I am a squirrel. I am gathering acorns. I am making a nest in the attic of David Stern's house. I am preparing for a long, long winter.

I can pretend to be a bushy-tailed rodent, but I can't pretend to have any inside information on the current labor negotiations in baseball. I am not privy to the battle plans of either the players union or the confederacy of dunces who run baseball. I do have this squirrel-like warning system -- is that a potential mate or Bud Selig's hair? -- that tells me we're in for a serious Ice Age.

I've had this chilly feeling twice before: 1981 and 1994. During those work stoppages, I fretted and fussed and flung myself against the bars of darkness. Since then, I've learned not to rely so much on baseball. I've also learned that caged squirrels sometimes die of shock. So I will keep moving, limb to limb, wire to wire.

Bring it on, Bud and Don Fehr. Bring on your collective bargaining disagreements, your name-calling and posturing and polemicizing. Keep talking or even not talking, beyond the reporting dates for pitchers and catchers, into the Cactus and Grapefruit League schedules, past Opening Day, through the All-Star Game, on into the postseason. This time, I'm ready for a year without baseball.

I'll take another look at the Ken Burns series. I'll order the 2001 Strat-o-matic cards just to see what the Barry Bonds one looks like. I'll coach two Little League teams. I'll try to find a copy of the earlier, shorter version of "Bang The Drum Slowly," starring Paul Newman. I'll take the kids to minor league games. I'll reread Roger Angell and Robert Creamer, Christy Mathewson and Jim Brosnan.

I'll organize a Rotisserie draft of players -- from 1950. We'll make another pilgrimage to Cooperstown. I'll buy a Johnny Callison model glove on eBay. I'll try to pick up the PawSox on the radio late at night. I'll start playing softball again.

I'll follow the NBA and the NHL much more closely -- right through till June, when I'll segue to the NFL. I'll devote more time to charity and the mess in the garage. I'll laugh at the idiocy of shutting down a game that's coming off a wonderful season. I'll shed not a tear for a player or an owner or a lost season.

Then again, I may just be fooling myself.

I am a squirrel, after all. I could get run over by one of their limos.

Steve Wulf is executive editor of ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at steve.wulf@espnmag.com.