It was a cold spring in Joliette, Quebec, and I was ten, meeting Aunt Dominique* for the first time. When we arrived, she greeted us happily, although I couldn’t understand any French. Then, she handed us colorful pastel baskets. Unsure what to do with the stuffed bunny and plastic eggs inside, I just smiled and said thanks. It was a confusing experience only compounded by looking out the window on the drive home. My parents say I asked them, “Why does everyone fly a Quebec flag, not a Canadian one? Where’s Joliette’s synagogue?”
Over the years, I’ve probed with more questions, and I have a better understanding of my place in our family’s homeland. I’m a dual-citizen of Canada—Quebec is home for us. But I’m the product of an Anglo-Francophone, Jewish-Catholic marriage. It’s something few Quebecois approve of, and my parents felt the brunt of prejudice when they still lived there. Because of whom they chose to love, my parents were ultimately unable to bear staying in Quebec. Now, I feel caught in the crossfire of Quebec’s divisions. As a Jew named Beaufort* with a formerly-Catholic father, I’m simply not welcome in some places within Quebec. There are relatives in my family who still won't speak to us. That’s the reality I live in.
But that’s a reality that sometimes gets completely upended. The Montreal Canadiens hockey team is one of the most important things to me. America is famous for its traditional God-Country-Family hierarchy; in my world, Les Canadiens are my Country and Family. The Montreal Canadiens, or “Habs,” are Quebec. You’d think participating in Quebec’s proudest cultural institution would be uncomfortable for me given my family situation, but it’s the opposite. The Bell Centre is the place I feel more welcome than anywhere else in Canada—there, I’m a Quebecer. When the Habs score, you don’t care if the person next to you speaks English or French. That all stays outside; nothing gets in the way of your magical, inter-linguistic, inter-faith high-five. When you walk back from a game, it doesn’t matter if you have a yarmulke or a turban on—if you have your Habs sweater on, a dozen strangers will excitedly ask you about the game. That’s the power of sports.
I believe sports have a unique power to unite people, to uplift people. It’s a power that’s nearly-universally experienced, yet infrequently appreciated. I’ve been in love with this potential for years now.
Humanity is a curious thing. We’re placed on this beautiful planet and given—quite literally—the opportunity of a lifetime. My life’s goal has been to not waste this blessing, to find a path that helps as many people as possible. And for me, that path is working in sports. Sports can make people discard differences and prejudice in pursuit of a common goal. It can also change individual lives and repair communities. When you draft players, it’s not just a roster addition, you completely transform a person’s life and create generational wealth for their families. When then-Mets GM Steve Phillips traded for catcher Mike Piazza, he wasn’t just getting a great baseball player, but he also got the man who’d captivate the world with his post-9/11 home-run. Phillips was the architect of a moment that millions of people would never forget: a swing that helped a nation heal. While I hope America never again faces such tragedy, I want to be someone who focuses on uplifting, creating unity and healing through sports. I want to be an architect of a moment that changes someone’s life.
I won’t be able to fix everything—I can’t. But if I end up making a lonely Jewish kid in Quebec feel like she has a place in her province, like she has a family who’ll have her back, it’ll be worth it. Sports have given me so much, and I want to use my passion to pay that forward.
*Names have been changed