While digging, I realized the songs I listen to over and over again have some pretty bleak interesting titles. In fact, when writing them down below, they actually make a decent, albeit depressing, poem.

when will it end

is there anyone out there

every day feels the same

climbing the mountain forever

why do i feel so empty

i don’t want to feel this way anymore

this feeling will pass

will i ever learn

please don't leave

think of me once in a while, take care

Sitting down and writing this out, it's quite clear I'm still grasping onto something to comfort me. The songs above are soothing, they don't have any lyrics, they're just background noise.

But I'm making this background noise become THE noise and it soothes me. It puts me at ease. It makes me miss my dad, but at the same time feels like I'm a kid in his arms again.

In an ideal world, football and Atleti would do this for me but sport has become the background noise. I'm trying to recover my deep love for Atleti and football. Hell, I booked a flight and hotel to Bodo in the Arctic Circle to watch us play there in the Champions League in the middle of winter. Did I mention I'm allergic to the cold? No seriously, I have cold urticaria.

This post is insanely incoherent, but it felt good writing it out and clarifying that sad songs don't necessarily mean sad vibes and in the vein of song titles defining how I feel:

I'll get by.

It’s the most prestigious award and recognition for folks working in the sport industry and words can’t describe how I feel.

In 2022, I received my first recognitions: Sport Industry Next Gen and Forbes 30 Under 30, but this one is next level.

I immediately tried to call my dad when I got the news and then I remembered. And then it hit me again. No worries, I thought, I’ll just send him a message and voice note like I always do. “this number is no longer available on WhatsApp.”

Let’s just say it was a good thing I was alone in the office when all this happened.

I was recognized predominantly for my work in 2025 while I was at TikTok. I negotiated complex and unique partnerships with DAZN, IOC, LaLiga, UEFA, UC3, Premier League & more.

I can’t wait to begin replicating similar agreements while here at Substack, in benefit of our growing and thriving sport ecosystem.

2025 was the hardest year of my life. It’s one where I stayed hidden from the world for months.

I’ll never forget the reception I received when I slowly came back, “it’s so good to hear your voice again” a senior leader told me. My colleagues who bathed me in love and support were there cheering me on.

I overcame insurmountable challenges and had one of my strongest years ever, one that I’ll carry with me everywhere.

It wouldn’t have been possible without my brilliant, gorgeous and amazing wife Mari and incredible son Tomás. Thank you for being by my side always and supporting me in my crazy wonky sport adventure. I’d be lost without you guys.

Rollo, Jules, I hope you’ll never read this, but thank you for being incredible managers and amazing human beings. You helped me crawl, walk and run again. I owe so much to you both.

I always say this and will say it forever, dad I’m so proud to be your son. Mom, I’m so proud to be your son.

Papa, I’m a Leader Under 40 and it’s thanks to you. My mentor, my idol, my best friend, my dad. This one’s for you.

A few months ago, I flew to Seville for the Copa del Rey final. A final Atleti lost on penalties. The old me would've been livid and cried after Real Sociedad's winning penalty. The current me? A perpetual meh.

Cue to the World Cup and Brazil gets knocked out, in humiliating fashion, against Norway. Meh. Atleti signs great new players for the upcoming season. Meh.

I do still get excited about sport. I talk about it with everyone. I mean, I work in sport and have done so my entire career! But it's just not the same.

The past couple of years, there were about 10,000 kilometers in distance between my parents and me. They lived in Brazil, while I was in London. But that didn't stop my dad from being present, constantly.

Whenever Atleti lost or dropped points, he would always be there in the group chat poking fun. “Mari, Tomás. There's still time to grab a flight [to Brazil] tonight. We'll pick you up at the airport”

He had Google, Fotmob, you name it, alerts set up. Every game without fail he was there making me laugh and smile.

That doesn't happen anymore. The joy's been sucked out.

The last game I got really into was the second leg of the Champions League quarterfinal, where we nearly bottled it against Barça. But looking back, the only reason I got emotional is because I remembered just how much he cared. He began to love and follow Atleti because of me. He only did it because of me.

I sometimes wish we would lose just so I could get another joking message from him.

My dad died on 2 December. Just a few days prior, we had bought our son’s Christmas presents. One of them was a voucher valid for a dog of his choice.

Cue Magnolia entering into our lives. She needed to be rehomed by her family in the Cotswolds. The last week of January, we went up to meet her and the family. We were expecting to bring her home with us that Sunday.

The family said they wanted more time and asked if we could come back on the 9th of February to pick her up. Ok, fair enough, sure.

Not really, though. I wasn’t a functioning human being and I needed her. What was meant to be Tomás’ dog was now something I needed desperately. I never really said anything about it, but the disappointment was palpable. Lo and behold, a few days later, the owners texted saying I could actually come on the 2nd instead. That number two, back again!

And so I went on 2 February to pick up Magnolia, or Mochi as she was called then. Two kept on showing up. Magnolia’s birthday is on… 2 April. What does it all mean?

All my grief-filled brain could do was make a connection between everything and the damn number two. I like to say Magnolia has a bit of my dad inside of her and every time she gives me a kiss and a cuddle, it’s my dad.

This World Cup is gearing up for a potential moment of 2 as well, unless this post jinxes it. Spain, a country I called home and shaped me as a person, can win its second World Cup and England, my home for the past 5.5 years, can also win for the second time. Scenes if it happens with a 4-4-2.

It’s funny how these things work.

It was Tomás’s fourth birthday and also the official housewarming for the house Mari and I bought just six months earlier. I was so happy that you got to be here for that. You got a glimpse of my new London life and friends and they also got to meet you.

It was meant to be that you were here for those moments. Little did I know that it’d be the last time I would ever see you.

I remember begging you to stay and spend the night, every night. Who cares if you already paid for the hotel. Just spend the night. Every night, you and mom would leave and at least I’d wake knowing you’d come by for breakfast and then stay for lunch and dinner. EURO2024 was on. We had lots of fun watching some matches together. There’s a great picture of us lounging on the sofa with a game on. If I had known it was going to be the last time, I would've locked the door and not let you leave.

I look back to 2024 and it started off so well. You and mom came to visit, twice!!! On the first trip, we went on a roadtrip to the Jurassic Coast. I had closed agreements with UEFA for EURO2024 and the IOC for the Paris Olympics. Life was good.

It all took a turn on that dreaded December day. Oh, to lounge with you on the sofa with the football on once again. At least we can do that in my dreams, where I still get to hang with you.

Te amo, papa

What's the common theme between both of those World Cups? Brazil winning and my dad celebrating like a madman. But what if I actually told you that my dad is from Argentina. Jujuy to be precise.

My dad was born in the northern province of Argentina and moved to Brazil when he was a child. My grandparents, abubo and abuba as we called them, spoke the thicket portuñol in the world. In fact, I wasn't really able communicate with them that well because of that. This all changed when I became fluent in Spanish. Sorry, going on a tangent.

Back to my dad. He was born in Argentina, raised in Brazil and fully became a brasileiro. He never wore the albiceleste kit, it was always Brazil and São Paulo — his club. In fact, for some reason he never became a Brazilian citizen. I actually have one of his old Argentine passports in my shrine to remember him.

It's a strange one. My dad never cheered for Argentina and neither did I nor anyone in my family. But why is it now that he's no longer here I find myself celebrating their victories? I'm not really sure and the more I think about, the more my eyes swell up and fill with tears.

I think it's just another way for me to find a way to keep him here. I'm so proud to be his son. I'm so proud to be the son of an Argentine who was an immigrant in Brazil and then an immigrant once again in the United States. I'm so proud to be the son of my dad and that pride makes me do weird things like support Argentina, something I never thought I'd do.

I guess I'm a boludo now, but I'm his boludo and I'm fucking proud of that.

Te amo, papa

It took me back to when I was a kid growing up in South Florida. I was in the ‘scene’, so that meant going to concerts pretty much every weekend. Most of shows were in boiling warehouses, houses and just plain terrible venues.

Maybe those places helped me prepare for the heat I encountered last night at Oslo in Hackney.

There were always two common themes whenever I went to those shows:

1. I’d end up absolutely drenched in sweat, as if I had been thrown into a pool. Yes, that bad.

2. My dad would always be there to pick me and my friends up after the show, no matter how far the drive, no matter the time of night.

At last night’s show, I relived some of that. I was fucking pumped to see Algernon and my wife told me countless times throughout the night how she loved seeing me have so much fun.

I ended the show absolutely drenched and disgusting. Poor uber driver was probably miserable driving us home (sry).

It took me back to when you would be there rain or shine to pick me up, dad. All those rides to obscure venues. How you helped me explore my TV Production hobby and bought me a camera and Premiere Pro, so I could film each one. It took me back to a time where you’d be parked outside the venue waiting for me.

You weren’t, though. You never will be again. But when Algernon played Hawk, a song about grief, and I screamed the lyrics and kissed my tattoo in memory of you, you were there. It brought you in the room and gave me the energy to jump, mosh and scream all night.

I really wish you could have picked me up, though. The concert ended just in time to watch Brazil vs Scotland. How fun would it have been to watch that together. We finished top of the group and now Japan or Netherlands await. Maybe I’ll play Algernon during the game so you can come down and hang.

Te amo, papa

And, sorry, but now you just got an additional email about it. I guess I'm adding to the problem.

It really sucks.

It should be a glorious day to celebrate you, papa, but it's a punch in the heart again and again and again.

What makes it worse is that I'm a dad, too. My son turns six(!!) in just two weeks. He's excited to make me my Father's Day gift at school and give it to me on Sunday.

Father's Day is a day that is also meant to celebrate me, but how can I celebrate when you're no longer here to be celebrated. How can I celebrate if doing so feels like the ultimate betrayal. Father's Day for me is the day to champion you, the best fucking dad ever. Champion my best friend and idol.

I'm still not ready to be celebrated. I don't want to go out for a Father's Day lunch or dinner with my wife and son. I want to stay in bed and hide from the world. I want to call you. I want to step out in my garden and see if I get a sign that you've come to visit.

But the same way I celebrated you, I can't take that away from my son and wife. But how do I do it?

All I know is that Sunday's going to suck. In the day I want to celebrate you, I'll be celebrated myself and what should be a joyful moment will feel like a punch in the face.

Happy (almost) Father's Day, Papa.

I love you.

Flash forward eight years later and I remember celebrating Brazil's Penta in the home we just moved to in South Florida.

You're why I love the game and I wonder if the reason I’m not so excited about it anymore is because you’re not here.

The stage for this World Cup was perfect for us. Our Brazil facing Scotland in Miami. Our South Florida, a place we called home for so many years. The place you loved and anxiously awaited retirement to go back. Sadly, that day was stolen from you.

Imagine us watching the World Cup in person together. I remember when the tournament was announced to be held in North America and our chats about how we'd save 100 dollars a month to go together. We never saved the money, and even if we did I don't think we'd have enough to cover tickets and parking, and we're not going together.

We never had that and we never will. Maybe that’s why the World Cup feels so flat. Maybe that’s why football isn’t so fun anymore.

You’re not there to make me laugh when Atleti lose or make me smile extra wide when we win. Football is boring now and the World Cup just isn’t a World Cup without you.

Last time I was in South Florida, I came across the pictures you took from the final in ‘94.

I have two big complaints:

Firstly, your thumb is all over every picture and I love it.

Secondly, why are you always taking pictures but are NEVER in the pictures.

I miss you, papa. A fucking lot.

Te amo