On any given night in a Canadian hockey arena today, it is no longer unusual to hear Punjabi being spoken in the stands. Families arrive wrapped in jerseys, kids alongside their grandparents, and a generation that once watched from the margins now occupies the center rows with ease.
On the ice, too, the picture has begun to shift. Names like Manny Malhotra, Jujhar Khaira, and Arshdeep Bains have entered the NHL conversation, proof that South Asian presence in hockey is no longer a question mark, but a reality.
Yet every movement has a beginning. Long before the jerseys, the crowd, or the cautious optimism, there was Robin Bawa.
When Bawa stepped onto NHL ice on October 6, 1989, wearing a Washington Capitals jersey, history quietly unfolded. There were no headlines marking the moment, no community-wide celebration, no recognition that a boundary had been crossed. Most fans saw a 23-year-old rookie chasing a lifelong dream. What they did not see was the first South Asian athlete to play in the NHL and very likely the first of South Asian heritage to appear in any of North America’s four major professional sports leagues.
For the community he represented, many of whom would not even learn of this milestone until years later, it was a door opening without an audience.
The Pond Before the Arena
Robin Bawa’s hockey story does not begin under bright lights or roaring crowds. It begins, like many Canadian hockey stories, on a frozen pond in Duncan, British Columbia, with a pair of brand-new skates and a boy who could barely stand on ice.
When he first asked neighborhood kids if he could join their game, the answer was blunt and unmistakable. “Your kind doesn’t play hockey.” It was a phrase rooted in ignorance, but reflective of a time when belonging was rigidly defined. “Hockey was also expensive, and nobody from our community was playing — so you didn’t see it as an option.”
His response was not confrontation. It was persistence.
The first time he ever stood on skates was beside his father. His dad worked relentless hours—leaving home at 4:30 every morning and returning only by early evening—but no matter how long the day had been, he would lace up his son’s skates and head out. Four or five evenings a week, they returned to the ice. Bawa fell often, got up just as often, and slowly learned to balance. Once he could skate, his father brought him and his cousins to a frozen pond behind his workplace, this time with hockey sticks and a puck in hand. By the end of those long winter days, they weren’t just skating anymore—they were playing. Laughing, clumsy, and exhausted, they left the ice having unknowingly fallen in love with a game that would shape the rest of his life.
Climbing Without a Map
Hockey, for all its romance, is rarely gentle. For a South Asian kid in the 1970s and 80s, it could be unforgiving.
There was no roadmap for someone like Robin Bawa. His parents, like many immigrant families, knew little about elite sports pathways. They watched Hockey Night in Canada on Saturdays, absorbed what they could, and trusted their son’s passion. There was no pressure, no post-game interrogation, no living vicariously through his performance. They let him play.
That freedom mattered.
Bawa moved through local systems, eventually landing with the Kamloops Blazers, where he flourished. Under coach Ken Hitchcock, he emerged as a force, scoring 57 goals in 62 games during his final junior season and contributing to the team's multiple WHL titles and strong Memorial Cup finishes. By then, he was impossible to ignore. “We were always taught we had to work twice as hard just to get noticed, and I did just that.”
Still, progress did not mean acceptance.
In the minor leagues, playing for Washington’s farm teams in Fort Wayne and Baltimore, Bawa was often the only South Asian player in the building. Racial discrimination was frequent, sometimes casual, sometimes cutting. There were no social media platforms to expose it, no systems to address it meaningfully. Complaints were rarely welcomed. Silence was survival. “Back then, nobody talked about things. You were taught to just look the other way,” he says.
So, he adapted. He learned to fight as well as score. In one season, he tallied 23 goals and over 200 penalty minutes. He was not just playing the game; he was protecting his right to be there.
A Debut That Changed Everything
When Robin Bawa finally made his NHL debut with Washington, the moment arrived quietly. There were no special ceremonies, no recognition of what the puck drop represented. Yet he made sure it was felt.
On his first shift, he delivered a jarring open-ice hit. “My dad went and bought a satellite dish just so he could watch my first NHL game,” he recalls. In his second NHL game, he scored, becoming the first South Asian player to do so. The message was clear. He was not there to fill a novelty slot. He belonged.
A trade to Vancouver in 1991 brought him closer to home and into a city with a growing South Asian population. Ironically, many believed this was his first NHL appearance. Few knew he had already broken the barrier years earlier. There simply had not been a South Asian media ecosystem capable of carrying that story.
In his Canucks debut, he shattered a pane of arena glass attempting a hit, igniting the Pacific Coliseum crowd and, for many in attendance, a sense of recognition they had never felt in hockey before.
For the first time, the community could see one of their own, live and undeniable.
Playing Ahead of His Time
Robin Bawa’s game was physical, responsible, and adaptable. He chipped in offensively, played heavy when required, and understood the value of grit. In many ways, he was built for today’s NHL, a league that prizes speed and skill but still demands toughness.
“I was probably better suited to today’s game than the game in the late 80s and early 90s,” he reflects.
After stints with Vancouver, San Jose, and the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim, Bawa’s NHL career totaled 62 games, 57 goals, and 56 assists. The numbers tell only part of the story. His professional career extended far beyond the NHL, with 12 seasons in the minor leagues, where he amassed over 400 points and more than 2,300 penalty minutes.
Concussions eventually forced his retirement in 1999. The grind had taken its toll.
What remained was legacy.
The Cost of Being First
Being first is rarely glamorous in real time. It is isolating, often misunderstood, and deeply exhausting. Robin Bawa does not romanticize it. “When you’re the first of any kind, you don’t have time to think about history. You’re just focused on making the team and doing your best.”
Looking back, he notes that in nearly four decades since his debut, only a handful of South Asian players have followed. Manny Malhotra. Jujhar Khaira. Arshdeep Bains. A few others on the margins.
“For the population we have, you’d think there would be more,” he says plainly.
The reasons are complex. Hockey is expensive. Cultural expectations can pull kids away from sports at critical ages. And then there are the subtler barriers, the ones that don’t announce themselves.
Bawa speaks openly about hidden bias, about how decision-makers often gravitate toward familiarity. “People tend to lean toward people who look like them. That’s why we need more South Asians in coaching, management and ownership,” he says. Coaches, managers, and executives tend to see themselves in the players they choose. Without South Asians in management and ownership roles, progress remains limited.
Visibility, he insists, is everything. Not just on the ice, but behind the bench, in front offices, in boardrooms.
A Changing Landscape, Slowly
Today’s environment is undeniably different. Social media, increased accountability, and greater awareness have tightened the space for overt discrimination. Young players now grow up seeing faces that resemble theirs in professional uniforms.
That matters.
Yet Bawa is careful not to declare victory too early. Progress, he believes, is real but fragile. It requires community support, media amplification, and parents willing to let their children explore paths beyond tradition.
Sports, he argues, offers structure, discipline, and belonging. They keep kids connected, focused, and supported. Walking away too early can mean losing more than a potential career.
He has lived this belief, volunteering as a coach for over a decade, giving back to the game that gave him purpose.
Legacy in Motion
When asked how he views his legacy, Bawa does not hesitate. It is both the moment he stepped onto the NHL ice and the players who followed.
“The first one is always the hardest,” he says. “After that, it gets a little easier.”
He believes that one day, when the hundredth South Asian player skates into the NHL, the idea of “first” will feel distant and unnecessary. Until then, the responsibility is shared.
Families must support. Communities must celebrate. Media must tell these stories, not years later, but in real time.
Looking at the current generation, especially those playing and coaching in British Columbia, Bawa feels hope. Not the loud kind, but the steady kind. The kind that grows quietly until it becomes impossible to ignore.
The Dream That Endures
If Robin Bawa could speak to a young South Asian child standing nervously at the edge of a rink today, unsure if they belong, his message would be simple.
Dream big. Keep the dream alive.
He says it without theatrics because he lived it. Every night as a boy, he visualized the game, imagined himself there, long before anyone else could.
“Once you kill the dream,” he says, “it’s over.”
Today, as arenas fill with families who once believed hockey was not for them, as kids lace up skates without questioning whether they fit the mold, that dream continues to move forward.
Quietly. Persistently. Just like it did on a frozen pond in Duncan, all those years ago.
