This First Person column is the experience of Mel Brown, who lives in Montreal. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
I’m a huge hockey fan. I grew up on it. My family sat down in front of the TV together every Saturday night to have dinner, cheer for our teams (Go Habs!) and make fun of the ads.
It’s an experience shared by many Canadians. Yet, when people first find this out about me, they’re almost always surprised.
As a queer, non-binary person, the hockey community has not always felt welcoming, despite the sport continuing to be a big part of my adult life. It’s rare to see someone who looks queer like me in the crowd or an NHL ad or kiss cam that doesn’t highlight straight couples.
And hockey culture has been in a seemingly never-ending cycle of Pride Night cancellations, rainbow tape bans and scandals steeped in toxic masculinity.
Living in a country full of hockey fans, I felt isolated and morally compromised whenever I’d watch my favourite sport.
So when I tuned in to the Stanley Cup Final in June, joining fans across the country who were rooting for Edmonton to make a historic comeback, I was thrilled when, early in the match, they flashed an NHL Pride QR code across the bottom of the screen.
Hockey hasn’t been the only thing PWHL fans have been enjoying at Montreal’s home games. DJ Montana says she’s found a special connection with those in the stands.
Finally, some positivity! But it was on the screen so briefly that even with my phone on the table beside me, I didn’t have time to grab it and scan the code before it was gone.
All the frustration I’ve felt with the league came rushing back — even so small a gesture as a QR code could’ve been meaningful, if it had been given sufficient airtime. Instead, it felt inauthentic and inadequate, an attempt to pacify 2SLGBTQ+ fans rather than embrace us.
But just as I was feeling so alienated as a hockey fan, enter the Professional Women’s Hockey League.
When the PWHL came onto the scene at the start of last year, it was a time when we as queer people, and queer sports fans in particular, needed someone to show up for us. The league, led by some of the most powerful queer women in sports history, came through in a big way.
Suddenly, all the queer women and female-presenting people around me wanted to talk and watch hockey.
We’d been following the league’s barrier-breaking first season closely and we couldn’t have been more excited to see a game live — even as Montreal fans in the wrong city (I was living in Ottawa at the time).
It took no convincing for my girlfriend, Meghan, and our friend, Leah, to watch Ottawa battle Toronto.
Walking into the Lansdowne Arena, I was immediately struck by how different the atmosphere felt from the NHL games I’ve attended. The venue was packed with women and female-presenting people, many of them holding hands with each other or carrying signs like “Future PWHL WAG” — wives and girlfriends.
Everyone looked as excited as we felt. For the first time in my life, I felt at home at a professional sporting event. Beyond that, even — I felt wanted.
As we found our seats, all three of us pulled up the teams’ rosters on our phones to discuss their stats, where they played before the PWHL and which players were openly queer (hint: there are many). We were so enthusiastic that I didn’t even think about how incredibly cool it was that we were having that conversation.
The game itself was a blur. I don’t remember ever being so transfixed watching hockey — it was some of the best, most engaging play I’ve ever seen, and watching it live with my queer chosen family, completely ourselves, surrounded by queer authenticity, was an indescribable feeling.
We cried during intermission, when little girls came out to play mini hockey instead of little boys. And whether they grow up queer or not, those little girls are going to feel loved and empowered in their belonging in these spaces.
That feeling is at its heart such a big part of queerness — belonging is never implicit; it is consciously known and celebrated. The PWHL embodies this, in its players, its leadership and the game day environment it creates. That is a gift to queer sports fans, especially now, in a political context that is seeing such a sharp rise in anti-queer and anti-trans rhetoric.
I’m so excited for the upcoming hockey season. Allez la Victoire de Montréal! Watch for us at Place Bell this fall. We can’t wait to cheer you on in person for the first time.
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