The Ballad Of Ira Berkow…about a brazen young Cub fan you should remember well.
”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. And the glove? My friend who snatched it—and I still am reluctant to name him, a kind of West Side omerta—told me years later that he played with it until the stuffing came out. He never seemed to be anywhere near as guilt-ridden as I was. “Sauer could afford other gloves—I couldn’t,” he had told me. As for me, I was glad that I told Hank Sauer the story when I did, for I never saw him again.
Posted: December 28, 2012 at 12:01 AM | 1 comment(s)
Login to Bookmark