I’m not a flame, but I waver. Not a signal, but I blink. I exist only by refusing to stay still. What am I?

My head is full of fingers, that you drag across the ground. They pull the dead from the bed you tread, with a scraping, swooshing sound. If I lie dormant, belly up, with my fingers to the sky, Your lesson is learned, foot to head, I return, it’s ‘name of the season’ time.

Where am I? A crumpled piece of paper, Off the board and in the hoop. Phones a ringing, printers singing and a coworker named Schrute.

I can be thin, or thick, and be in the game. Fear makes me crawl, and you might just jump out. I come in many hues, here to protect you, pamper me, and I'll glow for you, no doubt!

I'm used in tennis, strung and tight, In ping pong too, though not quite right. Make a loud and rowdy scene, And I’m the noise that’s often seen. In shady deals, I play my part - A criminal game, a crooked art.