He lunges from left to right, securing his black Pumas against the goal post and suffocates the bright-orange hockey ball before the marauding yellow team can squeak it past him.
When the whistle stops play, he glances over to make sure we're watching. Happy as a clam behind his helmet's cage and bopping his head up and down like a parrot.
"Way to go, Cholly!" one of the fathers yells, slouching comfortably in his folding chair.
"His name is Charlie," his son says, stressing the "arlie."
"Well here in Philadelphia, we say Cholly," he says proudly, adjusting his thick gold chain around his deeply tanned neck.
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