THIS is the time of year when managers attempt to look ahead with a confidence not always helped by the scary sight of returning players.
Warmed by the summer sun - shining at last - they try to think positive about a season that stretches ahead like an unmapped minefield.
Most of these reckless optimists will have their dreams of conquest blown away by the first bitter winds of winter, their first team squads too thin and untalented to survive even a moderate to poor Premiership.
Others, with money to spend, will roll out another magic carpet of glorious achievement, leaving a gaggle of also-rans to blame everything but their own rank bad management and unsophisticated tactics.
As a breed, managers prefer to castigate their players when things go wrong.
Yet show them a victory against the odds or a piece of silverware and they elbow themselves to the front of the queue shouting, 'Me! Me! Me!'
Glenn Roeder broke ranks last term by criticising those managers who use every excuse for failure, except the one staring at them from the bathroom mirror.
That was refreshing, but made no impact on his colleagues who wouldn't recognise the word culpability if it had jumped up and gored them.
Roeder's summer of shocks, Michael Owen out for up to a year, cash tight, and definitely no Alan Shearer to call on, suggest he will struggle to observe his own strictures, with elimination in the InterToto Cup the least of his worries.
Everton wanted that particular route to Europe as much as Newcastle did but produced a season that saw them sink early on, bob up to the surface again, and then submerge after their second derby defeat of the campaign.
That brutal descent from short-lived European ecstasy to mid-table mediocrity still rankles with David Moyes as he contemplates a crossroads in his career. Preparing his players last week, he grieved for the four or five victories that would have taken Everton into a UEFA Cup spot.
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