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.

"Good save, Cholly!"

Charlie, enjoying a bit of a scoring streak,  is looking for his third goal in three games, when another father standing next to me points out that Charlie knows where to position himself to score. As he says this, Charlie does just that. He sneaks one in on the short side.

"Wait for it ...," the father says.

"Wait for it ..."

"There it is!" he says enthusiastically, laughing, as Charlie raises his stick like he's the Statue of Liberty, giving the crowd his usual over-the-top celebratory goal dance.

When we arrive at the rink, lots of parents and kids are coming and going, quickly putting on their equipment or diving into post-game snacks. No one really notices that I'm detaching Charlie from a small blue machine that keeps him alive or taking blood from his fingertips. Aside from his coach, I don't think anyone else on the team knows he has diabetes.

When the crowd cheers on Charlie for hustling up and down the rink or battling much bigger kids in the corners or throwing his body in front of heavy slap shots, I so badly want to let them in on the secret.

I want them to know that he's doing all this while his blood sugar is two or three times above the normal level. Two or three times higher than their boys' levels.

I want them to know just how tough, determined and extraordinary Charlie is to be doing what he's doing.

"Just imagine what he could do if his pancreas wasn't busted," I want to tell them.

After the game, I tell the coach that his son played well and had a great shot on goal.

"Yeah, thanks," he says. "If I could only get him to play with the same fire that Charlie plays with."
 
Charlie pulls his helmet from his sweaty head and chugs a well-deserved cherry Gatorade (22 carbs).

"Dad! Did you hear everyone rooting for me?"

Charlie, I hear people rooting for you every day.