Hockey.
Beg pardon?
Hockey, he repeated. Hockey.
He confessed later that he wasn't sold on it, but it looked like there was an opening and if there was anything he could spot, Ed Snider - a dapper, feisty bulldog - could sniff out an opening.
And then pounce on it.
And this promising opening was a team of professional athletes in a game of whooshing speed and concussive collisions, played on ice by toothless men ready, willing and able to drop gloves and bleed at the first instigation, and bleeding plays big on Broad Street.