I wrote a letter today.

Actually put pen to stationery, addressed the envelope, stuck a stamp on it and mailed it. And I was struck by the fact that I could not remember the last time I had done such a thing.

Oh sure, I send out birthday and sympathy cards, thank-you notes. But this was a real letter to a friend, and I did it because strangely, it didn’t seem right to e-mail, not personal enough.

It made me think about some of the letters I have sent and been sent in my life. It made me go hunting for my daughter Amanda’s letters from her first and only attempt at overnight camp.

She was 10 years old and it was only a two-week stay. I say “only” because where I live, kids are shipped out for eight-week tours of duty at the age of seven and don’t blink – neither the kids nor the parents.

My kids, however, come from indoor, stay-at-home stock. My family used to love to tell about the time my father had to drive downtown to go pick me up from the apartment of my aunt – whom I loved – because I couldn’t grasp the concept that the overnight visit meant I would be spending the night.

When Amanda decided to try overnight camp the first time, we did not know whether to laugh or cry over her letters home.

The first one, which was delivered a mere two days after her arrival in Lake Delton, Wis., began:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I am suffering emotionally and physically.

A week later, she detailed her distress further by informing us that she had not yet eaten, writing:

My stomach is as fragile as a potato chip.

The thing is, you’d have to see her shaky little handwriting on her cheery rainbow stationery to fully appreciate both the heartbreak and hilarity of what we were reading.

I watch now as both of my children compose almost all of their letters and school essays on the computer, and I actually miss their handwriting.  

And then, as much as I’d rather not, I am drawn to the wooden box where I keep the letters from my mother that I found when we packed up my parents’ house for the last time.

I had saved all the letters I had received in college and brought them home, where my mom, who threw out everything including anything resembling a leftover and my favorite jeans, had saved them. I guess she understood how important they were to me, even more than my jeans.

I just couldn’t throw them out – not the long ones from friends telling me about their new classes and their old boyfriends, and not the short ones from my very funny mother.

My freshman year, she barely missed a day, sending most on the same stationery but cleverly switching up the name on the return address so as not to embarrass me. Surely, my roommates would laugh if they saw endless correspondence from my mother to her homesick daughter. But they would definitely be impressed and maybe even jealous when they saw the ones on the same pink stationery from Tom Selleck and Robert Redford.

I look at the envelopes now and the sight of her familiar handwriting washes over me with a feeling of warmth and sadness that is beyond my power to describe. I open one up randomly, and I see:

My Dear Love,

And I can barely stand it.

Then I read her words and immediately I am hysterical. Laughing. I have been away at college for barely a month, my first extended stay away from home, and she is clearly trying to keep my mind away from this horrible place they have sent me to.

She is sorry, she writes, but she is thinking of cutting back to a letter every other day. “I can’t possibly be funny every day,” she explains.

I put it back in the box because I know if I start reading them, I will not stop. And then I go back up to my laptop where I try to pump humor and warmth onto a computer screen.

And I’m sorry, but it’s just not the same.

Once, when I was covering the Chicago Bulls, Scottie Pippen decided to boycott the media.

It took several weeks for anybody to notice.

It wasn’t that Scottie didn’t speak to us before that. He did. But we recognized those who were especially quotable and those, like Scottie, who were somewhat deficient.

I bring this up because much has been made by what two NBA players have not said over the last few days.

LeBron James has drawn much criticism after he walked off the court without congratulating his opponents following his Cleveland team’s loss to Orlando in the Eastern Conference Finals on Saturday night. He was taken to task further for not speaking to reporters after the game.

Also over the last few days, Bulls’ guard and the league’s Rookie of the Year Derrick Rose decided to “No comment” allegations that his high school transcript was falsified and that his SAT test was fraudulent as well.

In both cases, the media wanted something. Now that I’m a member of the general public, I can say with some confidence that I didn’t need anything

In James’ case, he came back the next day and, rather than apologizing as some athletes might have done and certainly many would have advised him to do in the interest of p.r., he tried to explain himself.

“It’s hard for me to congratulate somebody after you just lose to them,” James said. “I’m a winner. It’s not being a poor sport or anything like that. If somebody beats you up, you’re not going to congratulate them. That doesn’t make sense to me. I’m a competitor.”

It’s funny that in this day and age, so much was made of so little. While I am certainly a proponent of good sportsmanship and walking off the court without a simply congratulations for his opponents was both childish and churlish, I doubt very much that Orlando’s players cared at all, so why should we?

If boxers can pummel each other and then hug at the end of a fight; if tennis players can battle for five sets and hug at the net; if hockey players can knock each other’s teeth out and line up to shake hands after a brutal playoff series; then James should certainly be able to shake a hand or two after the game.

But clearly, though James is considered a good NBA citizen by that midget-sized measuring stick, it is not in his makeup to pretend he is a gracious loser when he admittedly is not.

As for not speaking to the media, I admit that would have undoubtedly ticked me off had I been covering the series. And I’d be particularly annoyed if I was a Cavaliers’ beat reporter who was counting on some comments from the star of the team who might very well have played his last game for the franchise with free agency looming.

But sometimes as a reporter, you have to ask yourself just what it is you’re counting on. I remember early in my career, I once wondered aloud how it would be to cover a sporting event as if it was a play or a rock concert and simply write a review. You wouldn’t need to know what the actors or the musicians thought of their performances and frankly, it would not matter in how you reviewed them.

But soon I retreated into my job as quote collector, and more often than not over the years, I relied much too heavily on what athletes said, especially when they said things like, “We’ll put this behind us,” and “It’s not about me, it’s about the team.”

I pretty much had an unspoken agreement with other sportswriter friends that if any of us were ever caught quoting someone saying, “We’ll take it one game at a time,” we were to be forever ostracized, so some of us do have our standards.

But there “we” were again after the Rose allegations, when I heard people in the media demanding that he say something, anything – a denial, an apology for poor judgment, a b.s. non-denial denial like, “I’d like to answer the allegations but I’ve been advised not to say anything.”

The sad fact is, we’re conditioned not to believe what most public figures say. Both James and Rose had nothing to say and so they said nothing. But how dare they not spout trite nonsense for our amusement and to fill our stories?

Apparently, it’s not what they say anymore, but rather how they don’t say it.

By Sunday, they sit in weary clumps, their well-worn bag chairs lined up alongside still another battlefield as they exchange tales of their latest mission — of surviving the elements, of travelling great distances, of late-night  sessions with the washing machine.

Five games in one day, seven in two, they tell you, and you suspect some embellishment taking place. But you’ve been around this particular block far too long not to know it’s mostly true.  For us, mere amateurs with just one child athlete in the family, there were just three games in 20 hours – one soccer game sandwiched by two baseball.  

Some sniff at you as if you’ve taken the weekend off, setting their Starbucks in their respective cup holders without taking their eyes off the field.

Little Johnny is at bat.

And this is serious business.

You try to remember when this all started. Well before your own marriage but after your childhood. My husband tells of throwing his baseball glove over the high-rise handlebars of his red Schwinn Stingray and pedaling off to his Little League games alone or with a pal.

During the week, the dads would straggle in straight from work, still wearing their suits, in the late innings. This, of course, except for the one dad lucky enough to have an understanding boss or his own business and thus, could don his sweatshirt and whistle and be there by 4:30.

Moms were scarce during the weekdays, usually home with the other kids or making dinner or coming home from their own jobs. And no one thought this strange.

Spectators sat in the bleachers on their respective sides or — so as not to get their suits all dusty — stood behind the backstop telling their kids to keep their eye on the ball, even as they were taking their minds off it.

They yelled at coaches and umpires and kids back then, too. Got dirty looks also, but kids weren’t seeking therapy as a result. That came later.

There were no trainers, no fall ball, no travel teams. Kids showed up for the first day of practice having not played all year. They came without individual bat bags and batting gloves and personalized helmets.

 They played their season at the same neighborhood park and then retreated into the freedom of summer vacation, where games spontaneously popped up and teams formed with the happy disorganization of youth, the very exercise preparing them for the day when those skills might actually be useful.

If you were picked last, it stunk. But no one ran home to tell their mothers, and if they did, retribution was swift. You played because it was fun and not because your parents were sure a scholarship was in your future.  And when you reached first on a weak grounder and error, you did not have grandparents, uncles, cousins and assorted neighbors there to applaud you and tell you how very special you were.

Girls were left out of the equation altogether until about 1974, post-Title IX. And that stunk, too. We were left to press our noses up against the chain-link fences, knowing we had better arms than the boy playing third base but that no one would ever know.

But our brothers knew. And the neighbor boys, who occasionally let us in on their sandlot games at the risk of their pride and reputations. We waited and for some of us, it was worth the wait. We soon learned what was so special about team play, about uniting and sacrificing for a common cause, all the clichés and important lessons with which boys were raised.

We absorbed it all and we grew up and had children of our own. And, because progress does not always allow for common sense to intercede, we threw ourselves into our children’s lives, into their childhoods and their own private little classrooms.

We love them so much and are so proud of their accomplishments and we tell them often. We support them and their pursuits and want them to have every opportunity to succeed, even when they would just as soon move onto the next new adventure or do nothing at all.

When we came home from school complaining about a bad grade or a mean teacher, our parents would stand up for the teacher. But we run to school to stick up for our kids. We talk to their coaches, too, ask them why our children are not playing more and what we can do to improve their performance.

We are wiser because each generation always is.

But sometimes, we really don’t get it.

My new friend Tom e-mailed me the link to a newspaper column the other day, thinking I would enjoy it.

I did not.

The column was by a sportswriter for the Seattle Times, a very good writer named Jerry Brewer, who wrote about going back to his hometown to be inducted into his high school’s hall of fame. But really, it was not about that so much as it was about the writer counting his blessings for being paid for doing what he loves to do – write about sports.

That was the part where I became morbidly depressed. I mean, do I need to be reminded about people who not only are still employed, but really, really happy about it?

Then the other night, I was minding my own business, laying in bed and waiting for another Sex and the City to begin, when I caught part of the show, My Boys. For those of you who have never watched this show on TBS, it is about a woman sportswriter who covers the Cubs for the Chicago Sun-Times.

It’s not a bad show. I actually really like it, primarily because like most successful shows, it bears little to no resemblance to real life. For instance, the main character, PJ, is dating her competition at the Tribune. This part could maybe happen. And both PJ and Bobby are gorgeous, which I guess, could also possibly happen but if it did, both would surely be searching for bigger game than another baseball beat writer.

Also, PJ and Bobby never work. Instead, from what I can tell, they drink and play poker and get to see all their friends on a nightly basis without ever having the office call and bother them, or missing a flight or even taking a flight.

The other night, they were covering spring training – again with all of their friends. This is the part where I came in and once again became instantly depressed because even a fictional character was gainfully and happily employed as a sportswriter – and why wouldn’t you be with a job where you never have to work, have a gorgeous boyfriend and all your friends with you on every assignment? — and I’m not.

But then last night came around, I played softball, I wrote about playing softball and I was ecstatic. If you read the blog, you will know my mood had little to do with the game. Rather, it had everything to do with writing about it, liking what I wrote and genuinely enjoying the process.

Sometimes, I admit, I wonder what I am doing. I mean, I sit here and write my little column every day like a kid playing office in the basement — “Yes, Mom, I mean Editor Jones, here’s my deadline column.”

 I realize there are many, many – MANY – other bloggers out there doing virtually the same thing – writing every day without being paid. Because I was paid to do it for the last 26 years, forgive me for being slightly conflicted.

But here’s the thing. I used to talk to my friend and former colleague Skip Myslenski about the “writer’s high” you get after finishing a story and feeling good about it. Some of that might have had to do with the cocktails afterward. But there was no mistaking it and I am happy to report the endorphins are still there, paycheck or not.

Writing is still a joy. It is my crutch. It is my passion. If you asked me five weeks ago why I loved my job, I probably would’ve said something about the people I was able to meet and the variety of the work. Jerry Brewer wrote about championing the little guy, about re-connecting with his childhood, about traveling to cool places and covering major events. He mentioned connecting with readers and always wanting to be a sportswriter.

For me that stuff has largely disappeared over the last several weeks. But I have found my voice again and I have, in the absence of editors and real deadlines and a guaranteed audience, been reminded why I did what I did in the first place. And turns out it had nothing to do with covering Super Bowls.

 I love the power of the written word. I love to use it to tell a good story, and I’ll tell it from my basement to three people if I have to. Some day, I may be sitting with my computer on my lap and a tin cup in front of me. But I’ll still be doing what I love.

 And for that, yep, I’ll be counting my blessings.

“You’re still playing softball?” my daughter asked incredulously tonight as I hunted for my crusty cleats, as if somehow being too old, too slow and, well, bad would suddenly stop me from playing in our co-ed softball league this year.

I mean, why should this year be any different?

Playing for our Red Star Tavern team isn’t about being the best or making every play or, in my case tonight, any play. It’s about the camaraderie, the joy of competition and the drama of seeing how many of us are going to end up in the emergency room each week.

Tonight, Sean and Betsy left the field with deep, bloody gashes in their respective knees. You can’t get that kind of entertainment sitting at home, particularly since ER is off the air.

Betsy bought it rounding third, her cleat sliding across the damp base and sending her face first into the mud about a quarter of the way toward home. Later, most of the other women agreed they would have crawled back to third at that point. I said I would have simply stayed there, called my husband and had him bring the car around.

But Betsy is a trooper. Knowing the score was tied in the bottom of the sixth and also being somewhat influenced by Sean barreling around third behind her, she picked herself up and actually slid under the tag at home, thus shredding whatever skin still remained on her lower extremities. Sean would score on the next ground ball, also sliding and being the nice guy that he is, coming up with a matching wound suitable for suturing.

I should point out that we were at an unfair advantage tonight. Normally, we are one of the more competitive teams in the league. Tonight, however, we played against one of those teams that is particularly galling in the adult softball world, and that’s the opponent with players younger than yours.

Their clean-up hitter looked like he was still in high school. Their women were sneaky good. And their secret weapon was the player you really hate – the short, squat middle-aged guy who needs a pinch runner to get to first on a walk and looks like he should be bowling, only to rear back and hit a screaming 400-foot home run to clear the bases in the seventh.

By this point, I was playing catcher, after having already booted two balls in the infield, moved myself to right and now was needed to replace Betsy behind the plate since she could no longer bend down.

Let me pause here for a second to say something on my behalf. I used to be good. I swear. Softball was my best sport when I was younger. OK, much younger. But I had a good glove and an above-average arm and OK, so I could barely hit my weight. That’s not important right now.

A few years ago, when I joined the Red Star team, I guilted my husband and kids into coming to a game. I thought it would be a fun time for them, make them proud even, as they saw me streaking across the field making diving catches.

Afterward, as I limped to the car, my husband couldn’t help himself. “Gee, honey,” he said, not trying nearly hard enough to erase the condescension from his voice. “You’re kind of, um, slow.”

I was incredulous. I mean, of all my qualities as an athlete, I was never slow.

“Slow?” I asked meekly.

“Yeah,” he replied gently, “really, really slow. Like you were running in slow-motion slow.”

After punching him in the arm, I had to admit I had noticed certain changes as I got older. When you’re young, you see a ball and you run after it.  But then one day you notice that when a ball is hit, your legs must first have a brief conference with your brain. During that one- or two-second delay as you consider moving, your brain is now having a discussion with your central nervous system. At some point, your legs enter into the equation and by this time, the ball is dropping and your pitcher is yelling at his shortstop and leftfielder as our pitcher Andy did tonight when he shouted out, “God, are we old.”

He spared our third baseman Melody, who – no lie – gave birth six weeks ago. Andy is nothing if not a gentleman.

Because it is my blog and I am no longer operating under the ethical standards and practices of a real newspaper, I’m going to say we won tonight. And while I’m at it, I’m going to say, since they asked, that Josh made a diving catch in left and Andy was 4-for-4.

I’m also going to say I beat out a throw to first, my back isn’t killing me right now and that the fat guy struck out to end the game.

That makes me feel so much better.