Nazem Kadri on Becoming a Brown Muslim Hockey Star in a Very White Sport

I shuffled in my skates, searching for balance. Another cold and crowded day, but I was on the ice again—and on the ice I was happy. Skating brought the promise of warmth. It meant hands clutching a cup of steaming hot chocolate and the heat of my father beside me.

We’d often visit the outdoor rink at Victoria Park in downtown London, Ontario; it was one of my favorite places to be. And it was a free skate, which meant a chance to practice the art my father and I had watched on television.

I pictured myself raising a silver trophy high above my head, just as those grown men had.

In London, most hockey fans support either the Toronto Maple Leafs, the Detroit Red Wings, or the Buffalo Sabres, the city having a nearly equal proximity to each team.

But we loved the Montreal Canadiens.

I pictured myself raising a silver trophy high above my head, just as those grown men had.

My dad became a Habs fan when he was young, shortly after he arrived in Canada from Lebanon when he was five years old. At first he was drawn to the team’s jerseys—he loved the logo and the sharp red and blue colors. It was the 1970s, when the Canadiens were the best team in hockey, with players like Guy Lafleur, Serge Savard, and Larry Robinson. Dad learned the game watching the dynasty that won five Cups in a decade, including four straight.

It was hard to argue with my father’s allegiances. The Canadiens won the Stanley Cup for him again in 1986. Then I came along. One of my first memories is of the Habs winning the Cup in 1993, when I was three.

Early on, my parents saw how much I enjoyed practicing my hockey moves—whether it was at Victoria Park or one of the dozens of indoor arenas across London—so they found ways to make sure I could learn. And for my father, it was a chance to share a game he loved. We pursued it together.

Saturday nights were our nights, our bonding time. We’d watch Hockey Night in Canada together every week, and would catch the highlights of every game. It’s one of the fondest memories of my child- hood—just Dad and I sitting on the couch together, watching hockey.

As I grew, the game became a constant part of my life.

I remember playing hockey outside on the street, as young as three or four years old, in my running shoes with a tiny stick in my hands. And each winter I’d help my father build a rink in our back- yard, handing him the tools and pretending to do my part. Then, when I was old enough, I joined minor hockey, practicing and playing several times a week. I was a short and skinny kid, usually one of the smallest on my team. I was skilled, but never the best player on the ice.

In many ways, my childhood was similar to that of most of my minor hockey teammates. They all had parents who drove them to skate at Victoria Park, or helped them build a rink in their backyard, or shuttled them around town to games and practices.

But almost all my teammates also had a parent, sibling, or relative who’d played hockey at a high level. That’s usually how young kids get started in the first place, since it’s the kind of sport that tends to be passed on through the generations. So my hockey story is a bit different in that way.

*

My grandfather’s name was Nazem Kadri. He was the Original Gangster. Back in the 1960s, he and my grandmother, Sharfi, left Lebanon with their kids to escape war. His older brother had left before he did, settling in Brazil where he started a family, and my grandfather was very close to moving there to join him. But the brothers also had some relatives who’d moved to Canada, so the OG decided to head north.

It’s funny how the stars align. A decision made decades ago can change the whole course of your life. My grandfather’s move to Canada allowed me to become who I am. Without that move, it’s unlikely that I’d ever have found my way to the ice.

My grandparents didn’t know English when they settled in a small town just outside of London—the largest city in southwestern Ontario, which sits almost exactly midway between Toronto and Detroit.

My grandfather was a hardworking, blue-collar guy. It’s hard to find steady employment in a new country while you’re struggling to understand its language.

But Nazem Kadri was a grinder. He came from a traditional background, the kind of generation where life’s main pursuit was to go to work and make money for your family. So not only did he hold several factory jobs, but he also took on extra work to support his wife and their seven children.

After a long day in an automotive factory, at night he’d clean the Fleetway bowling alley, one of those large ten-pin places that would host league competitions and children’s birthday parties. My grandfather would often bring my father and his brother along. My dad, Samir—known as Sam—would tell me stories about the fun they all had, with the entire alley to themselves.

But it was also work. They were expected to pitch in wherever they could. Dad would help clean the place all night, doing the graveyard shift with his brother, and then go to school in the morning.

That’s how the Kadri family would always operate as they built a life in Canada. We still work hard and we stick together. Today there are probably fifty or sixty of us, and most of my relatives live in the London area to this day.

I always appreciated hearing stories like that while I was growing up. My grandparents set an example for us all. It’s where a lot of my work ethic comes from.

When my father first arrived in Canada, he tried to find his way as a child in a new world. Having quickly discovered how much his classmates loved hockey, he learned the game on his street alongside other kids his age.

But he was never able to play the game as an organized sport; as a new Canadian, he was never given the opportunity. Extracurriculars weren’t very high up on the list of priorities for those getting their start in a new country, and Samir needed to help support the family.

Yet my father was a very good athlete. And he’s a competitor still—probably one of the most competitive people I know, which is saying something. He played football and basketball at Montcalm Secondary School, and was just naturally gifted at whatever sport he took on. Samir was always active, even if he wasn’t playing organized sports beyond high school. Hockey was the sport he loved the most, though.

My parents met when they were young, as members of London’s small Muslim community, and they married young, too. Both of their families attended the London Muslim Mosque. My mother’s parents were also from Lebanon, although she was born in Canada. Not having migrated meant it was a bit of a different story for her; she was a London girl who lived in the city her whole life. Still, she was a first-generation immigrant, and her family had to work hard to get by.

Like their parents, Sam and Sue Kadri were grinders. And both were determined to give me and my sisters all the opportunities they didn’t have when they were younger. My father found work in the automotive industry, just as his father had. My mother was a cashier at Loblaws. We didn’t have much, but I never felt I lacked anything. My two older sisters and I knew we were lucky to have the kind of parents we did.

We bounced around a lot. When I was young, we lived in several different houses, meaning I went to a few different elementary schools. Moving was a part of life back then; we weren’t in a great position financially, which likely contributed to all the relocations.

At one point we stayed in a house with other relatives in our extended family. It was an epic time for me as a kid, living there with several of my cousins, all of us around the same age. I was having such a blast that I didn’t really realize we were struggling. Those are some of my fondest memories, being under the same roof with as many as five other families at the same time.

*

It was through those early years that my father and I bonded over hockey. It was always me and my old man. And we couldn’t have been in a better place to learn the game together, since London is one of Canada’s great hockey cities. There’s something organic about the sport in my hometown. It’s a game that most kids play and have some kind of relationship to.

I was seven or eight when we started trekking out each week to the old London Ice House, a vintage rink in the middle of nowhere, to watch the London Knights. There’d be so many cars around it that we’d usually have to park way down the country sideroad the barn sat on, with what felt like a two-mile jog to its front door.

Dad would often put me on his shoulders and carry me to the gate. As soon as we walked in, we’d be hit by the enticing smell of popcorn, and after picking up a box at the concession, we’d find our place on the bleacher-style seating that wrapped around the rink. After the anthem ended, the bright overhead lights would flash on and the freshly flooded ice would shine beneath them.

Then the puck dropped. I was enthralled by everything going on around me—the people, the yelling, the chaos on the ice. I was in love with all of it.

I used to be so amazed at how these players did their line changes, hopping over the boards like it was nothing. How did they do that? It was so impressive to me. I’d watch a guy shoot the puck into the air from his own end clear to the other side of the ice on a penalty kill. How was that even possible? I wanted to be able to do it too, but I could barely raise the puck.

There I’d sit beside Dad, usually munching on the chocolate bar I’d convinced him to buy after the popcorn, feeling as though we were watching the best hockey players in the world.

I didn’t go to any professional games growing up. It was always junior hockey. We couldn’t afford to head down to Toronto and watch an NHL game. So the London Knights were our thing. That’s where hockey came alive for me.

*

As I got older I’d spend hours playing road hockey with my buddies on the street, or outside in the backyard, or over at a friend’s house. And if I wasn’t playing some sort of hockey with my neighborhood friends, I’d be at the rink. I just loved to skate. It was around this time when my parents started to realize how much I enjoyed being out there.

That’s one thing I’ve learned in the years since. If you’re trying to mould a young person into an elite player, first and foremost they have to be passionate about it. You can’t pull them by the hair and try to force them to excel in a sport. All our passions and talents are unique. Kids will find them as they grow. If they’re fortunate, they’ll find a way to build a life doing what they love. And if they do, it’s an incredible gift. That’s all you can ask for as a mom or dad.

A young person has to find their own love for the game. If a kid dreads going to practice every single day—especially young kids—hockey will be ruined for them.

I loved every minute of it and was lucky that my parents did everything they could so that I could play. Then, as I got older, we started to bear down on the commitment.

I worked endlessly on the street, in the backyard, and at the rink. And I tried to emulate everything I saw at London Knights games, on Hockey Night in Canada, and in the endless highlights I consumed. I studied the game.

In later years, I’d admire players like Vinny Lecavalier, Pavel Datsyuk, and Joe Thornton—each a different kind of player, with unique aspects to his game that I could learn from. Joe was a local hero; I even had his poster on my wall. He’s from St. Thomas, not too far from London—and he was a first overall pick in 1997 by the Boston Bruins, when I was seven years old. (A couple of decades down the road, I’d hold a chunk of old man Jumbo’s beard in my fist during a fight—but we’ll get to that later.)

At the time, I took a lot from each one. I’d never be able to play as well as any of them individually, but I learned from the way they played the game and made elements of each player’s style my own. I’d try to notice guys’ tendencies and what they did really well—and then try to add it to my repertoire. Those guys did the same with the players they admired. You end up creating something unique to yourself.

My biggest idol in those early years was Paul Kariya. At the time I always wore number nine, dreaming of being just like him. I loved the way he played the game, as any kid growing up in that era did. I don’t think there’s a hockey fan out there who doesn’t admire Kariya. It’s impossible not to. He was incredibly skilled and very competitive, but he was also a tough little guy who never backed down. And since I was small for my age all through elementary and middle school, I saw myself in him.

I remember looking around at an early age, realizing I was the only Brown guy in the dressing room.

I also liked that Kariya looked a bit different out there. His Asian heritage made him look more like me than any other player I watched in the NHL.

For in minor hockey, it was apparent, in my young innocence, that I too was different. I remember looking around at an early age, realizing I was the only Brown guy in the dressing room. My teammates were always a bunch of white guys.

At the time, though, I didn’t think anything of being a minority in hockey. I always just felt I was part of the team. And my teammates were great—some of them remain my closest friends today. So when I was that age I didn’t know much about my unique place in the game. I was just out there being a kid, enjoying being on the ice.

*

Over the course of my years playing AAA in London, hockey became a central part of our lives. I had tons of support; my whole family would often come to my games.

And my grandfather was always in my corner. I remember him standing right up against the glass, cheering as loudly as anyone. He even used to bribe me with chocolate bars: every time I scored, I’d get another one.

I think he understood how much I enjoyed playing. It wouldn’t have mattered how good I was, really; he was going to cheer me on no matter what. I don’t think he really understood the magnitude of what I could do and where I could go, but he was forever rooting for me. He found joy in seeing all his grandkids pursue their passions.

From the time I was six, we travelled all over—to places like Chatham, Sudbury, Toronto, Windsor, and Detroit. Sometimes we’d drive as far away as Chicago for a tournament. We often had seven or eight traveling tournaments a year, where you’d have to stay in hotels for several days.

We went as a family and would try to make the most of it: the bunch of us would hop in the car, drive for hours to the tournament, and stay in a hotel room together. And we’d always have a good time, from what I remember—although if you asked my two older sisters, you might hear a different story.

Since we didn’t have much help with child care, it wasn’t as though we could just leave part of our family behind in London and head out of town for the weekend. So we’d all just pack a bag and away we’d go.

My sisters were good sports through it all. We had a lot of fun and spent a lot of quality time together, which was great. But at the time, I took for granted all this family travel, which was for me alone.

Now I know for a fact that they didn’t want to spend their time in an ice-cold arena. They’ve reminded me of it many times. (I have four sisters, two older and two younger; the latter were born when I was in my late teens.)

As a kid, you don’t realize how lucky you are when you’re surrounded by love. I didn’t understand that at all. My sisters always came out and supported me, even when they got older and weren’t forced to come. They’ve been there when times were great and when times weren’t so great. They stuck it out for me, and I’m always going to love them for it. I’m fortunate to have a family like that.

My parents never complained about the cost of my dreams, but it got pretty pricey and was a lot for them to manage. Even though they’d always try to give us everything they could, playing hockey and travelling to tournaments would put a hole in anyone’s pocket. Hockey is an insanely expensive sport, and for many kids, playing rep is almost impossible to afford.

There were times when the family finances were so tight that my parents struggled to keep up with payments. My dad had to find other sources of income to make sure I could keep playing hockey. He used to play Proline—a sports betting game you’d play at a variety store, where you’d try to pick who was going to win certain games, and if you got them all correct, you’d get a payout.

One day, he hit one of those. Because of that, he was able to pay for our travel and hotel for one of my tournaments away. If he hadn’t won, he wasn’t sure how he was going to cover the tab.

That’s how it was. My dad was always just trying to do whatever he could to get me through it. Those are stories we laugh about now, but I can’t imagine what it must have been like to go through that in real time. Thanks to my parents, I never had to worry about that kind of reality.

That sacrifice was part of a wonderful gift they gave me through- out my childhood: the gift of belief.

Although I was good at a young age, I was never really the best on my team growing up. But my father knew I was different and believed I had the potential to make a career out of the game we loved. Today he tells this story often: He was late the day I was born; my mother went into labour while he was still rushing to the hospital from work.

As he drove, the song “Big League” by Tom Cochrane came on the radio, about a father watching his son’s determination as he tries to make it to the NHL. To Dad, that was a sign of big things to come.

For me, one of the early nods to my aspirations came as I was becoming known in London as a hockey player. Some of my team- mates and classmates struggled to pronounce my name properly. They called me Naz-Zeem, elongating the E.

I was used to it. People used to butcher the name Kadri all the time. But when you’re a kid, friends start creating nicknames. Owing to the common mispronunciation of my name and my talent as a player, I started to be called Naz-Zeem The Dream.

Aside from the fact that The Dream didn’t rhyme with my actual name, I took to it. More than a nickname, it felt like a calling. It stuck with me as I set out to make that dream come true.

*

As we pursued the sign that the hockey gods had given my father, he did his best to shield me from what it meant to be a minority in a white person’s game. Inevitably, though, incidents would happen.

I was probably just ten or eleven when I began hearing some vulgar shit. It gets competitive out there. You understand the intensity of the sport and that both teams are trying to win. But when that stuff comes into play it’s disheartening. What was worse was that most of it came from parents in the stands. And when you’re a kid, adults know everything; their words carry weight and authority.

Racism is really hard to process when you’re young. I remember feeling confused, not knowing what most of the names I was called even meant—names that were coming from grown-ass people. Fortunately, I had conversations with my parents about it. They helped me navigate through those moments and prepare for many more to come.

Even though it wasn’t that long ago, it was a different era. People are held more accountable now if they behave that way in front of kids. But back then no one did anything about it. You’d have to just shake it off and away you go.

Whenever it would happen, Dad would reiterate that there are a lot of ignorant people out there. People who aren’t really that educated about the world and don’t know much about culture. He taught me to develop that “shake it off” mentality.

Every time I’d step on the ice I’d grit my teeth and show the hateful bastards just what a Brown kid on skates is capable of.

“Shut everybody up with what you do on the ice,” he would tell me.

I took that to heart and played with that emotion—a fire, deep within me. I went out and shut a lot of those leagues up. They didn’t have much to say after that.

But I’d face racism at every level I’d play. It never goes away. Through it all, I’d carry that lesson my father taught me. I’d be a grinder, like my grandfather. I’d be a dreamer, like my dad. And every time I’d step on the ice I’d grit my teeth and show the hateful bastards just what a Brown kid on skates is capable of.

______________________________

Excerpted from Dreamer by Nazem Kadri. Copyright © 2024 Phe-Naz Inc. Published by Viking Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.