Dear Larry,

Don't want to ask how you're doing because the answer seems obvious enough. It's been a rough few months for you. Just wanted to let you know: We miss you, man.

I've tried to get a hold of you. Talked to one of the secretaries at the office a while ago and she stonewalled me. I told her I wanted to reach you, or at least send along my best wishes, and she acted like a guardian at the gates of the Kremlin back in the Brezhnev Era. Essentially she said, "Yeah, right, whatever."

It's OK. Those clearly were her marching orders.

I called a Jazz executive and left a message for him to get a message through to you. No clue whether he was successful, or whether he even tried.

You're a tough man to reach these days - and I guess for good reasons.

Out of respect for your privacy, I haven't tried the cell number you gave me - or, rather, the one I culled off of caller ID when you phoned me up after that disappointing Jazz loss a season or two ago. That call, if I remember right, went from 11:30 p.m. until 2 a.m., when we discussed everything from the state of the ball club to the state of the nation to the states of our individual mental health.

We've had some good talks through the years: meaningful discussions and stupid chitchats. We did the radio show together every week for a year, a few segments that were supposed to last an hour, but that always spilled over by a minimum of 30 minutes.

We just couldn't stop talking - about the Jazz's latest winning/losing streak or your favored business management techniques or your frugal upbringing, and the point that you still have difficulty buying the expensive apples at the grocery market on account of them being, well, expensive. I remember you chuckling about Karl Malone and John Stockton utilizing private jets when they travel while you fly commercial, sometimes even in coach, because that's a better bargain.

Classic.

You told great stories, such as the one about Greg Ostertag chucking a bag of ice at Jerry Sloan's head in the locker room at halftime of some regular-season game. Sloan, in the middle of his halftime remarks, simply dodged the incoming bag by moving his head, the ice exploding against the wall behind him, and then continued on with his speech, wholly unaffected.

And the anecdote from a league owners' meeting, when the young and brash Mark Cuban was put in his place in front of all the other owners by revered octogenarian Bill Davidson, owner of the Pistons.

The fact that you ever agreed to do that show, even though it was not on your team's flagship station, much to the chagrin of a few of your lieutenants, never failed to stir respect from me. You agreed to do it, you said, because I asked you to, and nobody from any other outfit ever had. I told you the reason I wanted you on every week was because you had an uncommon gift - namely, something to say - and people wanted to hear that something.

We developed a friendship, a dangerous deal, on both sides, for a team owner, a newsmaker, and a newspaper columnist. You invited my wife and I to dinner with you and Gail before a Jazz game, and then we sat together in your courtside seats at the game - in full view of other media members and people in the Jazz organization who hate my guts.

Thing is, my regard for you is high. Sometimes we agree on issues, sometimes we disagree. Ain't no good guys, ain't no bad. People, myself included, criticize the Jazz at times for one decision or another, one course of action or a lack of action.

But the fact is, the Jazz would have ended up in Toronto or Anaheim or some other place if not for you. You stepped up and bought the team back in the '80s and kept it in Utah, when nobody else would, when that purchase was risky and your bank accounts were nowhere near as expansive as they are today. You've made a lot of money, but you've touched a lot of lives. Every sports fan, every person, in this state should appreciate and be grateful for what you've done here, and most of them do and are.

And most of them are also curious and concerned about your condition now.

I had lunch with another well-placed Jazz guy the other day. He said he did not know the exact nature of the battle you're fighting. He said almost nobody knows. He also said he, in all his years with the Jazz, had never seen such a bottling up of information. He had no idea what was going on with you, other than mentioning the diabetes, which has been made public.

Speculation and rumors are caroming all over the place about your health, talk of heart issues, a stroke, amputations, and the extended rehab any of that might require. People ask me about these things every day.

I tell them I don't know.

And I care only to the extent that you do what you can to heal up.

That's honest and real, Larry. That's what this column is about: A wish for you to feel at ease, a wish for you to get better. Or to get as good as you can get. I hope you receive the message.

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* GORDON MONSON hosts "The Big Show" weekdays from 2-6 p.m. on 1280 AM The Zone. He can be reached at gmonson@sltrib.com.