It started with a chipped bowl in my grandmother’s kitchen. She’d kept it like a talisman through her migration from Hong Kong to Vancouver—a blue and white porcelain piece that somehow survived crossing oceans when so many other possessions were left behind. “In our culture,” she told me, stirring a pot of congee, “we find value in what others might discard.”
Last week, as I sat with Curtis Luk in the corner booth of his Richmond restaurant, that memory resurfaced. Luk, a former competitor on Top Chef Canada and now the head coach of a youth rugby development program, was describing his journey through Canadian sports culture.
“When I first came to Canada at age 10, I knew nothing about rugby,” he admits, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. “But my uncle insisted I try it. He said immigrants need to be visible in every space, not just where we’re expected to be.”
Three decades later, Luk’s perspective feels particularly relevant as we enter Asian Heritage Month, a time when contributions from Asian-Canadian communities are highlighted across cultural spheres—though perhaps less frequently in athletics than arts or cuisine.
The historical narrative of Asian Canadians in sports is complicated by periods of explicit exclusion and implicit barriers. From the Chinese Immigration Act of 1923 (popularly known as the Chinese Exclusion Act) to Japanese internment during World War II, formal policies prevented many from accessing recreational spaces that most Canadians took for granted.
Statistics Canada reports that while nearly 20% of Canadians identify as having Asian heritage, representation in professional sports remains disproportionately low. A 2023 study from the University of Toronto’s Faculty of Kinesiology found that only 4.6% of athletes in Canada’s major sports leagues identify as Asian Canadian.
“The numbers tell one story, but the emotional reality tells another,” explains Dr. Elaine Chow, who researches sports sociology at Simon Fraser University. “Many Asian Canadian athletes describe feeling perpetually caught between being invisible and hypervisible—either overlooked entirely or treated as novelties rather than simply athletes.”
This tension plays out in arenas both literal and figurative. When Patrick Chan won three world figure skating championships and Olympic silver, media coverage often emphasized his ethnicity in ways rarely applied to his non-Asian counterparts. Conversely, entire leagues like the Chinese Canadian Soccer Association operated for decades with minimal recognition from mainstream sports media.
The Vancouver Asahi baseball team, which dominated the Pacific Northwest leagues from 1914 to 1941, represents this dichotomy perfectly. Their achievements—including five straight Terminal League championships—were extraordinary, yet their story remained largely forgotten until recent documentaries and Héritage Minute segments brought their legacy back to public consciousness.
“That’s why community-built leagues matter so deeply,” says Wilson Liang, who has been coaching basketball in Toronto’s east end for 15 years. “When mainstream spaces don’t reflect you, you create your own spaces—not out of separatism, but survival.”
Liang’s Saturday morning basketball program, which started with six players in a community center gymnasium, now involves over 200 youth from predominantly Chinese, Filipino, and Korean backgrounds. “This gym might not look special to outsiders, but it’s where these kids feel they entirely belong, without explanation or apology.”
The picture isn’t entirely one of exclusion. Athletes like former NBA player Jeremy Lin (whose parents are Taiwanese immigrants) and Olympic swimming medalist Penny Oleksiak (whose mother is Chinese-Canadian) have achieved elite success. But even these breakthrough moments reveal underlying patterns of how Asian identity is framed in sports narratives.
“There’s still this tendency to describe Asian athletes through certain lenses—as technical, disciplined, or cerebral,” observes sports journalist Anjali Sharma. “The physicality, aggression, or natural athleticism attributed to other athletes is rarely part of the conversation, perpetuating subtle stereotypes even in celebration.”
Beyond professional sports, recreational leagues have become crucial cultural hubs. The Asian Canadian Special Events Association now organizes one of the largest dragon boat festivals in North America, bringing together nearly 5,000 participants annually on Vancouver’s False Creek.
Dr. Christine Yao of UBC’s Asian Canadian and Asian Migration Studies program describes these community sports associations as “third spaces”—neither family nor workplace, but vital zones of cultural continuity and innovation.
“These leagues aren’t just about athletics,” Yao tells me as we walk along the seawall where dragon boat teams practice throughout spring. “They’re living archives where intergenerational relationships form, language is preserved, and community cohesion happens naturally through shared activity.”
When I visit the Richmond Oval on a Tuesday evening, this becomes immediately apparent. The massive facility, built for the 2010 Winter Olympics, now hosts several Asian Canadian sports leagues. Tonight, it’s badminton—courts filled with players ranging from elementary schoolers to seniors in their seventies.
“My grandson barely speaks Cantonese, but he counts points in Cantonese here,” laughs 68-year-old Rita Chan, watching her 12-year-old grandson play. “Some things translate through sport when they won’t through direct teaching.”
The future of Asian heritage in Canadian sports appears to be evolving beyond these community spaces into more integrated representation. Organizations like the Chinese Canadian Youth Athletics Association now partner with mainstream sports bodies to create development pathways previously missing.
Last year, Hockey Canada launched its first comprehensive diversity strategy with specific outreach to Asian Canadian communities, acknowledging historical gaps in accessibility. Meanwhile, the Canadian Olympic Committee has expanded its heritage diversity programs, recognizing that athletic pathways begin with early exposure and community support.
For Curtis Luk, who started our conversation, these institutional changes matter—but so does individual courage.
“When I tell my young rugby players about resilience, I’m not just talking about getting up after a hard tackle,” he says as we finish our tea. “I’m talking about the resilience to be visible in spaces where you might be the only person who looks like you.”
Like my grandmother’s chipped bowl—carried across oceans, still whole enough to hold something nourishing—Asian heritage in Canadian sports persists through determination and community creativity. The stories may have been partially hidden, but they were never completely lost. They were preserved in community gyms, neighborhood fields, and in the memories of those who played, coached, and cheered—waiting to be recognized not as separate from Canadian sports heritage, but as essential to it.
