Outside, the house is neat and trim, not unlike the owner himself, who possesses one of those perfectly oval faces—bald on top, bearded on the bottom—that, in caricature class, could be turned upside down and drawn just as well that way. The eyebrows are small, the eyes aglimmer, and the mouth is invariably found in a smile, perhaps because, for so long, it wasn't much good at dispensing words.
But some things are distinct and immutable, such as the accepted fact that this fellow with the oval face is the nicest person in sports (which might be damning him with faint praise) and may be the nicest person on the face of the earth.
Best Person Around, for $200.
Who is Howard Bingham?
We do know this: The one person—and he is a famous person—who mistreated Mr. Bingham hasn't amounted to a hill of beans since then.
There is a God.
And now, driving up to his neat and trim abode, here comes Howard Bingham in his old Camry, one drab and indistinct of color and loaded with even more junk than miles, which total 108,000. Howard's dog, Clyde, stirs. Clyde is part rottweiler, part German shepherd, but, as befits the dog of such a sweet guy, Clyde prefers the learned life of lying about to the vigilant one for which he was bred.
Howard calls out to one of his neighbors. The women in these environs of south Los Angeles all look after Howard, feeding Clyde when Howard is traveling or feeding Howard when he is home. He's away a lot, though, consorting with the rich and famous here and there, everywhere. Still, he has lived in this little house since 1969. It is not far from the house he grew up in, where his mother still resides. He uses that residence as a mail drop, sparing the helpful neighbor women postal chores too.
Howard opens his front door. "People don't believe it, that I still live here," he says. "But I'm not fancy. You can only sleep on one bed."