Eric Little retweetledi
On the eve of the new season without Diogo, it’s hard not to think of all we’ve lost.
He’d just gotten married. Just lifted a Premier League title. Just scored the kind of derby goal that seals legacies. He wasn’t slowing down. He was entering his prime. Stepping into a new chapter under Slot, with creativity ready to reshape the attack. Imagine how many more chances he’d have had. How many he’d had taken. And now he’s gone. Alongside his younger brother André. A crash. A loss. A silence.
And somehow, a song.
In the days since, it hasn’t stopped playing in my head. His chant. That melody. That feeling. That rhythm we sang for him - not because we were told, not because the club hyped it, but because he made us want to. Because he earned it. Because he never asked.
There’s a type of footballer Liverpool fans adore. The ones who don’t chase headlines. Who get knocked down, get back up and get on with it. Who don’t beg for love, but get it anyway because they show up. Jota was exactly that.
Not the most followed on Instagram. Not the most marketable. Not the flashiest boots. But he turned up - in the big games, the tight games, the moments where others went missing.
Think about it. Spurs at Anfield. Wolves away. City, Arsenal, United. Forest in the Cup. Forest away in the league with his first touch. He didn’t pad stats. He changed outcomes. When we needed a goal, needed a break, needed a bloody miracle, Jota was there. Half a yard. Back post. Low finish. Boom.
He wasn’t loud. But he was always heard. That’s what made the chant perfect.
Most songs are for stars. Jota wasn’t that. Didn’t want to be. But we sang. And it stuck.
Born out of love, but also joy. A happy song with a bounce, a rhythm, and unmistakably his.
He sang it too. Remember that moment? One arm in the air, laughing, half-shouting the words back to the fans. Not a man obsessed with his own brand, just someone overwhelmed that people cared.
That’s the thing. He didn’t need the adoration, which made us give it more freely.
He had a knack for goals that felt bigger than they should - ones that didn’t just change the scoreline but shifted the mood. Not always the opener. Not always the headline. But the one that tipped the balance, cracked the tension, made you believe again. That was Jota. The one that tilted everything.
He played like a man who knew the value of time. That urgency. That snap. It makes a grim kind of sense now. He didn’t waste minutes. He squeezed them. Like they mattered. Like he knew.
My favourite Jota goal is also my least favourite, because I took it for granted. I was so caught up in the relief, in the emotion. We’d kept the gap to Arsenal. The title was on the brink. The derby was being won. That was what mattered - the result, the breathing space. Number 20. Not Jota.
I thought I had time. Thought I’d see it again and again. That’s the thing - we take things for granted. We plan them like certainties. Assume there’ll always be a next time. But there isn’t.
That goal sums him up. Liverpool were flat. I was convinced we might not score. It felt like Goodison two months before, tension clinging to everything. But Jota shifted it. His will to win, that tenacity, that instinct, dragged the ball into the net. That was the difference. That was Diogo. A real winner. A match-definer.
His brother André, who wasn’t just family but his best friend. Diogo once said André was his favourite player to watch. That says everything.
And Rute’s words - “One month of our ‘until death do us part’. Forever, your white girl” - have broken the entire fanbase. Because the love was real. And the loss is total.
You don’t retire numbers for just anyone. Liverpool never had. Until now.
There are tribute programmes and the banners and black-and-white images of him lifting the Premier League trophy. But what hits hardest is that the chant doesn’t stop.
It’s on loop.
And that’s how it should be. And we’ll sing it now for a hundred years. For Diogo.❤️🇵🇹
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