Johnny Majors was fired to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.

But, once upon a time of all the good days in the year, upon a Christmas Eve, Old Phillip Fulmer stood busy in the Neyland Thompson Sports Complex.

It was cold, bleak, biting, foggy weather outside, and inside it was just as gloomy. Fulmer had the whole building lit only with candles (what with the athletic department's budget deficit and all).

But despite the dark and the holiday, Fulmer worked on. Christmas Eve was a poor excuse to rob a man of time, time that could be spent rebuilding a program from the bottom up.

As he gathered up tapes from the film room to take back to his office to study, he heard a sudden, loud noise. Louder. Ever louder. Then the door to the film room blew open with enormous force and there before Fulmer stood Coach Majors! The same face, the very same. Majors!

Bewildered, Fulmer asked, "What are you doing here? Are you a ghost?"

"No, I'm not dead, doggone it," replied Majors. "But I am here to warn you."

"Warn me? About what? And what's with that chain around you?"

"It's the chain I forged in coaching. Each link represents a tie ballgame. It's a ponderous chain, huh? Takes a lot of drive, bravado and sticktoitiveness just to lug this thing around. You should see Pat Dye's."

"Didn't they take away your keys? How'd you get in here?"

"Don't sweat the details, Fulmer. For all you know I'm a bit of undigested beef or a blot of mustard. Probably just a product of your own imagination."

"But why you? Why would YOU warn ME about anything," Fulmer asked.

"Can I get on with this, doggone it? Look, I brought some spirits with me tonight. ... Christmas spirits. The first one, Christmas Past, is on his way. The second spirit, Christmas Present is out on the practice field, and the third spirit ..."

"Christmas Future?"

"Yeah, Christmas Future ... well he's already around here somewhere."

As Majors finished speaking, Fulmer's cellphone beeped "one o'clock." And Majors was gone. But in his place stood another old coach, whistle around his neck.

Fulmer didn't look too surprised to see him. "General Neyland, I haven't seen you since Halloween."

Bob Neyland, a tall, strapping vision, eyed Fulmer. "Vanderbilt? How'd you lose to Vanderbilt?"

Fulmer sighed. He should have seen that one coming.

"I told you to quick-kick more, but what do I know, right? Anyway, there was a time on this campus when coaches could feel secure if they won 78 percent of their games. But that changed when you won that National Title ... which you won with defense and a running game, I might add. Now, your fans think it's championships or bust."

Fulmer, who had work to do, was getting tired of the lecture. "Can we wrap this up, General?"

"Listen, you'd better win and win quick. You should have asked Majors about how quick fans and boosters can turn on you."

Fulmer had heard enough and he certainly didn't like where this conversation was going.

He walked past Neyland and out into the complex that bares the General's name. As he walked, he heard an odd sound. Stopping he couldn't quite figure out what it was. "Swoosh ... ping." "Swoosh ... ping."

Then he noticed a figure at the far end of the practice field. Moving closer to the figure, he could make out a sweater vest. Then a visor. It was Steve Spurrier!

"Steve, what are you doing in here?"

"Howdy, Phil," Spurrier grinned. "Just doing some chipping. Then I'm gonna do a little night-putting. You know, putting at night."

"Huh?"

"Man, you need to rent a movie once in a while. All this late-night-work stuff, what's the point? Heck, you got this nice practice field, you work around the clock, and you still didn't make a bowl this year."

"Just tell me what you're here to tell me, Steve."

"Well, as the Spirit of Christmas Present, you ought to be mindful of the fact that I'm back around. And your folks don't like losing to me. So you better watch your back."

"Is that a threat," Fulmer glared.

"Heck, I like you, Ol' Phil. I just want you to be careful. Remember, you can't spell 'shut out of a bowl' without 'UT.'"

With that, Spurrier went back to chipping.

"Thanks for the tip, Steve," Fulmer said sarcastically. "And where's the third spirit, Christmas Future? I'd just as soon get his speech out of the way and get back to rebuilding this thing from the bottom up. It's going to take time and effort. It's not like I can just sprinkle some magic dust."

"He's already around here somewhere. Check your office." As Fulmer walked toward his office, Spurrier swung again on the indoor carpet. "Slice! Dangit!" Silently, a visor sailed through the darkness.

Reaching his office, Fulmer noticed a glow coming from underneath the door. Someone was in there. Opening the door, someone was at his desk.

"Oh, it's you," Fulmer said, relieved. "You wouldn't believe the night I've had. Majors, Neyland, even Spurrier have been giving me warnings, telling me to watch my back, win now, etc. Supposedly the Spirit of Christmas Future is going to come see me, too. So it's good to see a friendly face, instead."

Fulmer then noticed that something wasn't quite right. Maybe it was the new nameplate on his desk.

"So, Coach Cut, what are you doing sitting at my desk anyway?"

With that, Fulmer's eyes flew open. It had all been a dream.

Relieved and renewed, he lept into the air, bouncing on his bed like a schoolboy. "Thanks for the warning, Spirits! I swear that next year we're going to win every single game! God bless us ... every game!"