Coughlin Gets Back to Doing What He Loves Most
PARK RIDGE, NJ — The two-time Super Bowl winning head coach gently sways back and forth in an antique rocking chair on his porch. He lazily grips a glass of cold, unsweetened iced tea in one hand and a copy of The Old Man and the Sea in the other. This is not how most people would imagine the fiery, no nonsense, Tom Coughlin. And yet, here he is enjoying an unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon in peace and quiet. Quite the change of pace from the non-stop grind of running a professional football team, but Coughlin isn’t complaining. Coughlin hates complainers.
The former coach had camped out on his porch with big plans on making a dent in the book he finally has time to read. However, the warm weather can ruin the plans of even the most draconian disciplinarians. Coughlin quickly found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. Just as the sandman lulled the old man to sleep, a faint rustling in the bushes broke the suburban silence. Coughlin’s brow furrows as he intently listens for the source of the ruckus. His knuckles turn a ghostly white as he squeezes the glass in his hand. The glass seems to bend inwards under the stress of the former coach’s powerful old man grip. He grits his teeth. With surprising quickness and agility, Coughlin whips out an air rifle from underneath his porch table and begins firing it into the bushes.
*fwunk fwunk fwunk*
*sounds of children screaming*
“If I ever see you fucking kids on my lawn again, I swear I’ll load bird shot into my 22 and show you what’s what,” Coughlin screams as he chases two elementary school children off his property. The wizened coach triumphantly strides back to his seat. A faint, wry smile grows across his face.
“This here, is the most lethal weapon I can legally use against children. Trust me, I went to court over this.” He proudly shows off his air rifle, which he claims is commercially sold to kill small rodents. The word “discipline” is engraved on the stock.
“But this won’t do, regardless of what the laws says. The children around here need to be taught a lesson they’ll remember…*indecipherable muttering*… C’mon let me show you the backyard.”
Coughlin takes me to his backyard, which has been shown the attention and care that few front yards ever receive. In the back-right corner lies a large inconspicuous shed that appears out of place in suburban New Jersey. Shed isn’t the right word. The structure is significantly bigger than a shed, almost like a small barn. The coach takes me inside the structure to show me what he calls “his little workshop.” Strewn across several large work benches are a variety of half-finished contraptions.
“Yes sir, the air rifle won’t do. Therefore, I’m forced to develop my own unconventional weapons to battle the little brats. Let me show you. These contraptions have yet to be field tested so bear with me. This here is a catapult that launches hives of bees. Now it’s no secret. I am a fiend for homegrown, natural honey. I’ve been harvesting my own for years now, so I’ve got plenty of hives in the woods behind my house. I can’t wait to see Tommy Siskat’s face when I hit him in the face with a fucking beehive. HAHAHA!
This here is my fire ant blow pipe. If you are close enough and really blast one of those red bastards out at someone you can implant a living fire ant beneath the skin of your enemy. At least that’s what preliminary tests have shown when I used this against Tommy’s dog, Rocket.
And finally, my magnum opus: the sticker bush blanket. It took me so long to weave together a quilt of these little sharp bastards, but I eventually managed to do it. You use this one in conjunction with a rope and weight. You suspend this thing in midair with the rope and wait for the unsuspecting child to come underneath it. I like to put some bait on the ground too, typically a handful of Smarties. Then you release the rope and let the weighted blanket pin them to the ground. Then you can watch them thrash about in their prickly straight jacket. I’m really looking forward to this one. Already planning to test it on their dog tomorrow.”
We step back out of the shed and Coughlin release a long, deep sigh. “God, I missed this. You should’ve seen what the little shits did to my lawn when I was working. I feel so alive.”
We skip on over to the Old Country Buffet, which Coughlin visits frequently for their early bird special. We finish our dinner at the ripe hour of 4:15 PM. A short amble across the street brings the former coach to his favorite bench, located on the edge of a nearby park. “This is my favorite place to read my book. It’s so peaceful. I’ve been reading this book for three years now. I’m easily distracted. This bench overlooks a 7/11 and I’m compelled to look every Mexican day laborer in the eye and slowly shake my head from side to side. I really want to send them a message.” After a half hour of glaring at “those people” Coughlin said it was time to head home and get ready for bed. It wasn’t even 6 o’clock.
