A Crazy Story

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We’re in a café in Braga, eating pancakes with yoghurt. 

Me and a friend. It’s 2018. I’m playing for Porto, but on this day I’m chilling in my hometown in northern Portugal. It’s spring, the sun is out. I’m about to grab another bite of pancake when my friend leans over the table and says, “Listen ……….. someone’s gonna call.”

I’m like, “Someone?”

“You’re gonna freak out.”

“What? Who???”

“Mourinho.”

“Shut up.”

You see, my friend is working with my agent at the time. I’m 19, and I have just made it into the Porto senior team. So far we have talked to directors from other clubs, but never directly to a manager. A little later, his phone rings, and he passes it to me. I grab it and run out to the other side of the road. When I pick up, it is him. José Mourinho. 

And he is saying everything I want to hear. I’m talented. I’m strong. “I just needed one test,” he says. He was analysing me when Porto played Liverpool at Anfield a few weeks earlier, because I was up against Sadio Mané. 

“You stopped the best winger in the world. Now you come play for me.”

I hang up, and I see that my friend is looking at me through the café window, like HOW DID IT GO? I flatten my hand and raise it towards the sky, like a plane leaving the runway. 

We’re taking off, brother.

We’re going to Manchester United. 

A few days later, I hear that I need surgery. 

I had a problem with my right knee in training, and when I’d done the MRI, the doctor said that I would be out for five months. Lateral meniscus. My first serious injury. Unbelievable. Just as I get into the car to drive home, my agent calls me. 

I’m like, “I have to operate. It’s over.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

He says, “I don’t know how to say this, but everything is ready. The paperwork is done. Their director is coming to your house. All you have to do is sign.”

“And now? Are they gonna sign me?”

“I don’t know.”

You know Paranoid by Post Malone? I know every word of that song. When I drive home to Braga, I put it on loop. I’m telling you, it’s the worst drive of my life. I’m so sure that the move is off. When I get home, I text Mourinho about the surgery. We’re waiting for his reply, me, my father, my mother and my agent. Just sitting there in silence. My father keeps asking, “Any news?”

“Nope.”

I’m sweating. I’m shaking. 

Finally……… 

PING! 

Everyone looks at me. I look at my phone.

From: José Mourinho

“Diogo, I don’t care about the injury. You’ll be out for five months. I’m signing you for the next 10 years.”

You cannot imagine all the tears that came out of my body. My mother was crying. My father was breaking down like I’d never seen him. Even my agent was welling up. Ten seconds earlier, I was having the worst day of my life. 

And then Mourinho saw something in me that I did not even see myself.

A few months later, we were about to play Young Boys away in the Champions League. I’d played a few games for the under 23s and trained with the first team, trying to get fit again, but I didn’t know when I was gonna get my first chance. The day before the game, Mourinho comes over. 

[You have to imagine his voice here.]

He says, “My assistants, they tell me you’re not ready.”

I’m like, “But why? I’m training so well. Mister, I’m ready!”

He says, “I know. That’s why you’re going to start. But everyone in the coaching staff, they don’t think you’re ready to play.”

And man, I’m pissed. I throw this ugly look at the staff, and it’s funny because Michael Carrick was one of the coaches at the time. I’m hyping myself up. I’m even texting my father like, “What, they think I’m not ready? Who are they?! They don’t know me!!”

The next day, I play the game of my life. We win 3–0. After the match, Mourinho shakes my hand, gives me a wink, and whispers in my ear. 

“I knew you were ready.”

You think the staff said anything? 

My guess is … not a word. 

Three months later, in December 2018, Mourinho was sacked. I was really sad, because he believed so deeply in me, and we already had an emotional attachment. Soon we had a new manager. Next summer, we had a new right-back. 

The following season, I think I played 10 games in all competitions. 

Ten.

“Dalot has been sidelined with injury.”

“Dalot starts on the bench today.” 

“Dalot is not in the squad.”

I was ashamed of sitting in the stands. We would be watching the game in the directors’ box, and the fans right next to us would ask me, “Why are you not playing?” 

I didn’t even know what to say. I was not injured. Just not selected. I was so embarrassed that I started going down to the dressing room to watch the game on the TV alone. My mother had moved over with me from Portugal, but when I got home I barely even said “Hello.” I would go downstairs, fire up the PlayStation, put Paranoid on repeat, and start thinking and thinking. 

I used to play for Porto. I used to be one of the big talents. Now I’m not even on the bench. I’m wasting my years. 

I’m losing time. 

What am I doing here?

Sometimes the manager just wants a different profile, but I thought it was all my fault. Since I’m not playing, I have to do more. I began training like crazy. 

Already in preseason, I was checking the running stats after each session to make sure I was the fastest. In the gym, some of the records are still mine. You know when you’re on a plane with no Wi-Fi and you just scroll through your phone? I still have 200 clips of me training. I would watch them at home, because I had no game footage to fire me up. After one month, my body simply broke down. 

Hip injury, six weeks out.

And yes, I know what you’re thinking. 

“Diogo, why couldn’t you just chill a little?”

Honestly, I wish I could. But you have to understand how I was raised. 

I’m from a family that turns every stone in order to do the best they can. My sister is a professional musician. My mother is a teacher. My father is a lawyer. He’s polite and civilised, until he watches Porto. His mother wouldn’t let him be a footballer, so he passed his dream on to me. On Saturdays he would wake me up, “Diogo! Diogo! Game today!” A little later, I’m sitting by the dining table, looking at a plate of scrambled eggs, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a giant bowl of pasta. It’s half as heavy as I am. I look at the clock. 

07.58

“Hidratos para o jogo. Come lá, filho.”

[“Carbs for the game. Eat up, son.”]

I was six. 

His dream was to see me play for Porto, but about two years later, I actually had a trial at Benfica. We trained next to the Estádio da Luz, and when I turned up in the red shirt, my father looked physically ill. They wanted me, but then Porto called and said, “Come to us.” 

My dream had come true, and so had his.

Around this time, my parents wanted me to attend a famous music school. I did an entry exam where you had to get 90 out of a 100 right. 

Question: What animal says Meowwwwwww?

My answer: dog

Question: What instrument is this?  

*Drums play*

Answer: guitar

FINAL SCORE: 3/100

I only wanted football. But I was never the most talented on the team. I always felt like I had to outwork everyone else. Porto had this program for “elite prospects,” where they picked two kids from each age category and had them train together. Every three months, they would choose new players. I spent a decade at Porto. You know how many times they picked me?

Zero. 

My father couldn’t understand it. He would watch my youth games in Porto, Italy, Spain, France, everywhere. The only trip he ever missed was Russia. After the game, he would tell me, “You were the best one out there.”

“But dad, I lost the winger at 2–0.”

“Son, you were great. These coaches don’t know anything.”

One time I had to join the team bus halfway to the stadium due to an exam, which the club said was fine. But the coach used that as the reason for why I didn’t play a single minute. When I told my father on the way home, he stopped the car, right on the highway. 

Hundred to zero in two seconds. 

He made a U-turn and put his foot to the floor. Eyes popping out. Saying nothing. He was going back to confront the coach.

“Dad, please……”

When we got there, I looked at the sky and counted my blessings.

Thank God the bus was gone.

One day when I was 12, I was hitching a ride with a teammate and his father to get from Braga, where we lived, to Porto. Two minutes down the highway, BOOM. Huge car crash. 

We flip and land on the roof. 

Before I even know what’s happening, the world is upside down. There’s broken glass everywhere. I’m stuck in the back seat. I take off my seatbelt. Climb out the open back window. Run away as fast as I can. 

Smoke is rising from the car, but we all get out alive. When my parents turn up, my mother is crying. Then I see my father, and you know the first thing I tell him?

I swear to God, these were my words.

“Dad, come on, you have to take me.”

He says, “Yes, son. We’re going to the hospital. Don’t worry, you’re going to be OK.”

I say, “The hospital? What are you talking about? Take me to Porto.”

He looks at me, trying to understand. 

“The hospital in Porto?”

“No. If I miss training, I won’t be in the squad tomorrow.”

Even close to death, I was thinking about football. 

My mother was hysterical, and my teammate and his father went back to Braga, but my father drove me to Porto. That same night I was staying over at a friend’s place when we heard a sound from the living room. My friend’s mother had unpacked my bag, and all this broken glass had fallen out and hit the floor.

Now you understand why I work so hard? 

It’s not a flip you can switch off. It’s my default. It’s who I am. 

But to be completely honest, I’m actually grateful for all the difficulties I had in my second season at United. They taught me that your base is training. On the weekends, the selection is not up to you. But training on Monday?

That was my game. 

I treated it like a Premier League fixture. When the regulars were tired, I was at 100%. Five versus five, I was everywhere. Taking out all my anger. My way of punching a hole in the wall. I was even practising freekicks. Of course I knew I would never take one, but me and Bruno would line up the balls after training and bam! bam! bam! After a few months, I was looking like Beckham. I swear. I still have the videos. 

When I went on loan to Milan the next summer, the plan was always to go back to United. No obligation to buy. I remember the kit man showing me around at the training ground.

“Ah yes, Nesta used to sit here.”

“Ronaldinho loved the massage table over there.”

You know when stadiums are old and tired? San Siro, it’s still class. I like to call it vintage. The same is true of Milan. 

Whatever the table says, this club never goes out of fashion. 

We would get Milan back into the Champions League for the first time in eight years if we beat Atalanta away. This was in May 2021, and thousands of fans turned up at the training ground before the game. A couple of guys with tattoos and megaphones came over to the players and said, “This is one of the most important days in our history. We are behind you. Don’t let us down.”

I looked to my right and saw Maldini. He was a director at the time. He could have spent all day in his office, drinking espressos, being Paolo Maldini. But I’m telling you, every single day, in the sun, in the rain, in the cold, he was there watching us train. Always in a suit, Italian style. I remember one day he took me aside, and I thought he was going to give me technical advice. “Mark them like this,” or  “Tackle like that.” Or he could have been the guy going, “This is my club, I won everything here, so you better do this and that.” But he was all about the mental game. 

“Diogo, you’re trying too hard. Just be calm. You’re an amazing player, you’ll be fine.”

When Maldini believes in you, how can you not believe in yourself?

That season I played on the right, I played on the left, I was on the bench … I experienced everything. It was COVID, so you could hear Mister Pioli shout my name on TV every five seconds. (He was usually right. I’ll always respect Mister Pioli.) I also learned a lot from Zlatan. He’d be out five weeks with a bad injury, and first training back, he was sprinting into duels and kicking people. He was 40 years old. 

“Don’t come here and f*** up my training.”

If you gave 99%, you were out. 

Milan made me feel like a footballer again. When we had made it back into the Champions League, I went to play the U21 Euros in Hungary and Slovenia, where we lost the final. Three days later, I’m on a sunbed in Dubai with my girlfriend, Claudia, drinking cocktails and eating burgers. We’re about to walk into a restaurant when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. 

Unknown Portuguese number. 

I pick up.

“Diogo, you’re gonna need to fly back to Hungary. We have an injury, and the coach wants you here for the Euros.”

The real Euros. 

I’d never played for the senior team. I was so anxious. 

For the first time in my life, I was not ready. 

Claudia and I rushed to the airport to do a COVID test. Two days later, I was there for our opening game, completely unfit. Hearing the anthem was amazing. Bruno was there, and also João Félix, who was at my trial with Benfica way back. And then I realised, Oh wow, I’m going to meet Cristiano. 

Thank God, my idol turned out to be one of the best people I’ve ever met. We would talk for hours in the hotel, in the gym, at the dinner table. At that time, I liked Milan so much that I thought maybe we could make something work. They really wanted me, and I also had meetings with other clubs. One day I got a text from Cristiano.

“Kid, stay. I’m coming back to Manchester.”

He was saying that United is the best club in the world, that we would get back to the top if only we changed a few things. He was going to help me and we’d play a lot of games together. I talked to my agent. I talked to Claudia. 

Mourinho wanted me there for 10 years. How could we leave after two?

That season with Cristiano was when I really started to grow as a player and as a person. I lost count of the number of predictions he got right, because he knows so well what it takes to go to the top. If anyone skipped a set in the gym, he would notice. We had a striker here who did really well for us in his first season, but Cristiano said, “He’s not gonna make it here.”

I said, “Cris, he scored two goals today!”

He said, “Yeah, but he didn’t have the fire to go for the third.”

When your rival is Messi, nothing is ever enough. 

I learned so much from Cristiano. Another time we were having lunch before playing Young Boys in the Champions League group stage, and he said, “I’m so nervous.” The guy had won the tournament five times, but he wanted his sixth so badly. I honestly thought he was joking, but then I looked down, and his right leg was trembling under the table.

He could process anything in three hours. One time he was benched at United, and he just couldn’t handle it. He was shouting and cursing. 

I’m like, “Cris, you OK?”

He said, “Give me three hours.”

Three hours later, he was calm. 

He said, “Yeah, I’m angry. But do you think this will affect the rest of my day?”

Even now, when I see him at the national team, he’ll go, “Diogo, I’m trying something new.” A medical device. A recovery treatment. A mental model. 

We call them mechanisms. 

“Yo, Cris, new mechanisms. What have you got for me?”

To me, it’s totally crazy that anyone could even debate whether he should play at the World Cup. Is he running like he’s 22? No. Is he scoring a goal per game? Yes. Does he make us all better? Yes. The guy is 41. He doesn’t need to be there, playing with people who are young enough to be his kids, but he is. 

Every time you meet him, you leave a little wiser. 

After I met Cristiano, my goal was not just to work as much as possible, but to stay in the best possible state mentally and physically. And at United, trust me, the mental game is the hardest one. 

Players who come here think it’s gonna be the best time of their life, but if they’re struggling, it can easily be their worst. In the beginning, you start reading everything about you, because you think you can handle it. Then you read only when things go well. Then you stop reading at all, because if you’re playing badly, you already know what to do. It’s funny because my father still watches every game, and when I check my phone afterwards, I’ll have all these messages from him. 

“good pass well done.” “mark him tighter!!!”

The next day, he rewatches the game on his iPad. He’ll grab his phone and record the iPad screen, then he’ll send the clip to me. Shaky footage, with live commentary and a finger blocking the corner of the screen. 

“Good positioning here.”

Sometimes I agree, sometimes I don’t. But one thing I’ve learned is that it’s never as bad as what the outside world tells you. 

“Worst right-back in the league. Should not be playing for Man United.”

I know it’s not true. 

If you do things right and put in the work, you’ll be OK in the end. At this club, time is your best friend. 

And the United fans, they love a comeback story. 

I’ll never forget Wigan away in the FA Cup in 2024. I knew I was going to start, because we had no other full backs available, but I was ill. The day before the game, I told the doctor, “I’m a little hot, but fine.” My temperature was 40 degrees. 

I went to the gym early, but I fell asleep on the chairs. During the warmup, I was a zombie. Just as we were about to start, Casemiro said, “Diogo, come on. What are you doing? Just go home.”

I slept for 10 hours. The next day, I scored. It was January, freezing cold, and that is the only time I have wanted to thank a coach for taking me off. 

Even as a Portuguese, a cup of tea never felt so good. 

A few months later, we were walking up the stairs at Wembley. I turned to look out at the red half of crazy fans singing and cheering, and I remember thinking, I want this feeling, again and again. 

I flew right to Monaco with Claudia to watch the F1 Grand Prix. At the marina, this guy came up to us and said, “Thank you.”

I said, “Thank you for what?”

He said, “For the FA Cup. That meant the world to me.”

If that’s winning the FA Cup at United, imagine winning the Premier League. Imagine winning the Champions League. 

I think about that every single day.

Of course, there is also the World Cup. The dream of dreams. But this summer, it will be very different. We will not just have 26 players.

We will be 26 + 1. 

When we lost Diogo Jota last summer, I refused to believe it. I was training on my own in Portugal when I checked my phone and saw like 10 messages from Claudia. I called Bruno. I texted anyone who might know something. Even when his death was confirmed, it seemed too sick to me to be true. Just a few weeks earlier, we were celebrating the Nations League title together. I could still see him next to me, raising the trophy and dancing under the confetti. 

He had just gotten married. He had three wonderful children. At 28, he had so much left to give. 

Being his teammate was an honour. I remember one of the first times we were together on the bench with Portugal, just watching the game, like normal. A throw-in went against us. Out of nowhere, Diogo jumped out of his seat, sprinted to the touchline and started shouting at the fourth official. 

“How can you not see that?? When are you gonna give us something?? Come on!!!"

I’m telling you, he was killing him!

“He clearly touched it!! I saw it from the bench!!!”

Oh, and I forgot to mention …… this was a friendly.

When he sat back down, I was almost concerned.

“Diogo ……….. you OK?”

You know what he did?

He turned and smiled. 

“Of course. Gotta put pressure on the referee.”

😉

That was Diogo in one image. We all knew he deserved to play more for Portugal, but even from the bench he was humble enough to help the team. He actually knew the names of the referees. 

“Hey Mike, how are the kids? Good? By the way, that was our ball. You owe us.”

I’ve listened to guys on the bench who wanted the team to lose, because it meant they might get to play. Diogo made the best out of every situation. In training, he wanted a bad ball. Bruno would pass it, perfectly weighted, right to his favourite foot. 

Diogo would shoot…….. 

……. and a ballboy had to go looking in the bushes. 

“Bruno, another one. Bouncy! To my left foot!”

A high ball would arrive to his weak side, slightly behind him.

SMACK! 

Top corner. 

Gooooooooool.

A funny celebration. A big smile. 

That was Diogo Jota.

When his casket was carried out of the church, and I saw how his wife was suffering, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. On the Portugal bus, Diogo would always sit next to Rúben Neves, his best friend on the team, but at the next camp his seat was empty. Rúben was sitting there alone, and you could see that he didn’t know how to handle it. None of us did. 

I think all we can do is to chase his dream. He wanted so badly to see Portugal become world champions. We won’t just be fighting for our country. 

We’ll be fighting for Diogo. 

In the weeks after we lost him, I realised how lucky I am. To be alive. To be at such a big club. To represent my country. To still have my loved ones. Last year, I married Claudia, the love of my life. She has been there for me ever since I first saw her in a nightclub in Braga when I was 18. We have a daughter, Clara, who is two years old, and in March we welcomed Tomás into this world. 

Of course, nothing is ever perfect. This April, Clara had to spend some time in hospital. They had to take her blood. They put syringes in her skin. She got really traumatised. For a father to see his daughter suffer like that, it’s very difficult. Every time a nurse came into her room, she would rise up in her bed and say, “No, no, no!” The first five days, she wouldn’t allow anyone to touch her except me. If the doctors wanted to take her temperature, I had to do it. It couldn’t even be Claudia. 

I did not go with the team to train in Ireland. As a father, I wanted to stay at the hospital every single hour of the day.

But every day, I drove into Carrington. I trained for two hours on my own, and then I went back to the hospital. When the team was back from Ireland, I was at training on Saturday. I didn’t know if I would be selected for the game. But I’m playing for United. I had to do my job. I had to know that I had done everything I could to be ready. 

Fortunately, the operation was a success, and after that my daughter only wanted mom mom mom. A week later, she was back home, watching daddy play on the TV. When she watches me, she points to the badge and says, “United! United!”

We raised her right. 

When I sat in that café in Braga eight years ago, I could never have imagined that all of this would happen. I have played nearly 250 games for this club. The hardest periods have been very hard. There have been times here where everyone is killing the club, everyone is saying the place is ruined, the worst people are working here, the worst players are here, the club is a mess. When you hear it enough, and you know that you are a part of it, it hurts. 

But I know that this place is better than when I arrived. I can see it behind the scenes. I can see it in the way people talk. 

I can see it from the progress we’ve made this season.

This club will win again, 100%. 

I cannot go into training every day without believing that. If you don’t, this is not the club for you. I’m reminded of it every time I drive into Carrington, and I see the big red letters over the car park. 

MANCHESTER UNITED

Then I walk down the corridor, and I see all these legends lifting big trophies. 

One day. 

Soon.

I’m sure of it. 

Yours sincerely,

— Diogo Dalot