The Route

My Father, the Canucks, and How We’ve All Arrived Here.

On October 3rd at 2:45 p.m., my beloved father, Houshang (Shaun) Memarzadeh, passed away after a ten-month battle with multiple cancers. I arrived a few minutes too late to say goodbye, a moment that often plays out differently in our dreams.

He wasn’t alone when he passed, and neither was he alone when he was still physically here, because we were, in every definition, soulmates. Both of us were born on December 14th, bound to each other from the start.

We shared life as co-workers in our family restaurant, bedrooms side by side at our home and most importantly, as I believe many of you would share in common: sitting on the same couch to see if the Canucks were the real deal, or if it was time to study some of the prospects for late June.

He once told me that Alex Burrows would be a star, and, as a kid who judged players by their video game ratings, I laughed it off.

That was the last time I ever cackled when he spoke his gospel in front of the TV.

With apologies to my partner, whom I love dearly, my father was the first person I would text every single day, without hesitation. We needed to ping each other in the universe, akin to a sonar echo in the ocean depths. One or two words were enough to get us through to the next day. I’m still waiting for my phone to ping. Hoping.

He was the standard I set to achieve every day of my life: starting as a crucial member at the Bank of Iran, then hurling Molotov cocktails in the fray of a revolution. Afterwards, penning barbs as an editor of one of Iran’s legendary satirical magazines and crafting children’s books that are still being sold in Tehran today.

That determination eventually sent him to New York at one point, sleeping in a law office break room to dodge rent, and somehow, amidst it all, winning my mother’s hand in marriage.

Finally, after many years of my mother’s valiant efforts, we settled in Canada. After he joined us, he was handed a bundle of cash and a stocked kitchen to take over a Deep Cove restaurant despite knowing next to nothing about cooking. How’d he do? We’re still there after more than 20 years.

While he worked at our restaurant, he watched as I forged my own path through Pucks On Net, The Botchford Project and eventually a dream position at Sportsnet 650. His last year was filled with immense pride, knowing that I had the privilege to work alongside friends like Brendan Batchelor and Thomas Drance, both of whom were carrying their own loss of a friend and a father that same day. To each of you: please know that you are integral parts of joy when it came to our relationship with Vancouver Canucks hockey. Thank you.

Through our entire relationship, the greatest accomplishment we had as father and son was how we finally rescued each other. After years of living apart, we had to mend our relationship piece by piece.

He stood beside me while we created something new. Something I didn’t realize at the time would end up being greater than what we had missed out on. We were an undeniable force in whatever we set out to accomplish together.

Looking back, there was nothing to be hashed out between us. No question that I raced to ask him before he passed, slamming the button repeatedly on the elevator to the 7th floor.

His bed faced the North Shore mountains that we called home. Jello and pudding packs lined up on the window ledge. A sign I had made to remind him when my mother would be back from a quick trip to Iran. It was his time to go. It’s okay.

Yet, when that silence finally came between us, one thought bloomed through the concrete cracks of my mind, out of all the infinite memories we cultivated as a pair:

I can’t believe they haven’t won.

The Canucks played the Oilers that night. Conor Garland, my father’s personal favourite player on the team, scored in OT. “Oh come on!” is what I screamed out, in something that could be described as a McDonald’s swirl cone of happiness and grief.

It’s one of those moments that felt written for film. Of course he scored the game-winner tonight, of all nights.

No, what hit me was that the Vancouver Canucks had never won a championship while we were together. That we were never given that moment in the script.

You’ve imagined it, right? If your parents or loved ones are still with us, then you know you’ve been obsessively clock-watching in the back of your mind. The Canucks currently sit in the basement of the NHL standings, with both callers and texters at work starting to echo the feeling I’ve been carrying:

“I want to watch a championship together with someone I love.”

We endure together as much as we can with the hope that one year, everything goes right. When things eventually go the other way, as much of the history of this club would show, we collectively shrug through another summer of draft lottery simulators and free agency entirely to do it over again. It’s not so much about winning for us; it’s that the team wins for them.

John Shorthouse once said at the start of a Hughes-Pettersson-Boeser overtime: “Enjoy the future folks, here it is right now.” The pangs I feel are because that future has now come and gone. It comes in waves. Rebuild, retool, compete, repeat. Well, maybe not the rebuild part.

There’s still time.

Until there’s not.

Fans bear the most weight and don’t get paid for their support. Mothers and fathers who start the tradition lay the foundation for the new generations to carry on. They endured through King Richard attempting to topple a dynasty, Nathan LaFayette hitting the post, injuries decimating the team that slayed the dragon.

We’re meaning-making creatures. No matter how disappointed, we hopelessly succumb to the love we have for the game we all decided matters so much.

If you ever win multiple lotteries and end up owning a sports franchise in the city of Vancouver, please etch two indomitable facts in your mind:

1. The pain fans feel in the present has to mean something tangible for the team in the future.

2. Do not ever underestimate the fans in Vancouver and their ability to withstand suffering for a greater goal.

One of the only vulnerable moments my Father shared with me, in the midst of him putting up a show of strength for my brothers and me, was when I asked what he was thinking about as he stared out into the North Shore summit. He faintly spoke:

I didn’t have to contemplate; I spoke that our purpose was always for each other. It was a relatively easy answer. A small smile of relief came from his face, as if I had given the most simple solution to a much larger problem in his mind.

Our family always uses humour to break tough conversations, so I added:

“We’re also Canucks fans baba, so suffering is a given.”

I’d pay anything I’ve obtained in my life so far to hear him chuckle at me one last time as he did.

He didn’t laugh because it was an original joke. He laughed because it was truth.

My lifetime with him is filled with so many amazing moments. One of our personal favourites was having to work at our shop on a crucial Sunday with only the two of us in the midst of a heat dome. Tough enough already, but the man also worked next to me for nine hours with a broken arm.

In every single iteration of that Stanley Cup daydream, they’ve all involved him first and foremost. The end of a long journey. Frodo and Sam finally cast the One Ring into the fire. My father has gone to the Undying Lands, while I’m still here on Middle-earth. The endeavour continues.

My vision is crystal: we’re all finally granted a reprieve. Standing together where the streets finally have a name, flooding the roads as if we finally caught rain after an extensive drought. To see so many of you who also followed your story to the end. A massive weight from our shoulders. The ticking clock on the wall won’t bother us any longer.

On that day, I’m steadfast in the belief that the ones we’ve lost will join us once again. They’ll be beside us, around us, celebrating what is rightfully theirs. They’re getting the Cup passed to them first.

I’ll undoubtedly see him again, to feel his hand on my shoulder as we laugh at the absurdity of the road to get here. The last stone turned together. Watching him take a lap while wearing his signature Outback hat.

What does that day look like for you, reader?

Are you with your loved ones, or is that journey yours alone?

Did you make promises that you have to keep?

Are things more complicated than that?

Are you worried it will never come?

Still haunted by the heartbreaks of our past?

Is the Cup in the building?

Take a beat.

Message your parents right now and ask them if you’re still able.

Perhaps another person. A friend, co-worker.

Maybe they don’t even know how you feel yet.

Ping.

Start at Stanley Park. Down West Georgia. Right on Burrard.

Pacific, right along to Rogers Arena.

There’s only one thing I can guarantee, Azizam:

I cannot wait to see you on that day.