In a season that was meant to shine brightly for the Hangzhou Spark, the 2020 Overwatch League unfolded like a flickering neon sign on a stormy night. The anticipation was palpable. Fans dreamed of the roar of the crowd reverberating through the storied halls of the Hangzhou Grand Theatre and the Wuzhen Grand Theatre, where they were supposed to gather to celebrate their heroes in explosive live events. Alas, the season played out not in vibrant technicolor but in the muted hues of isolation and disappointment. COVID-19, that uninvited guest, upended everyone's lives, but for the Hangzhou Spark, it was a merciless executioner of hopes and dreams. While other teams made tactical adjustments, learned to strategize in front of screens, and discovered the joys of the streaming era, the Spark found themselves grappling with a problem of a different nature altogether: their home wasn't home at all. The irony was dripping. The team was designed to be a shining beacon of competitive Overwatch in their own backyard, ready to light up the stage with what should have been a symphony of cheers and camaraderie. Instead, their grand operas turned to whispered sonatas of loneliness, as each planned homestand event was yanked away, leaving them with nothing but an empty promise of what might have been. Spark jerseys sat unworn in closets, and cowbells—a version of the modern-day clapper used to encourage one's team—went mute, echoing only in the confines of once-bustling homes that felt colder each day. In sports, teamwork is celebrated, but in a pandemic, isolation becomes the new MVP. The Spark watched as their fans joined the thousands of other spectators exiled from arenas across the globe, forced to cheer from faraway screens, seeking solace in pixels that surely were unable to grasp the essence of home. Their spirited rendezvous with fans transformed into solemn moments shared on social media; the hunger for shared experience became a deep-seated ache. While some might call a virtual season a pioneering move, the spark of individuality was snuffed out by the relentless virtual landscape. There was no banter with seating neighbors during breaks, no passionate debates about team strategies filling the hallway outside the theater, and certainly no raucous after-parties celebrating a hard-fought victory. Instead, one could only revisit the memory of the team’s D.va, holding the shield while fending off a barrier of loneliness, her heroic stance less about the foes on-screen and more about the darkness looming out in the real world. Meanwhile, as the league adapted to the new normal, the Spark's warriors were conspicuously absent from the limelight they had longed to bask in. All the sparkles and dazzles promised in the pre-season teasers faded away, leaving only the dullness of a rainy day. Hangzhou became synonymous with “what could have been” instead of the vibrant pulse of an Overwatch universe buzzing with energy. When the final echo of the season’s soundtrack faded away, the stark realization set in: the Spark had not just dimmed; they had become a metaphor for the collective experience of trying to find a home in hostile territories. They waded through uncharted waters, ever loyal to their cause, but more akin to castaways, still yearning for land that had been forever changed beneath their feet. The 2020 season closed quietly, not with the triumphant blare of trumpets but with an undeniable whisper of “next time.” Hope, that elusive butterfly of positivity, flitted out of reach in a season that should have been a festival of light. The Hangzhou Spark emerged from this absurd drama not unscathed, but somehow still ignited with the flicker of potential—a little dimmer, a little wiser, yet forever yearning for that lost connection. And isn’t that the saddest irony of all? A team that truly wanted to shine found their entire existence wrapped in the shadows of an empty theater, their dreams of grandeur reduced to echoes of what could have been: a season where homestands became homeless.