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As the final seconds ticked away during the Giants 45-35 season-opening, monster of a killing at the hands of the much despised Dallas Cowboys, Tom Coughlin just stood there, eyes-bulging, veins popping and head swirling, as if it were being basted atop a red-hot rotisserie. The NFL's heretic of a head coach had returned to life. Gone in a flash was all the talk of a milder, calmer, more sensitive Tom Coughlin. All the rhetoric about how he, at the trite age of 61, no less, had resurrected himself to the point of understanding the incessant need to treat and relate to his men as just that. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? Yeah, right, and we all bore witness to the transformation. For the man the Giants insist they had come to love all this preseason had clearly again morphed into the one they always seem to fear come crucial game time. And, oh, the horror of it all. There was would-be star quarterback Eli Manning, far too often reduced to robotic-like mechanisms by a flawed game plan that put a damper on an otherwise career-like outing. There was Brandon Jacobs, all 6-4, 265 pounds of him, being more utilized as if he were auditioning for the role of Sasquatch than trying to find his way as the team's new N0. 1 rusher. And then there was the defense, performing as if its members had somehow been hypnotized to succumb, transfixed by an overbearing taskmaster who long ago had all but rendered their deeds useless based on all his negative vibes alone. Those, lest we forget, were all the concoctions of one Tom Coughlin who, through much of it all, just stood there on Sunday, snarling, flinging, breathing fire. But mostly posing a clear and present danger to every hope Giants fans may hold of living through a harmonious, playoff-filled existence this season. For the sake of them all, not to mention that of his men, the monster must be stopped.
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