'I’ll Never Forget That Smile'

The debate about whether or not to go public didn’t last long

Within weeks of receiving the traumatic, life-changing diagnosis, Chris Snow turned the pain, the fear, the uncertainty of it all into an incredibly noble pursuit.

“I remember him and I sitting in the office and I asked if he was going tell anyone,” said Flames GM Craig Conroy, reflecting on the incredible life of his cherished teammate. “I asked him, ‘Are we going to tell the office?

“He said, 'I'm debating it ... but I want to tell it in my own way.'

“He marched in one day and said, 'I'm going to tell everyone, Craig. My mission is to do something about the disease and I'm going to try my best to make that happen.'

“The strength it takes to do something like that is something you can't even put into words. He really believed that they were going to find a way to cure this thing, and that was his goal from that point forward.

"We're not there yet. But we’re closer now than we ever have been.”

The Flames Assistant GM quite literally changed the world, creating a legacy that will live on far beyond the walls of the Scotiabank Saddledome. He defied the odds and fought valiantly not just for himself, but for his kids, Cohen and Willa, his remarkable wife, Kelsie, and the countless others that were affected similarly, but no longer had a voice.

The cruelty in ALS is that, while the disease rapidly takes hold and grinds the basic, bodily functions down to a crawl, it takes an immeasurable, psychological toll on family and friends, and unforgivably prolongs the suffering. And this was an illness that already claimed the lives of Chris’ father, his cousin and two uncles, all within 12 months each.

Chris, too, was given only one year to live, but he defiantly said no, willing himself to another four-and-a-half years of birthdays, holidays and indelible life moments before he was tragically taken from us on Saturday.

Sometimes, he would go days – if not weeks, and months – without experiencing any significant changes in his condition.

Until the day he woke up and the weakness in his right arm had devolved into something more alarming. Or when that famously bright smile of his began to fade, before losing it completely over time. Or when eating and drinking had become too much of a challenge, and dressing himself, driving, and living an independent life was no longer possible.

But live, he did.

He remained active and outfitted his bicycle, golf clubs, hockey stick and baseball bat with a custom grip so he could still do the things he loved with his family. He cannonballed off docks at the Snow’s ‘Happy Place’ in New Durham, New Hampshire, coached little-league, and even crossed a once-‘impossible’ mile marker – his 40th birthday – by throwing out the first pitch at a Boston Red Sox game.

“When you talk about people looking at him as inspiration, I don’t know how you can’t,” said Flames Head Coach Ryan Huska, who revealed that Chris was one of his biggest supporters in helping him land the top gig. “Never did he have a bad day, considering what he was going through. And he continued to do his job to the best of his ability every day."

Even the most basic of activities, like cutting the grass or enjoying the sunshine on a warm summer day, added a sense of normalcy to his increasingly turbulent world.

He worked, too, dedicating so much of himself to helping the Flames on their quest to win Lord Stanley’s mug.

These were the triumphs he often spoke of. They were both personal and widespread, with his awareness efforts going viral thanks to the Twitter-famed #TrickShot4Snowy and #WeakSideStrong challenges, along with the Snowy Strong for ALS campaign, which has raised more than $575,000 to date to better understand the disease and develop new, potentially life-saving treatments.

Above all, Chris wanted nothing more than to watch his kids grow – even if that meant Cohen passing him on the mini-stick depth chart.

“He loved that more than anything,” said Conroy. “At the beginning, Snowy wasn't taking it easy on him, but Cohen got pretty darn good over the years. They could sit down there and play for hours.”

‘Wins’ like those reminded Chris not of the trials he endured, but of the gratitude he felt.

“Chris had a way of making every day – every interaction – better,” Conroy continued. “When I think back to some of my favourite moments together, it always involved him smiling and laughing. He probably got sick of me coming over and sitting in his office on a daily basis, but that’s when we would bond and share our best ideas. It’s how you build a team and Chris got that, because he was the ultimate teammate.

“He was also really stubborn. He had his ideas and I had mine, and frankly you need different opinions when you’re trying to win a championship. Heck, we would play a lot staff hockey during the lockout because there wasn't a whole lot else to do, and a couple of times ... not going to lie, I ran him!

“It was great. We were out there every single day and we’d battle back and forth. Out of all the times we spent together and were giving it to each other, that was probably the most fun we ever had.

“I’ll never forget that smile.

“Or the passion.

“He badly wanted to grow our analytics department and make it the class of the league. His ideas were so innovative and with the group we have in place now, and his vision of where he wanted it to go. It's sad to think he's not going to see that, but I’ll tell you, it's going to be special.

In his final tweet back on June 17, Chris lamented the physical barriers affecting his daily life. They were an impediment. A disability, indeed. But Chris – a former baseball writer with the Boston Globe – always had a way with words, and insisted he was as healthy and energized as ever.

“I’ve come to view health and disability as two very different things,” he wrote. “I may be diminished, but I am not sick, and I am not deterred.”

Those who knew Chris were lucky enough to see this – to tap into that brilliance, that bravery, and see firsthand what it means to be strong.

He was a fighter in every sense of the word. A conversation in passing, whether it was in the hallway in the office or on a bus to the rink, had a way of uplifting you – because Chris, the beacon that he was, made the choice to inspire others and appreciate the beauty of life, love and family.

“I always told him, 'Chris, you know you don't have to be here today. Go home!' He never would,” said Conroy. “He loved it that much, he wanted to be here, he wanted to be part of it. He wanted to win a Stanley Cup. He was that passionate about this.

“He never wanted to miss anything, so he worked right to the end.

“Kelsie even told me that he had a three-year player projection on his computer that I asked for and he just hadn't sent it yet. It was done. Ready to send.

“She asked if I wanted it, but I couldn’t. I said no.

“We're going to leave that one with him.”