Shelby Strother / The Detroit News

The letter was handwritten, more polite than most, and it began: “Sir, I am interested in becoming a sportswriter and would like any suggestions you might offer to help me …”

What are you, nuts?

Hunter S. Thompson, whose doctorate in gonzo shields the fact he once made a living writing about sports, has said, “Sportswriters are a kind of rude and brainwashed subculture of fascist drunks whose only real function is to publicize and sell whatever the sports editor sends them out to cover.”

To which I say to the good doctor, it takes one to know one. His point, however, is conceded. The aura surrounding the craft of describing the games that other people’s children play is actually more like a green haze. Sportswriters are perceived as freeloaders; they get in the ballgames free, get to sit under a roof and slurp free coffee nonstop simply because it’s there. They’re louts and slobs and their clothes are always wrinkled. Not only that, we’re all on ego trips, too, although we’re booked in tourist class, middle seats.

A book reviewer for the long-gone New York Herald, a man named Lewis Gannett, once wrote, “Sportswriters suffer from hyperthyroid congestion of adjectives and are dope fiends for forced similes. They try to be jitterbugs with words and have no change of pace; they stutter in their excitement.”

Whatever he meant by that, it’s probably true to an extent. The sports section will break the heart of a lot of English teachers. There is a great deal of huffing and puffing at the keyboards sneaking into print. So, while not trying to totally disillusion anyone, perhaps some personal glimpses are warranted.

It used to be a sportswriter would never check into a motel that didn’t have a bottle opener. Then it became vital that your room could accommodate a three-pronged plug. Today, as journalism enters the Space Age, the premium is on modular phones.

Wanna be a sportswriter? Better get a law degree and pay particular attention during your contractual law class. Take geography courses and also beef up on abnormal psychology.

Get used to being alone in airports at ungodly hours. Be satisfied with room-service meals. Learn to breathe foul air, as you will always be stationed in the press-box searing chart next to a raging cigar. Have a cast-iron stomach; by the time you get off work, the only places open are gastronomical horror palaces. Learn to climb steps while carrying heavy loads of equipment until you become proficient that you can actually run through airports with such gear. Learn to live without sleep.

Grow a thick skin that not even the bards and arrows of angry booster clubs and defenders of Bobby Knight can penetrate. Hone your patience level, because you will be stood up again and again by teen-agers and millionaires, both of whom are sure better off than you. Hold onto your self-esteem, even though the guy you’re interviewing would rather be gong to the bathroom.

Carry double rations of aspirins at all times.

Remember, nobody wants to hear about labor pains, they only want to see the pretty baby. And your editor doesn’t care about the problems. When will he get the story?

There will be times your dog barks at you because it doesn’t recognize you. Your children will kiss pictures of Daddy good night far too often. You will feel unappreciated by the world, overcome by the insignificance of your work and frustrated the everlasting prose you used up several pints of blood to compose yesterday are now lining the puppy dog’s box today.

You will probably learn how to drink, although hopefully not too well. And play golf, although I’m pretty sure not too well. It must have been a sportswriter who invented the shank, which must have been the first golf shot. By the way, playing poker no longer is mandatory, thank goodness.

Most importantly, remember this. A sportswriter is not the paramount character in the game. Stay the hell outta the way.

And keep perspective.

In the Silverdome locker of Isiah Thomas is a little message. It is the same one Washington Redskins quarterback Doug Williams quoted after the most recent Super Bowl. It is the same one Grambling football coach Eddie Robinson recites frequently to anyone willing to listen.

“It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and tears.”

Although Teddy Roosevelt probably wasn’t thinking about sportswriters when he penned those words several seasons ago, we can adopt them as important safety reminders. Perspective.

The guy splashing big tears on a cold concrete floor because he missed a last-minute field goal thinks it is the worst thing in life. Let him. If he’s lucky enough, it is, though probably not for long. Be compassionate. It is his moment. Rush not into judgment, collect the facts and remember – they are the experts. Sportswriters are nothing but privileged eyes and ears, messengers for the public.

Keep in mind the world does not revolve around spheres made of pigskins and horsehide. Do not pretend to be Nostradamus. Do not attempt to pass off an untimely defeat on the playing field as Armageddon. The world does not end, only the season. And when you tell the world about the game, be interesting and to the point. Or else everyone’s going to roll over and go back to sleep.

Above all else, be accurate. Credibility is a fastball. Lose it and you’re doomed to the minor leagues.

This is not meant to disillusion or scare anyone off. Wanna be a sportswriter? Step in and take your best cuts. It’s no day at the beach or even the kiddie pool in the back yard.

But it’s still better than actually working for a living