in its scale, but in its sincerity. So many tributes, words, fond memories from those who knew Jota and his brother, André, or didn’t.

In these moments of loss, the strongest elements of sport comes to the fore. It helps lift everyone and provides thousands of shoulders to cry on. It becomes a candlelight vigil outside the stands, a mural on a wall, a minute’s silence before kickoff, a jersey held high. It becomes support from rival fans, solidarity across nations, tributes from people who never met either man but feel the weight of their absence. Aching hearts for a family that has lost far, far too much.

Anecdotes, photos, and fond memories. Stories from those who knew them intimately, and stories from those who didn’t know them at all, but knew what they stood for. The kindness, the talent, the joy.

The loss of these sporting brothers will reverberate for years to come. At Anfield, Jota’s song will be chanted for as long as football exists in that city. His name and number will be immortalised at the club. As I read elsewhere - he dies an active Liverpool player, forever immortal. He didn’t retire, he wasn’t sold, he died with his boots on - a Liverpool player forevermore.

It’ll likely never feel the same again and it’ll be extremely difficult for the players and club to move forward. There will be an eerie feeling when pre-season training returns, an empty locker as a painful reminder anytime the players get changed. There’ll be match lineups without his name. Players will lift each other up and try and rally his loss into something positive, try to carry his spirit forward, will speak of legacy and purpose.

But when the stadium quietens, and all that remains is the silence and the ache, his absence will be felt all over again, heavy and hollow. It will hang around the hearts of his teammates, his friends, fans in the stands and most pertinently, his family that are left behind, the loved ones who bury their two beloved brothers, far too young.

This is the kind of loss that doesn’t have answers. It won’t get easier. But perhaps sport can help us carry it. Not by moving on, but moving forward together.

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After a run of 26 straight Tuesdays, we’re going to take a little mid-summer pause for the next few weeks while I work on some other things. Thanks to everyone for subscribing and following along - the support has been hugely appreciated, and I’ll see you all very soon.