Winter is here.

 Great empires tend to collapse like the human body, from the extremities inward, desperately shutting off those parts of one's anatomy—the toes, the nose, the fingers—that they think can be most easily sacrificed.  

Instead, these signs of decay only seem to summon the vultures, and speed the disintegration.

Not only the Yankees' gift shop off Times Square has closed, but also the Mets' shop on 42nd Street. 

Both were once the thriving outposts of empire, raking in gold and silver hand-over-fist, in exchange for just the sort of gaudy strips of cloth and assorted gewgaws that venturesome imperialists have always tried to palm on the unsuspecting locals. But word is beginning to leak out.

Last night on SNY's SportsNite, a pair of worthy sportswriting eminences, John Jastremski and Anthony McCarron, began to sound the alarm over the Yankees' retreat from the far atolls,  questioning just what the hell the Empire is doing.

SportsNite is the lively sports news show on the Mets' channel, on which a cast of dozens—male and female, old and young people of every possible age, size, and description—show highlights and banter about our NYC teams, such as they are. They are smart, witty, knowledgeable and critical. 

There is simply no equivalent thereof on the Yankees' moribund YES Network, which led us into the New Year with an A.C. Milan match and the Nets. But then, you can't be on SNY if you're a dues-paying member of the National Brotherhood of Flunkies and Lickspittles (Looking at you, Randy, Brian, and Lonn.).

Last night, both McCarron and Jastremski expressed approval of the fact that the Yanks have "checked in" on possibly signing Bo Bichette and Cody Bellinger, but were amazed that the Bronx team has done f-all (not their words) so far. Worse still, though, they were surprised that neither the Yankees nor the Mets took a flier on Tatsuya Imai, considering how he ended up going for the baseball-owner equivalent of couch change.  

This last is the most ominous development.  

Of course we can safely conclude that the Yanks never had and never will have any interest in re-signing Bellinger, and that "checking in" on Bichette is the Yanks' version of someone checking in on his smelly, irascible, 108-year-old grandfather: an empty show of virtue concerning an individual they would as soon just went away somehow. 

The Yankees and Mets passing on Imai suggests something else. It could be that Mets owner and chief executive klepto, Steve Cohen, was only in it for the casino from day one. In any case, their rush to "rebuild their core"—dumping still-productive players—while doing nothing about the pitching staff whose meltdown kept them out of the playoffs—looks more damning still.  

So what's going on?

Well, as they say in the pulps, winter is coming, there's a storm moving in, and the horror, the horror. And I don't mean all-winter-in-a-day, like what just dropped on Syracuse.

Hal and his fellow grifters are gearing up for the Big One, Billionaires versus Millionaires once more, this time for all the luxury boxes, once the basic agreement ends. They want to be stuck with as little payroll—or even as few tangible tourist traps—as possible. 

As you gentlemen have pointed out, the Yanks right now have the weakest bullpen in living memory, and a rotation where nobody knows who is going to be able to pitch Opening Day. None of the team's lineup shortcomings have been addressed—and none will be, right down to the fact that we will probably have our worst shortstop since Wayne Tolleson.

What they're planning for is a lockout that will last well into the 2027 season, and maybe into 2028, and then who knows?

There are no longer any of the checks in place that limited previous work stoppages. No Cal Ripken consecutive streak. No responsible federal judges, or a president who gives a crap about baseball or anything else. The owners and players have grown so fat on all the subsidies we have so fecklessly given them that can afford to fight on and on—and probably will.

They may be in for a surprise, though. 

Baseball is no longer our national game, and has not been for two generations. Through their algorithms and their extortionate prices, and the whole, debased ballpark experience, the owners have drained so much of the joy from the game. Players who often seem more intent on practicing their celebratory gesticulations than anything else, don't help.

If the sentiments expressed on this blog—home to as fine a set of aged, fanatical seamheads as ever existed—are any indication, not only Nepo Hal but the whole MLB apparatus has exhausted our patience.

As if they care. Already, the owners have started pulling down the flag, and heading for home. We should make sure it's the last time they do this to us.