Staring into Tebow's eyes, you can see a greener future

YOU MUST HAVE known I'd write about Tim Tebow this week. 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 wouldhave spurted up at Broad andPattison, 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 QB 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 don't want to get all Mary Kay Letourneau on you, given that I'm a full quarter-century older than the little tyke, but I'd be less than honest (and in denial) if I said Tim'smortal 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. Chip Kelly has managed,with this signing and perhaps without meaning to, restored my faith in prayer. I pray a lot while watching Philly sports. Viewing a recent Flyers game I shouted, "Holy sh--!"Catching the last moment of a Sixers game I raised my hands and said, "Jesus H. Christ!" Listening to a particularly poignant moment in a Phillies game on WPHT I moaned, "Lord have mercy."

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. But never in my memory have we been at such a place where what was happening behind the microphone (Cataldi v. Gargano) was more interesting than what was taking place on field. If two long in the tooth paisans are creating more electricity than the athletes they're stalking, it is indeed a sports purgatory.

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.

To someonewho crunches numbers or inhabits a world of hypotheses to be proven, signing Tebow appears foolish. He hasn't played football in two years and the last time he did, Tom Brady wasn't exactly breaking a sweat over a possible late-season encounter. But to people like me, who grew up with the stories of resuscitated dead, multiplying fishes, waterwalkers and the promise of eternal life, Tebow fits in nicely and confirms that good things come to those who berate (Chip Kelly).

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.

Um, no.

I'm still royally annoyed at the chess game Kelly is playing and at the loss of core players who didn't fit Coach's eHarmony profile for perfect personality match. Plus, I don't want to give satisfaction to the Monday morning quarterback crew who think a "lady" doesn't get to have an opinion about football. (Go ahead, quibble with the "lady" part, I can deal.)

But this isn't about Chip Kelly. This isn't about my unseemly crush. This isn't even about a winning record.

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 Flowers is a lawyer.

Email: cflowers1961@gmail.com