While moving into his new office, the freshly hired college football coach noticed that his otherwise empty desk in his otherwise empty workspace had in a bottom drawer three sealed, numbered envelopes. He immediately called his predecessor.

"Coach, I think you left something behind," the new coach said. "Should I mail these three envelopes to you?"

"No, those are for you," the old coach said. "Here's the only advice I'm going to give you. When things get really, really bad — and I mean desperate — open an envelope."

Sure enough, the new coach had a horrible first season, which didn't surprise anyone. After all, most coaching changes happen because something went horribly wrong under the last guy. When the new coach's team was horrible again in year two, he felt desperate. He couldn't win games, he worried that he had assistant coaches with their own agendas, he had players who couldn't stay out of trouble off the field, and he noticed that some big boosters weren't inviting him to their parties anymore. So he reached for the first envelope.

Envelope #1: Blame Your Predecessor (Without Naming Him)

Heading into year three, the new coach heeded what he thought was sound advice. He felt comfortable that this approach would be OK, especially given that it came at the suggestion of the man who would have to take the brunt of the criticism. The unwritten rules of the coaching fraternity prevented him from bashing his predecessor by name, but that wouldn't prevent repeated, vague references to the fact that the new guy inherited an extremely difficult situation. At every press conference, in every interview, the new coach pounded the "blame the predecessor" theme, without naming names.

When a winning season in year three was followed by a horrendous season in year four, the new coach again felt desperate. People were calling for his head on sports-talk radio, on message boards, even on his own weekly radio show. His players still were getting into trouble in the classroom and off the field, he lost a few more assistant coaches, attendance was down at home games, and recruits were skeptical. He returned to his office, sat at his desk, and reached for the second envelope.

Envelope #2: Blame Youth

Silently, the coach again thanked his predecessor for a very good idea. "This is what happens when you're forced to play a lot of young people," the coach practiced saying in front of the mirror, knowing he'd need to master the wording. "We just need more time, to let these kids grow up." The media relations staff cooked up some data on the number of freshmen and sophomores in the lineup, the number of true freshmen who had to play because of the depth problems created by the previous regime, etc., and the "youth" theme was one the coach included in every conversation during year five.

When two more losing seasons followed, in year five and year six, the coach reached a new low. He thought he had tried everything. He had changed coordinators, other assistants, recruiting philosophies, scheduling habits, strength and conditioning practices, even pre-game meals. Nothing seemed to be working. Calls for his head now were coming not just from the lunatic fringe, but from rational fans and media members as well.

Relieved that his first two trips to his bottom desk drawer had resulted in pearls of wisdom and that precious commodity -- more time -- he knew he needed to turn around his program, the coach again went back to his office. He sat down, took a deep breath, and opened the third and final envelope.

Envelope #3: Prepare Three Envelopes