The Ones Who Never Stop Playing

Football, at times, finds ways to speak to our memories. Portugal defeated Croatia in a flawed, tense match, riddled with errors and scares. They conceded first, then responded. They waited until the very last moment for Gonçalo Ramos' header, and then waited even longer for VAR to disallow Croatia's equalizer, sending the Seleção into the round of 16. Drama, euphoria, and relief – all rolled into one of those games where football seems to abandon logic and surrender to emotion. Perhaps because emotion was already on the field before the whistle blew.

The fixture list dictated that this knockout match would be played exactly one year after the passing of Diogo Jota. Some coincidences feel like they're penned by a novelist unable to control their emotions. The same date, the same red-clad country, the same national team remembering one of their own and striving to offer him a victory. It wasn't just about tactics; it was about memory, and Jota was called upon without needing a phone call.

Some believe the deceased are truly gone. Football teaches us otherwise. Great players continue to run within those who remain. Diogo Jota may not appear on the team sheet, but he continues to score goals in the soul of Portugal. He lives on in the pre-game embraces, in the tear-filled eyes of his teammates, in the jerseys raised to the sky, and in the stands where thousands of Portuguese transformed longing into a roar.

Many nations thrive on efficiency. Portugal thrives on hope. We are a peculiar people. We complicate the simple, suffer when we could rest, and turn every victory into an arduous journey. This time was no different. Because if it were, it wouldn't feel like us.

Late into the night, we once again endured missed passes, hasty decisions, and moments when Croatia seemed closer to their destiny.

But there's something profoundly Portuguese about believing when almost no one else does. Like facing the sea, knowing a storm is coming. Like singing fado without expecting sadness to disappear. We call it 'saudade,' resilience, heart. We call it many things. Whatever it is, it's what makes us push forward and believe when all seems lost. And we go. Grumbling, complaining, cursing this or that, but we go.

Football likes to explain itself through tactics, statistics, and science. All of that matters. But there are nights when no analysis can measure what truly decides a game. There's no graph for courage. No algorithm for memory. No artificial intelligence capable of calculating the weight of a name still uttered by millions simultaneously.

A nation isn't just made of those who breathe. It's also made of those who left a part of themselves in each of those who remain. Diogo Jota, watching us from above, continues to help Portugal win. Because there are victories that belong to everyone, and there are memories that defy death. As long as the country continues to speak his name, a part of him will always run alongside the national team.