THE RELUCTANT STAR : The Heisman Trophy Is Missing, and the 1988 Winner--Oklahoma State's Barry Sanders--Really Doesn't Care

Sanders recently visited New York City and slept in the Downtown Athletic Club, a place so wondrous, he says, "it has a swimming pool on each of the first eight floors."

"That thing should have been here by now," Sanders says. "They told me they were sending the trophy home from New York same time they sent me home from New York. Except I'm here, and it ain't."

William Sanders, 51, puffs on a cigar, checks his Sun Bowl watch and shakes his head. As if on cue, the three men sitting with him at a wobbly table in the back of Georgio's Cafe shake their heads.

That was a couple of weeks ago. He was there for the presentation of the Heisman Trophy to his son Barry, an Oklahoma State running back. One copy of the trophy went to the college, the other to Barry, who promptly gave it to his father, mostly because the sight of it made him feel funny.

His father then promised to display it in Georgio's soul food place, mostly because Georgio makes him good coffee every morning.

Georgio has already cleared a table. Amid the smoke and big cheeseburgers and chitlin specials, it's the only table not draped with a plastic Christmas tree-covered tablecloth. It's empty, it's ready. Bring on that bronze boy. Georgio's, home of the Heisman.

So, where is the Heisman?

"Maybe it got lost in the mail," says Mr. Armstrong, a friend of Sanders who, like all his friends, is introduced only as Mister.

"They wouldn't actually mail it, would they?" asks Mr. Sanders.

"This is just barber shop talk," later says Mr. Kinnard, the barber, "but folks are saying that the powerful people in this town called the people in New York and told them not to send you nothing."

"Who says?" Mr. Sanders says.

A younger gentleman pops his head in the door. He is not introduced.

"I know where the Heisman is," he announces. "Somebody said it was in the trunk of a car parked out on Kellogg Street."

"They said it was where?" Mr. Sanders asks.

Two hours south, in Stillwater, Okla., Barry Sanders puts his head in his hands. He is not laughing. He doesn't know where the Heisman is. He doesn't care where the Heisman is. He only wishes people to understand one thing.

He never asked for this.

"Every day I pray--man, do I pray," he says. "I can't handle what has happened to me, so I pray that God will handle it for me."

Driving through the Oklahoma plains up Interstate 35 from Oklahoma City, you see just one sign telling you that you are within 1,000 miles of Stillwater. And that sign is just 2 miles before the exit.

Out Oklahoma way, they figure you know where you are going.

Out Oklahoma way, where the wind can make you cry and there are fewer trees than there are radio stations that broadcast Paul Harvey, strength is measured in terms of conviction.