Making Sense of the Surreal and Cruel Death of Diogo Jota

(And failing)

I’m still trying to process the absolutely shocking news about Diogo Jota, who died in a car crash along with his brother.

Football clubs ‘lose’ players all the time: to injury, to other clubs, to retirement.

They don’t often lose players like this, albeit Munich in 1958 was one of those where half a team tragically died – Busby’s Babes – and with similar disasters at other times, such as in 2016 with the Chapecoense team. (Or, lots of deaths of fans in stadium disasters, as we know only too well.)

I’ve spent the summer fixating over who will join the club as a new striker, with Jota someone I’d never want to see leave.

Now is clearly not the time to think about replacing him, and in many senses you cannot replace someone like that. But it’s just so surreal that this has happened, even if people die in crashes of all kinds, all the time, as my family knows so first-hand.

Jota was a sensational player, lessened at times by injuries, but often bouncing back. He also has an amazing song, that will surely be sung for years to come, maybe in the 20th minute of every game. Having that song made him even more special, somehow.

In some ways he can be immortalised, as he went out as a champion with Liverpool, with the apposite no.20 on his shirt, and with another trophy with Portugal.

He had only just got married. While that makes it worse in some ways, it’s also a blessing that such a special day took place; somehow, on the eve of a wedding would have been even worse, I feel. But either way, it’s still terrible.

He’ll never decline as a footballer, never wonder what to do with his life; albeit his eSports career was impressive too. He went out at the very top of life, making a positive impact on millions of lives. I can’t express the joy he gave me, watching him at his best; a unique player, full of grit and guile.

I’m just one person, and I’ll remember him forever.

Life is fragile. My own life was shaped by fatal and then near-fatal road traffic accidents a decade apart, in 1956 and 1966. It showed me the legacy of pain a tragedy can leave, and how grief is passed down via generations.

First, my aunt – my mum’s older sister – was 21 and newly married when she was killed, on the way to Liverpool from London. It was an accident on a greasy bit of road, and from the back of her husband’s skidding motorbike she went under the wheels of an oncoming car.

Last year on my personal Substack (that life has got in the way of me returning to writing for, so far), I wrote about the incredible story I uncovered, not least as the driver, then unknown, later became famous for the pioneering work he did in the late ‘40s:

How the Inventor of the Computer Killed My Aunt

(By the time I found all this out, he had died just a few years earlier, in his 90s, and there were full-page obituaries for him in major newspapers. I wanted to ask him what happened, from his point of view, but I imagine he was traumatised too, as this bike skidded in front of him in the dark, and a woman he’d never met died instantaneously.)

The first person I went to call this morning to tell her about Diogo was my mum – but of course, she died a few months ago (after a good life, aged 87, which is no tragedy; but obviously you grieve all the same). She became a Liverpool fan through me, and Jota was one of her favourites.

I still go to text her every day before remembering; and did so especially during the run-in, and then on the day the title was sealed, then when the trophy was presented.

I cried my eyes out at Trent Alexander-Arnold’s post-match interview about leaving – not because I idolise him (I’m 54, dammit), but months of emotions had built up in me, and I felt a horrible tension that he would be booed against Palace, which would have been as brutal as in the previous game (but where, as a returning Real Madrid player, booing him would be natural).

I put myself in his shoes and just felt overwhelmed. In that moment, I felt the journey of a little boy growing into a man and taking on a new challenge, and feeling the potential wrath of those who had ‘loved’ him (without, of course, ever properly knowing him).

I’ve never cried at Liverpool’s successes, or failures. Even at Istanbul, hugging my friends, I was elated, but not in tears. Titles lost on final days? No problem. Dejection, but no sobbing.

But I blubbed like a baby. I was also in the middle of a stressful house move (which, after starting the process last summer, fell through a third time in the spring, and then fell through a fourth time recently, to the point where I’ve now given up). It felt like the end of an era in some ways; for me, at least.

I’m sure others felt the pain of not being able to share that 20th league title with people no longer alive, and it was all tied in.

Even the parade, that remarkable tumult of red, turned joy to shock; another surreally unthinkable event, a car used as a weapon, either in choice or in panic. Thankfully no one died, but for a while it felt like many could. Again, winning the title suddenly seemed unimportant.

But life goes on, for those of us left behind.

My mum never talked about her sister’s death, as none of the family spoke of it; but her younger sister, who herself died at Christmas (and which I had to phone to tell my mum), told me stuff a few years back, via my cousin, and sent some photos.

I never even knew what my aunt looked like, as photos were too painful to have on display. The rest of the details I looked up in newspaper archives, finding reports from the coroner’s inquest, and finally telling my mum in 2021, 65 years after it happened, that her then-new brother-in-law was not, as the family always assumed, to blame.

And I’m only here because my mum was nearly killed in a car crash in 1966, as her date for the evening overtook at a junction, and crashed into an oncoming car; he limped away, she broke her back, arm, leg, jaw, nose, cheekbones and much more. The date sent flowers, but my dad, who she’d dated in the past, turned up at the hospital to visit. They got back together, after my mum spent six weeks in traction, while my dad went to the World Cup Final (I still have all his tickets for the tournament).

And the insurance paid for a good chunk of the three-bed end terrace we grew up in, otherwise I’d have grown up in dingy flat nearby, without the garden in which I was able to play for hours with a football or tennis ball, dribbling around the washing line.

Good can often come from bad; but sometimes, it’s just bad.

That night in 1966 my grandparents were frantic, as they waited to see if my mum would survive, or if they’d lose a second daughter prematurely.

Life is precious, so precious. As an aside, the churchyard where my parents’ ashes are interred has two old graves marked the day after the 1966 World Cup Final; two young children, born a couple of years apart, who died on the same day. I assumed it was something like a car crash, but I recently researched it via online newspapers. They died when on holiday, when a sandy cliff collapsed onto them as they played, at a time of national celebration.

England win the World Cup, you’re on holiday, and days later you’re burying your children.

After my aunt’s death aged 21, my grandparents and their other children couldn’t face hearing the details, and where my nan’s pain was eased with alcohol, not by talking. That was the working-class way. She drank and drank, and eventually died of cirrhosis of the liver.

We’re much better at talking about things these days as a society, but it’s still hard to know what to say a lot of the time. We know it’s okay to talk; we just have zero clue as to what is appropriate. In some ways, we’re as afraid as ever of saying the wrong thing.

Before I deleted my Twitter account a year or two ago, I used to feel this strange pressure to comment on the death of anyone famous who had died (“RIP, Person X”), out of respect and social niceties; but at times I felt a genuine need to express what someone – such as Mark Hollis of the band Talk Talk – meant to me.

I felt it more recently with Martin Amis, whose work hasn’t aged well in many ways (albeit his characters were never meant to pleasant, but often comic grotesques, and it was a different era), but who still wrote the best-ever sentences, that sparked my love of writing at the age of 18, having grown up in a house without books.

“Cities at night, I feel, contain men who cry in their sleep and then say Nothing. It's nothing. Just sad dreams. Or something like that ... Swing low in your weep ship, with your tear scans and sob probes, and you would mark them.” The Information.

And of course, the Liverpool legends who shaped my youth, some of whom have died at a pretty normal (later) stage of life. Many are still alive. Most of those who have passed away were not ones I saw live when I started going to games in 1990, or even the ones I watched on TV in the 1980s. But a lot of the 1970s’ team have gone now.

While I clearly lived beyond it, my own life was later turned upside down at the age of 28, with a diagnosis of M.E., a condition from which I’ve never recovered, but have made a living as a writer (as something I can do from home). My life has been severely limited since the age of 28, when I had to give up my design career and stop playing football, but I’m also fortunate enough to have experienced so many of best moments in life since the age of 28.

(While this isn’t about me, I can only process sadness and grief through my own experiences, and try to share a perspective that may be of some value, to some.)

And looking back, I was so immature at 28, in terms of experience and knowledge, and all the good things that lay ahead – like becoming a father and having this new career, even if the years after 28 would also include divorce, subsequent relationships blossoming and eventually breaking down, new health problems (like glaucoma, and back issues, and the perils of ageing), and the inevitable deaths of my parents. No one ever said life was going to be easy.

Dammit, 28 is so young.

At times since the age of 28 I’ve wished that I was dead, but usually I’ve slept on it (the best advice to anyone is to sleep on it, which often helps reset the mind) and woke up the next morning glad to still be alive. Diogo doesn’t have that luxury, and I just hope that he didn’t suffer too much. The ones left behind suffer the most.

And let’s be clear: some of my best moments have come since the age of 28 and relate to Liverpool FC, such as friends paying for and flying me out to Istanbul while they took the coach; the remarkable Jürgen Klopp years, and now the Arne Slot era. In 1999, Liverpool were pretty shit, and had been on and off for nine years. I’d been there in 1998 to see Steven Gerrard come on as a sub for his debut, but no one realised just how good he’d become.

I find it hard to maintain friendships in real life, as most of my existence is online these days (and a lot of my IRL friends are spread far and wide, and have families and busy jobs), and writing to pay my bills via this site takes a lot of my daily energy, but occasionally going to games with my old mates is a visceral thrill.

Seeing someone like Diogo Jota in the flesh was a privilege.

This morning, when I saw the notification of ten new comments on the site within a minute, I knew something was breaking. In reverse order I saw words about it being tragic, and unbearable, and surreal, and to rest in peace, but I hadn’t yet seen who was being referred to, and assumed it was one of the older legends. I had to scroll down to find the initial posts.

Even now, it still makes no sense.

I want to go and watch Diogo’s highlights, his goals, and drink in his brilliance; yet also, can I bear to do so? I’m not sure I could cope right now. It will just make him feel all the more alive, make his death seem like a lie.

I loved Jota as a player, jinking past defenders and sliding the ball into the corner while giving the keeper the eyes, or rising with a great leap to thump a header home. When on form, he was a ruthless finisher. But either way, he always gave 100%, always tried to make things happen. He smiled a lot, but took things seriously.

He just seemed like a really nice guy. Of all the Liverpool players, he’s probably the one I’d most liked to have had a beer (or coffee) with. He seemed both down to earth and also smart and sharp.

A well-known eSports person who subscribes to TTT noted on the site:

“I have had the pleasure to meet Diogo through work done in esports (he had an esports team, and one of his players actually won the Esports World Cup in EA FC in 2024). He was warm, genuine and humble. He was also approachable. I exchanged a bunch of texts with him in private when most of the ‘business’ was concluded.

“It is always a great shame when someone young passes. It's a tragedy when a genuinely lovely person and a father of three passes. RIP Diogo. I wish I could be at the next Anfield game to sing his song.”

Today, football doesn’t matter. But it will again.

It will return, as the most important of the least important things, or the least important of the most important things.

We will use football to get over our grief over the loss of a footballer.

But one thing I’ve learnt in life is summed up by a line from a song inspired by the writer sitting next to a man on a plane, and the man explaining that he had just survived the sinking of the Estonia, that killed 852 people (in 1994).

“No one leaves you / When you live in their heart and mind”

I’ve thought about this line a lot lately, when I think of my mum, who is still “alive” in my mind and heart. I don’t believe that spirits live on in their own way, but they live on in others, as memories and feelings and deeds, and in abiding love.

Diogo Jota will do just that, in a way many of us can never dream of. Yet his death at 28 still feels unspeakably cruel, and perversely premature.

Beyond that, I really don’t know what to say.

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