Heartbreak and Honor: Watching the Florida Panthers Lift the Stanley Cup After Edmonton Oilers’ Painful Game 7 Loss Last Year
When the Edmonton Oilers lost Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final last year, the feeling was devastating—empty, like the last flicker of hope had been snuffed out in a single, brutal moment. But even in the sting of that loss, I chose to sit and watch the Florida Panthers hoist the Cup. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was one of the most difficult things I’ve done as a fan. But it was necessary. Because being a sports fan isn’t just about celebrating wins—it’s also about standing by your team through the lows and recognizing greatness, even when it doesn’t wear your team’s sweater.
That night in June, the entire country of Canada seemed to hold its breath for the Oilers. It had been over three decades since the franchise had lifted the Stanley Cup. The ghost of dynasty years gone by—Gretzky, Messier, Kurri, Fuhr—hovered like echoes in Rogers Place and every Canadian living room. Edmonton had clawed back in the series, had fought through adversity, and had inspired hope from coast to coast. But when the final buzzer sounded in Game 7, and the Panthers mobbed their goalie in a sea of sticks and gloves, reality set in.
I could’ve turned the TV off. Many did. I could’ve walked away and tried to numb the pain by pretending it didn’t matter. But I didn’t. I stayed. I watched.
As the Panthers lined up, sweat-soaked and still in disbelief, to shake hands with the Oilers, there was a strange sense of mutual respect that cut through the heartbreak. Even as an Edmonton fan, I could see it. These two teams had gone to war. Seven games of the fastest, most intense sport in the world. Blood, bruises, sacrifice. There was no shame in losing this series. There was just the bitter taste of “almost.”
Watching the Cup being passed from one Florida player to another was a study in emotion. Some screamed with joy, others wept openly. Veterans who had waited their entire careers for this moment held it like it was sacred. Young players who had never known such pressure looked stunned. The Florida fans, who had packed the building in a frenzy, exploded in elation. And somewhere in all of that, I felt something more complicated than jealousy. I felt respect.
Because that’s what hockey teaches you. That every champion earns it the hard way. That even if your team didn’t get to skate around with the Cup, you can still honor the game by acknowledging the ones who did. And if you truly love the sport, you love it in its purest form—even when it hurts.
The Oilers gave everything. Connor McDavid had a postseason for the ages. Leon Draisaitl was a machine. The defense stepped up. Stuart Skinner showed resilience. Kris Knoblauch coached with boldness and poise. From top to bottom, this team poured everything it had into the pursuit of glory. But hockey is a cruel game. A lucky bounce here, a missed chance there—it all adds up. One goal can change everything. And in Game 7, that one goal made the difference.
Sitting in that moment, watching the Oilers’ players stand solemnly on the blue line as the Panthers celebrated, I realized that this was a kind of emotional crucible. The true fan doesn’t flinch in times like these. They absorb it. They carry it forward.
Some fans might think it’s weak to watch the other team celebrate. Some might say it’s a waste of time, like rubbing salt in the wound. But I disagree. Watching the Cup being raised is a kind of ritual. It reminds us why we care so deeply. Why we dream. Why we invest our hearts in this sport year after year.
As I watched Florida’s captain lift the Cup and pass it along to his teammates, I thought of Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, the longest-tenured Oiler. I thought of the pain in his eyes. I thought of how badly he had wanted this, not just for himself, but for the fans. For the city. I thought of Zach Hyman, battered and bruised, giving his all. I thought of the locker room speeches, the gritty comebacks, the wild crowd at Rogers Place that had roared louder than anything I’ve ever heard.
The truth is, it’s not just about winning. It’s about the journey. The fight. The belief. The character it takes to battle through months of hockey, to stare down elimination, to block a shot with your ankle and still finish your shift. That’s what makes the Stanley Cup so special. That’s why every player dreams of lifting it—and why every fan dreams of watching their team do it.
So yes, I watched the entire Florida Panthers team raise the Stanley Cup that night. Not because I wanted to. But because I had to. Because it was the respectful thing to do. Because it’s part of the story. The hard, bitter, beautiful story that makes hockey what it is.
In the days that followed, the pain didn’t fade quickly. Edmonton felt like a city in mourning. People wore their Oilers gear with pride, but their heads hung just a little lower. It was the kind of loss that stays with you. But as the weeks went by, a different feeling began to rise—gratitude. Gratitude for a team that brought us to the brink of glory. Gratitude for the ride. Gratitude for the hope.
And as we looked ahead, there was something else too: determination. This team wasn’t going anywhere. McDavid was still the best player on the planet. Draisaitl, if he stayed, would come back hungrier than ever. The core was strong. The belief was stronger. And the fans? We were ready to believe all over again.
That’s what separates the best fans from the fair-weather ones. We endure the heartbreak. We take the punches. And then we get up and do it all over again.
So when next season comes around, I’ll still wear my Oilers jersey with pride. I’ll still watch every game. I’ll still believe. Because last year’s loss, as painful as it was, showed me what it truly means to be a fan.
And maybe, just maybe, next time when the Cup is raised, it’ll be Edmonton’s turn.
But even if it isn’t, I’ll still be there. Watching. Honoring the game. Respecting the moment.
Because that’s what hockey demands. And that’s what the Oilers deserve.
