The Gut Punch

The death of Diogo Jota cast a sudden cloud of silence and grief over football in England yesterday.

It was the only phrase that really felt appropriate, really. Because that’s just about what it felt like, a dull, blunt thump from out of the blue, right into the middle of the solar plexus. It was was disorienting and confusing. It didn't make any sense. And none of us really knew what to say.

What is there to say about something so unspeakable, so horrific, so appalling on so many levels? The sudden death of Diogo Jota and his brother in a car accident leaves you wondering whether it could possibly have been somehow engineered to be as cruel as possible, even though you know at a base level that this is just the often cruelly random nature of the universe.

I’m not here to talk about the specifics of what happened, to dissect the incident itself, or even really to discuss his merits as a professional footballer. We all know what a rarefied degree of talent he had. We all know that he was effectively a magician - he was certainly an illusionist - with the ball at his feet. He was a hustler and bustler, a player with edge and guile. He was a brilliant footballer.

That in itself both means everything and nothing, today. His talent with a ball with his feet will be his public legacy. But there have also already today been tributes to his qualities as a human being. These will be less publicly visible, but if we do have to rank such things, they’re probably even more important than his preternatural ability with a football.

This is a human tragedy, and an eerie silence fell over the game in the wake of the news; multiple layers of tragedy, all intersecting. So much pain, for so many people. It was all too much to take in. We all felt it, but few others will have felt is keenly as the supporters of the clubs for whom he paid. It felt like a hammer blow to those of us who don’t support those clubs. All I can do is send love to those who are feeling in pain by today’s news.

And then there is his family, those who will have felt it more than anybody, an unbelievable weight of grief dropped on three generations at the same time; on his parents, who have lost two children, his wife, and his children. It is to be hoped that in time they can find some measure of peace from this cruel act of violence. It's a hope you have to hang onto, because the alternative is so unthinkably awful.

But there is something else to say about the reaction to it all. For all that we may scoff at the use of any clicheed phrase, football is a family, and today even the banter merchants seemed to fall quiet. There has been something really striking about such a solid show of solidarity between supporters of clubs of all colours, especially in such divisive times.

The world is a dangerous place at the moment, so perhaps it's appropriate, at a time such as this, to take a step back from the hatred and violence of it all. Both the outside world and with the game of football are increasingly angry these days and seems to be our collective position these days, something that will end in tears. We should pause for thought.

We're trying to make sense of something that simply does not make sense. That's human nature. And perhaps football actually coming together doesn't count for a hill of beans in comparison with the horror that caused that coming together, but it does count for an iota of something. But it’s no consolation. It’s no consolation at all.