I start as one who has no home, I hold a circle in my core, My end's a queue, a verse, a row, As whole, I make the young ones soar.

Just my first three: in a pod of green. My last three: a rodent’s stash, both descend from trees. My rounds are chambered in a shell of tweed. Crack the case, of Planters’ face. The solid, not the cream.

I am the home of the world’s greatest 'experts,' where victories are easy and every play is clear. From my plush embrace, coaches are sacked, passes are never missed, and the 'right' call is always obvious after the whistle blows. I support the person who has all the answers but never steps onto the field. What am I?

Silent serpents slithering, patient and unending, they form outside doors and screens, awaiting their turn with synchronized patience.

Protection from the elements and keeping your hands safe without these pair you surely will go to waste