A win marked by a loss: The grief that came with glory

I’ve never been the kind of person to call myself a fan of a sport, or an actor, or anyone I didn’t personally know. To me, sports were meant to be played, not watched. For a long time, watching a match felt like time wasted, a passive act that offered no real return.

But somewhere along the road, that changed.

Maybe it was the emotion, the unpredictability, or just how the story of a team unfolds like a living drama. I started watching cricket again. And over the last few years, I began supporting RCB. Quietly, consistently. Not the loudest in the room, but deeply invested.

Four years of cheering. Of disappointment. Of hope. And this year, finally, RCB won.

For a team long defined by heartbreak, it felt like redemption. A dream realized. We believed the celebration would be like nothing else. A release of years of longing. A night to remember.

But it turned out to be the saddest of them all.

People lost their lives. Some fans went out to celebrate and never made it back home. What should’ve been the happiest night in the team’s history became a moment of mourning.

Why we care so much

Some people wonder, why do fans go nuts over a team or a game? Why do entire cities erupt in joy over a win or mourn a loss like a personal tragedy?

Because sports aren’t just games. They’re the most pure form of entertainment we have: unscripted, unsanitized, unfiltered.

In a world where so much is manufactured, sports offer real emotion. You can’t fake a buzzer-beater. You can’t script a last-minute goal or a comeback from the edge of defeat. It’s raw, unpredictable drama played out in real time by real people, with everything on the line.

Fans aren’t just watching, they’re living it. They see themselves in the struggle, in the fight, in the refusal to give up. Their team’s story becomes their own story. The loyalty runs deep because it taps into something primal: identity, belonging, belief.

We cheer, we shout, we cry: not because we’re irrational, but because we care. Because for those few hours, life becomes simple: us vs them, hope vs despair, triumph vs heartbreak. And in a complicated world, that clarity is priceless.

Sports remind us what it means to feel. And that’s why millions remain faithfully, joyfully, crazily in love with it.

But this time, something broke

Even though I’ve grown to understand the pull of fandom, I still can’t make peace with what it sometimes becomes.

We see it everywhere now, people trolling each other online, defending players like family, turning rivalry into hate. Social media timelines turn into battlegrounds. Loyalty transforms into toxicity. And now, with this tragedy, we’re forced to ask: how far have we gone?

Because this time, it went too far. Celebration turned to chaos. Joy turned into mourning. And the cost was human lives.

In the world of sports, wins and losses come and go. Trophies gather dust. Stats fade from memory. But what happened this time, this will stay. It is now a part of RCB’s legacy.

What comes next matters more

There’s nothing we can do to bring those lives back. But there’s everything we can do to make sure they’re not forgotten. Next season will come, as it always does. The stadiums will fill, the jerseys will be worn with pride, and the chants will rise again. But something will be different. Something will linger in the air, unspoken but deeply felt. This time, we carry more than just hope. We carry memory.

RCB has an opportunity to make that memory visible. Not through grand gestures, but through quiet conviction. A reminder of who this game truly belongs to- the fans. Every match can be a moment to honor those who aren’t here to witness it. Not as a ritual, but as a responsibility.

Let this not be the kind of tragedy we move on from. Let it be the kind that changes how we show up for the game, for each other, for what truly matters.

Because sport, at its best, doesn’t just bring us joy. It brings us together. And it should never, ever, take someone away.