I’d never held a hockey stick before moving to Vancouver. Back home, basketball ruled, but here, the Canucks were religion. When classmates ribbed me for confusing a slapshot with a wrist shot, I hid my embarrassment behind shrugs—until Alex intervened.
“You’re coming to my garage tomorrow,” he declared after school, tossing me a spare stick. “We’re fixing this.”
Alex’s idea of “fixing” involved turning his family’s cluttered garage into a makeshift rink. He’d flood the concrete slab each winter, creating a patch of ice just wide enough for drills. That first afternoon, he taught me to cradle a puck, his breath fogging the air as he adjusted my grip. “It’s not about strength,” he said, demonstrating a smooth sweep. “It’s about control.”
Weeks later, he surprised me with tickets to a Canucks game. “You need context,” he insisted. At Rogers Arena, he narrated plays like a sportscaster, explaining offsides and power plays between bites of nachos. When the crowd erupted after a breakaway goal, Alex grabbed my arm, his face lit with pure joy. “This is what I wanted you to feel,” he shouted over the roar.
His real gift came during gym class. When teams were picked for floor hockey, I lingered near the back, dreading my turn. Alex, already named captain, shocked everyone by choosing me first. “Trust me,” he whispered.
The game was chaos. I fumbled passes, tripped over my own feet, and nearly scored on our net. Yet Alex kept passing to me, shouting encouragement. In the final minute, he fed me a perfect cross-crease pass. My shot—a wobbly, desperate thing—squeaked past the goalie. The class groaned; Alex whooped like I’d won the Stanley Cup.
Later, he tossed me a Gatorade. “You’ll get better,” he said, as if my progress were inevitable.
He was right. By winter, we were practicing weekly at Robson Square’s outdoor rink. Alex critiqued my stride and celebrated small wins, like when I finally mastered a tight turn.
Two years later, when the Canucks made the playoffs, Alex video-called me from Rogers Arena, his face painted blue and green. As the crowd chanted, I realized hockey had become more than a sport—it was shorthand for belonging. Alex hadn’t just taught me to play; he’d given me a language to connect, a reason to stay when the loneliness crept in.