On the quiet morning of July 4, inside the towering halls of Liverpool Cathedral, a sense of heartbreak hung in the air. The crowd—composed of football fans, grieving teammates, and family—sat motionless, wrapped in mourning. As Diogo Jota’s coffin, draped in a Liverpool FC flag, lay at the altar, no words were spoken. Only the soft echo of footsteps could be heard as Ed Sheeran, dressed in a simple black suit, stepped forward with his wooden guitar in hand.
There was no spotlight. No fanfare. Just Ed, the silence, and the gentle wind whispering through the cathedral’s high arches. Then came the first quiet strum of “Supermarket Flowers,” a song Sheeran originally wrote for his late mother. On this day, it became something else entirely—a farewell to a footballer, a hero, and a beloved man whose life had been cut tragically short.
“I hope I see the world as you did…” Ed sang, his voice faltering with emotion. Around him, the mourners lowered their heads, some clutching tissues, others each other. It was a moment of raw humanity, where lyrics and loss intertwined, echoing through every corner of the historic church.
In the front row, Jota’s wife sat holding their young son tightly. The boy was too little to understand the magnitude of what was happening, but instinctively, he clung to his mother, sensing the pain. Nearby, players including Virgil van Dijk, Mohamed Salah, and Trent Alexander-Arnold sat in solemn silence. Their faces were expressionless, but their red, swollen eyes said everything.
Jurgen Klopp was there too, hunched quietly in his seat, clutching a small Bible. The man who had once guided Jota from the sidelines now sat powerless, humbled by grief. The coach who had shouted instructions, given praise, and celebrated goals was now just another mourner saying goodbye to a man he had respected deeply.
As the final chords faded into silence, Ed Sheeran rested a hand over his heart and addressed Jota’s family. “I’m not just a fan of Jota’s talent… my daughter loves him too,” he said, voice trembling. “Yesterday, she asked me, ‘Daddy, is Jota playing football in heaven?’… and I believe he is.”
There were no cheers, no applause—just tears. The unspoken ache in the room was louder than any chant ever sung at Anfield. When the pallbearers rose to carry Jota’s coffin out of the cathedral, the sound of bells accompanied them, a hauntingly beautiful farewell.
Outside, thousands of fans had gathered along the route from the cathedral to Anfield. Many wore Jota’s No. 20 shirt, holding banners that read “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” They wept, they sang, and they promised to remember—not just the striker, but the man behind the goals.
Diogo Jota’s passing left a hole in the world of football. But as Ed Sheeran’s song reminded everyone that morning, love, like music, endures beyond death. And somewhere, perhaps on a field in the sky, Jota is still playing, still loved, and never alone.
