What a surprise in Philly

By Christine M. FLOWERS

Philadelphia Daily News

You must have known I’d write about Tim Tebow, the quarterback signed by the Philadelphia Eagles. I mean, I’ve talked about him when he was thousands of miles away throwing ziggety-zaggety passes in Denver, so did you honestly believe I’d ignore this apparition in the grotto occurring in my own backyard? Seriously, if you’d told me that a miraculous spring would have spurted up in Philadelphia, I couldn’t have been more surprised. And while it’s too soon to predict what wonders might occur this season, I can promise that a bunch of us limping, bleeding-green fans will hobble up to the stadium and lay down our psychological crutches by the turnstile in the hopes of some healing.

I’m not a sportswriter. I do not have a professional’s eye or ear for what constitutes a brilliant draft strategy or a Hall of Fame hire. I don’t even have enough technical savvy to get me a job where, on my off hours, I can ridicule towing company employees about their bad teeth, cellulite and GEDs.

As I always make sure to caution people when reading my “how-cute-that-the-lady-pretends-to-know-sports” pieces, my only angle is the one that involves blind passion. And it looks like, praise The Lord!, I can see clearly now.

What do I see? Well, a quarterback who won the highest honor awarded to a college athlete. One who led his team to two national championships. One who hasn’t electrocuted any dogs, slapped around his lady, been convicted of murder or avoided being convicted of murder on a technicality. One who is a living reproach to those who call unborn children “masses of tissue.” One who has a great sense of humor about being ridiculed. One who gives “taking a knee” an entirely new meaning.

And then there’s his eyes.

I’d be less than honest (and in denial) if I said Tim’s mortal coil wasn’t mortal cool. I may be shuffling into the autumn of my years, but I still have a pulse.

So back to the miracles. Eagles coach Chip Kelly has managed, with this signing and perhaps without meaning to, restored my faith in prayer.

Sports can indeed become a religious experience. But those prayers were simply expressions of frustration with the simultaneous collapse of a dream built on contenders. We weren’t always champions, of course, and we went through some dark nights (and seasons) of the soul.

Clouds of celestial glory

Enter, then, Tim, trailing clouds of celestial glory and enough pop culture charisma to make Sarah Palin look like Carrie, before the pig’s blood. The man is a phenomenon, whose mere presence in our midst will liven up the moribund scene.

This is the point where I’m supposed to hang my head and apologize for so publicly and vocally criticizing our coach. It’s where I say, mea maxima culpa for being a doubting Thomasina. It’s where I go on Facebook and face the unforgiving mob that thought I was a big meanie to Chip and, genuflecting like our sweet young gunslinger, beg pardon.

But this isn’t about Chip Kelly.

This is about, for a moment at least, seeing the tiny light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

Job, who would have felt right at home at the Sports complex this year once asked:

Where then is my hope, who can see any hope for me?

As far as I’m concerned, it just signed a one-year deal.

Christine M. Flowers is a lawyer and columnist for the Philadelphia Daily News. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.