Valeri Zhabko

Valeri left this world on May 6th, 2026, but he never really left any room he walked into. Those of us who knew him — as a teammate, a neighbor, a father, a friend — know exactly what I mean. He had this way of leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, half-smiling, like he already knew something funny was about to happen. And it always did. Whether he was pacing the sideline at Torpedo Volzhsky or Tekstilshchik Kamyshin, or sitting in a plastic chair in his kitchen talking about Metallurg Lipetsk's old glory days, Valeri made you feel like you were the most important person in the room. That was just who he was. He was born on August 18th, 1967, and from the very beginning he carried himself with that quiet, steady presence of a man who knew his ground. Football wasn't just a career for him — it was his language. He defended like he defended everything else in his life: with his whole heart, stubbornly and beautifully. He came home with grass-stained knees and stories that made the whole family laugh until they couldn't breathe. His kids grew up thinking every player on every team was his best friend. Honestly, maybe they were right. What Valeri loved most was simplicity. A quiet evening with his wife, a plate of his wife's pelmeni, a slow walk along the river, the sound of his grandchildren arguing over cartoons. He didn't need grand gestures. He just needed the people he loved sitting nearby. And he loved so many people in his quiet, unhurried way — neighbors he helped with their fence, old teammates he called on birthdays, young players he took under his wing without ever making a big deal about it. We are going to miss him terribly. Not just the Valeri who played football, but the Valeri who burned the toast and pretended he didn't, who told the same joke three times in one evening and laughed hardest at his own punchline. This world was better because he was in it. Rest now, Valeri. You earned it.