18 June 2012 was a life-changing day. I was on my way back from an appointment when I received the call. My dad, who had been recovering at Milpark Hospital after a serious medical incident, had passed away.

I’d thought he was making good progress, but despite his fight to survive, his frail body, ravaged by cancer and the treatments to combat it, had given in.

I was numb as we drove to the hospital to say farewell. I fought back tears and told myself I needed to be strong; for me, for my two young kids, and for my mom. But as we approached the hospital, I knew there was no way I would be able to stay strong for long.

In the days after his death, I barely saw the flashes of the Proteas tour of Zimbabwe and Euro 2012 as I passed the television. I felt nothing when I would usually be glued to the TV. Had I fallen out of love with sport?

Images of Hashim Amla raising his bat after another well-played 50 stirred nothing in me. I was in a zombie state. My pillar of strength, the person who inspired my love for sport, my dad was gone.

For as long as I can remember, sport was a part of my life. I used to sit on my dad’s lap, and together we would watch everything, from horseracing to soccer to cricket.

I supported the teams he supported, and we spoke regularly about the progress of our favourite teams. I had never felt so out of touch with the world of sport.

A week after his death, I sat on my bed and was suddenly overwhelmed by the most intense grief I had ever felt. I cried for hours, and in that time recalled many memories of how my dad shaped my love for sport.

And then I realised that to give up my love for sport, would be to give up some of the best moments I had shared with my dad. I could not just let go of it.

And now, I am back.

Back to being a fan. Back to shout for my favourite teams. My dad would want this.