Forgive fans who were twisted over the news that the Giants hired Joe Judge as their new head coach.
You've never heard of him. Then you learned he came from the splintered Belichick coaching tree. Then you learned he had never been a head coach or even an NFL coordinator. Then the Giants signed him without even talking to the more decorated assistant on the Patriots staff - Josh McDaniels.
You felt betrayed, if not bamboozled.
Then Judge, who swapped his sloppy coaching clothes for a Big Blue-colored suit, took the dais. And for now, at least, you feel a little better. Judge sounded smart, charged-up, and in charge. He gave us a bare-knuckle vision of the G-Men as a blue-collar reflection of their fans, from New York City to New Jersey. He wasn't awestruck by his new digs, as Mike McCarthy was by Jerry Jones and the sacred star on the Cowboys helmet.
Judge didn't dive into Hallmark-card sentiments about loving his players, as Mickey Callaway once did. He didn't have the Norman Bates eyes bulging at the press, as Adam Gase once had. He wasn't too moved by the moment or by landing on the main nerve of American media. And unlike his predecessor, his presence was palpable. His maiden mark on the NYC market was sound, focused and controlled.
Judge, admittedly old-school, promises a physical style of football, which should be refreshing to fans too tired of watching a defense crumble, with players forgetting how to tackle and no one taking responsibility for it.
At 38, he doesn't have the traditional bio of the classic Giants coach. But if he's the right guy then his youth will fuel a franchise that's been running on fumes over the last few years. The decay started, as it often does with NFL teams, with the decline of franchise quarterback Eli Manning, and the team's reluctance to replace him. Then the defense seemed to crumble at the same time. Between pricey, aging stars and one star whose ego eclipsed the Meadowlands, the Giants became way more soap opera than Super Bowl.
In the ADD age of social media, we want nanosecond clicks and instant conclusions. We paint a snapshot portrait of a person's deeds, desires and hidden biases based on wholly insufficient data. You want to know now if Joe Judge is Lombardi, Landry or Jim Lee Howell. The G-Men have been so bad lately that it jars your old-world sensibilities. The Giants are one of the good guys, an NFL version of an Original Six team. They don't have four coaches in five years, until they do. And judgement day (sorry) awaits the new coach.
In reality, we won't know Joe Judge's chops until he sees live NFL action as the boss of the sideline, not one of the minions pacing up and down the bench, exhorting his small circle of players. Judge went from special teams and wide receivers coach to head coach, a quantum leap in exposure, responsibility and in pay. We don't know the numbers, but assume the Giants will pay Judge around $3 million a year for four years.
We don't know how Judge will juggle the melon-sized egos during the week, or the savage mood swings on Sundays. We don't know if he will punt on fourth-and-one or shove his offense back on the field and try to have his players elbow their way to the first down. With his muscular message, you get way more Coughlin than McAdoo, way more Parcells than Fassel. But it's always three cherries on the first pull of the coaching slot machine.
For one day, at least, Joe Judge made you feel a bit more comfortable about him. He feels more than a marionette or a minion who will jump at Dave Gettleman's first grunt. And you hope those three cherries don't morph into one lemon.
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