GROWL OF GLORY: Tribute To Tim Tebow, Urban Meyer & The Florid Gators

     Sir Edmund Burke wrote: "He well knows what snares are spread about his path, from personal animosity...and possibly from popular delusion. But he has put to hazard his ease, his security, his interest, his power, even his...popularity...He is traduced and abused for his supposed motives. He will remember that obloquy is a necessary ingredient in the composition of all true glory: he will remember...that calumny and abuse are essential parts of triumph...He may live long, he may do much. But here is the summit. He can exceed what he does this day."

     Basically, all players, quarterbacks and coaches have a clear sense of duty, in their DNA. At first sighting - a few years earlier now - I began a record of Tim Tebow, Urban Meyer and the Florida Gators - their chemistry, artistry, style and grace under fire - a "growl of glory" if you will - captured in poetic motion. I have had a strong interest in the beauty of sports glory, in the heat of battle and, the stroke of genius produced through this glory by the blood, sweat and tears of champions.

     Armed with an official press pass, pen and pad in "The Swamp" - in the autumn, 2009 - a door opened for this project.

     I'm simply a writer who invented a way of writing coined "New Style Journalism" at the University of Florida with a sincere appreciation for sports, especially football and, for the dedication, preparation and implementation that goes into the game.

     I'm committed to highlighting Tim Tebow, Urban Meyer and the Florida Gators in my work.

     I owe a special thanks to the Bleacher Report for giving me an opportunity to shine, especially "in hot sun."

     This season of sports poetry is created and published here to encourage those sitting on the sidelines of life that you too - can get into the game - just learn and enjoy the fundamentals demonstrated by Tim Tebow, Urban Meyer and the Florida Gators.

_____RCW

Interjection

Scramble the letters in Tim Tebow and Urban Meyer and you get:

"BAMY U BETTER WIN MORE."

     Now, some sports poetry...

WITH OUR HANDS

Today, looking up always. For wisdom, understanding now. In the hazy uniform world, In this tried and true place. On a solid bed of clay. Two stepped with giants and eagles. Fought tooth and nail. In a dentist hammering clutch, By bleacher bum rough hands. With their sweaty crossed fingers - sweaters torn - tears, coaches and fans. Inside throw back jerseys. Printed with colors, that shine. To the probe lights, Shot barely over wall jumps. Wondering and almost and fails. That told thousand words, Lasting pictures framed from the dozens of one. Plays practice when baskets should catch. Up with the candle. Like winds of old, new doubt. At good judgement, I hope. For you fans, collectors of all. Is a wick and waxy light. The spirit of believers in, The something yet come, For burning sensations, From those duked out. That will try and win. Like keys of doors and sudden hinge swing and does in, The Thomas of this day.

Swoosh the swordsman, stuffed hot peppers. And the tomato turns bright orange. My sky canvas blue screened. This stage of fame. For your binocular view. Now, a paying fan, Gooses, over easy, pan frayed, battled tested: Clap: for this hallow ground, From throw to running legs! Eat: At table my aching desire. To be human best, As the eagle fly, Atop the bobble head of lawyers, contracts and merchandise. Quicken and curious to spend. Over the limit amount, To sweet potted pies. Woe – Nellie, keep barn in horse. Gift wrap perfect, in trophy silver. The faithful runs and slides. The smooth shaped champagne cup. Hooray, for the boys, Hey brother spared earring dime. In the showering, lovely move. With Writer and camera roll, Covering the walls fly. Who sticks wing notes spreader from antennas. Around to the whole world. Crew, hurrying pan Right with Left.

In your face, on whitening caps, Law, on closeup, Bob Cat cool as jazz. Over here, over there, everywhere, flash bulb, Clawing as lobster and appetite. A dash of butter for my Snap, crackle and pop. On a sailed cork. But gel thick as hair. On combs straight running teeth. Cheers to this royal style.

Kings who hates to lose and loves to win, Dance in hog heaven lockers! The needle Found in a swan song of groupies feathered and plucked, And cork sure of taste! So many come and go. Smiled and styled, flash to fresh melons. Work the room and the booze. Swallowing hews over the wire, With pen and hard and smooth: Only the strong go deep space. Of hero and fences bound, Grow long as the rose blooms. And ball follows every willful tale. We enjoy the roll in the swamp and send Shiver up the spine of turns, Ooh, for more of that than that, over The wet soft promised lands, Opened with their thirsts – they’re ready.

Like attached twins, hip to hip. Oh Yeah! my solid catch with a glove! Hello, bosom buddy, hello, sit and enjoy! Your long ball parade in the misty haze. At League sanctioned autumn’s end. Welcome to the pastime my fan, my friend. We win! Gators- With Our Hands!…