MAJOR LEAGUE THEFT FROM AN MVP

      The theft occurred in the summer of 1952. I knew the story -- one of the few who did -- and the Chicago Cubs slugger Hank Sauer didn't. 

      I also know it caused the great baseball star bewilderment as well as an unsettling sense of loss for the rest of the season that year. 

      From that time, when I was 12, and on into my adulthood, I had wanted to confide to Hank Sauer how his glove had just happened to disappear one late morning during batting practice in Wrigley Field. And then one dramatic day, 37 years after the larceny had occurred, I did.

      I was reminded of this tale of guilt and criminality when I learned that Hank Sauer died in 2001 at 84, having suffered a heart attack on the first hole of a golf course in Burlingame, Calif., near San Francisco.

      There was a moment of silence to honor him before the next Cubs game in Chicago, and well there should have been. Sauer was the first man to be named most valuable player while on a team that finished in the second division. His Cubs finished fifth out of eight teams.

      That was, yes, 1952. Sauer was a co-leader in the major leagues with 37 homers and led the majors with 121 runs batted in. He had a fine 15-year major league career with four teams, but he was so popular in Chicago, where he played seven seasons, that he was called the Mayor of Wrigley Field.

      He was a large man -- 6-foot-3, 200 pounds -- with a long, rugged, lined face but not an unkind one; in another life he might have been a longshoreman who stood up to the management thugs.

      And that was the face -- it was unmistakable even after all these years -- that I saw on Tuesday evening, Oct. 17, 1989, in Candlestick Park.

      It was around 5:30 p.m., shortly after an earthquake hit the Bay Area, and the third game of the San Francisco Giants-Oakland A's World Series had been postponed. The crowd of some 60,000 was streaming out of the ballpark.

      As I was heading for an exit, here came Sauer from the opposite direction. He even wore a name tag on his white sweater, since he was then a scout for the Giants. He was with a small party, which turned out to be his wife and daughter and son-in-law.

      Now, I'd been a professional sportswriter for 24 years at that point, and had never once crossed paths with him, though I had kept an eye out for him. I decided, earthquake or no earthquake, this was, finally, my chance.

      "Mr. Sauer,'' I said. He stopped. ''Yes,'' he replied, with a quizzical smile.

      Maybe he thought I wanted his autograph, even while a portion of Northern California was collapsing.

      I introduced myself and then said, ''Mr. Sauer, I've got something I'd like to say to you. In private, if you don't mind.''

      He looked at me strangely, excused himself from his family and moved over a few feet to a railing.

      ''It's something that happened in Chicago in 1952,'' I said.

      '' '52 -- that was my M.V.P. year,'' he said.

      ''I know.'' 

      Then I told him how two kids from the West Side -- one 14, the other 12 -- had sneaked into Wrigley Field through a vendor's entrance early that day and made their way into the dugout. There were no ushers, since the gates had not opened. 

      When Sauer came in from shagging balls in the outfield, he tossed his glove on the dugout bench and -- hardly noticing the two kids sitting there -- he went for batting practice.

      The 12-year-old boy took the glove and tried it on, pounding "the pocket" and thrilled to be inside a major leaguer's mitt. Then he handed it to his older friend to check out. His friend took the glove and slipped it under his sweater: “Let's get out of here!” 

      He leaped up and ran up the steep ramp leading from the dugout under the stands.

      ''You crazy?'' shouted the younger boy. ''That's Hank Sauer's glove! Come back!'' 

      The older kid was flying, and then so did the younger boy.

      The older boy was not a bad kid -- he grew up to be a solid citizen -- but temptation had got the best of him.

      Hank Sauer listened intently. 

      ''I -- I was the 12-year-old boy,'' I confessed. 

      Sauer reached out and placed his large hands around my throat.

      ''You stole my glove,'' he said, his eyes narrowing.

      ''No, Hank, I didn't steal it -- and I won't say who did -- I just wanted you to know that.''

      Then he withdrew his hands, and broke into a smile.

      ''Thanks for telling me,'' he said. ''I had always wondered. And I'm happy you got it off your chest.''

      Everyone I've ever spoken to about Sauer has said he was a gentleman, besides being a good ballplayer and a good scout.

      I don't know what eventually happened to his glove, and it doesn't matter. I'm glad, though, that I told Hank Sauer the story when I did, for I never saw him again.

Ira Berkow is the author of more than 20 books and is a former sports columnist for The New York Times