Joe DiMaggio of the New York Yankees was a multiple threat on a ball field. He could hit, hit for power, run, catch, throw — and describe it all in an elegant hand.

I am deeply impressed by the Yankee Clipper’s … penmanship.

In an era when many of us can barely sign our own names, often illegibly, he was an exemplar of what the decently educated mid-20th-century American could do with pen and paper.

How do I know this?

From a story that appeared last week in the New York Times, pertaining to the sale of love letters written by “manly men”.

Have a look!

As you may have noted, from the caption or from reading the story, DiMaggio wrote the letter, to his soon-to-be-ex-wife Marilyn Monroe, in 1954.

The letter recently sold at auction for $62,500, according to the NYT piece.

The story reveals that famous men also were prone to putting down on paper their thoughts about relationships, and could get more than a little emotional about it, too.

And it is the glimpse into their minds that brings the highest bids. We are more likely to be interested in Napoleon or Churchill waxing eloquent with a paramour than writing orders or advancing diplomacy.

And such fine writing by DiMaggio, one of baseball’s greats.

Notice how careful he is with margins and with keeping his message lined up with elegant precision, with consistent spacing between lines. And how he enumerates the pages with a discreet 1, 2 and 3 at the top center of each.

Look at those “descenders” and how big and opulent they are! Those lower-case Gs and Ps and Fs … appreciate how careful he is with his lines as they flow from left to right, hardly varying more than a few degrees north or south, as if he is following unseen lines on the page.

Besides revealing an artistic side in the ballplayer, it also shows a man who was encouraged to produce writing easy to read by people living in his age — as well as subsequent ages.

Meanwhile, two generations later, we pretty much all can touch-type, thanks to computers. But our handwriting? Gone to hell, if we ever were any good at it at all. (Is it even taught in elementary school anymore?)

I can print with some confidence and legibility, but even in my youth “writing” was meant to indicate penmanship, not creative writing, and I never got an “A” in the subject.

I bet Joe DiMaggio, partially educated in San Francisco public schools (he was a high-school dropout) and the son of Sicilian immigrants, was taught how to write clearly, and the elegance of his big and florid writing was celebrated by various teachers on his report card.

These are dying arts — the skill and consistency to get a base hit in 56 consecutive games, in 1941, a record that has never really been threatened in 70-plus years since he did it, as well as the ability to glide under fly balls and effortlessly turn on a pitch and drive it into the seats.

All that is well and good … but his cursive! From envelope (“Air Mail … Special Delivery” … to his salutation (“Dear Baby”) … to his final paragraph (“Will you call me tonight if you receive this letter by then? — It would be happily received.” … to his signature, “Love Joe”.

And this is from a man who was such a famous athlete he presumably could have dictated a letter to someone sitting near him … but is well able to handle this written intimacy all by himself.

That sort of writing was not reserved for a handful of adult women, seven decades back, as it tends to be today.

It also is a glimpse into the priorities of a different age, one not all that recent from our own, when elegant handwriting was the mark of a cultured and well-taught student.

Where have you gone, the Joe DiMaggios of a more literate age?