The Death of a Favorite Player

RIP Diogo Jota

I’m a Liverpool Football Club fan. (“Football” is what Americans call soccer.) I haven’t missed a match in 25 years, and a Liverpool win or loss still makes or breaks my day.

One reason I enjoy footy is that as an activity it’s meaningless - players trying to move a ball around a field without using their hands. It’s a bit silly. But football is about grace and cleverness and skill, and like any great sport, the players’ personalities can be seen in the way they play.

As a fan, I get to know the players of my team. I watch them play every week. I track their training and their progression of their abilities. I can tell when they are suffering a lack of nerve, if they’re playing with pain, or if they’re brimming with confidence. The players’ ages usually range from mid-teens to late twenties, and as an older man I consider them surrogate sons of whom I feel great pride when they play well, and fret about when they are slumping.

I usually am not interested in their personal lives because …