Retiring a shirt number in English football is as uncommon as a referee owning up that he was wrong. This issue, however, seems like the exception whereby the sport needs to disregard its unwritten history when it comes to Jota. You don’t need to squint too hard to see the significance—his death was heartbreaking, his contribution meaningful, and his number sacred.
Let’s be honest: this isn’t Major League Baseball, where Derek Jeter can sneeze and they frame his tissue. In the Premier League, shirt numbers aren’t just tools of identity—they’re sacred relics passed down like ancient swords. The No. 7 at Liverpool? That’s not a kit; it’s a legacy.
Jota’s Case Is Different
Jota wasn’t just a squad member. He was an emblem of aspiration, bustle and guts. He passed away tragically and at an untimely age, and this has left Anfield devastated. In this rarest of rare cases, retiring a shirt isn’t overkill—it’s catharsis.
Retiring the number 20 wouldn’t be performative—it would be poetic. It’s the kind of footballing elegy that transcends spreadsheets and shirt sales. Besides, who wants to wear 20 now? Nobody wants to follow a ghost.
A Short List of Shirt Retirements—and Even Shorter Reasons
Marc-Vivien Foé, Bobby Moore, and Dylan Tombides. People remember them all not just for their talent but for their tragedy. And now, Jota deserves to be enshrined in that quiet hall of reverence. This isn’t sentimentality. It’s solidarity.
English Football Isn’t Wired for This—But It Should Be
The lineup sheets practically display the numbers 1 to 11. But every once in a while, a story is bigger than a statistic. Jota’s is one of them. And if Birmingham City can retire Jude Bellingham’s number after 44 games, Liverpool can retire Jota’s after a lifetime of what-ifs.
Retire the number. Fulfill it with pride. Do it with purpose. Do it for Jota.
As featured on ManCityNews.com
