“Play baseball,” said Keller promptly.
“I’m glad to hear that. We’re going to sign you to a contract with our minor-league team.”
Howard couldn’t wait to tell his parents the exciting news.
The Kellers were a close-knit Catholic family. They went to mass every Sunday, and they saw to it that their son attended church. Howard Keller, Sr., was a typewriter salesman, and he was on the road a great deal. When he was at home, he spent as much time as possible with his son. Howard was close to both his parents. His mother made it a point to attend all the ball games when her son was playing, and cheer him on. Howard got his first glove and uniform when he was six years old. Howard was a fanatic about baseball. He had an encyclopedic memory for the statistics of games that were played before he was even born. He knew all the stats of the winning pitchers—the strikes, the outs, the number of saves and shutouts. He won money betting with his schoolmates that he could name the starting pitchers in any team lineup.
“Nineteen forty-nine.”
“That’s easy,” Howard said. “Newcombe, Roe, Hatten, and Branca for the Dodgers. Reynolds, Raschi, Byrne, and Lopat for the Yankees.”
“All right,” one of his teammates challenged. “Who played the most consecutive games in major-league history?” The challenger was holding the Guinness Book of Records in front of him.
Howard Keller didn’t even pause. “Lou Gehrig—two thousand one hundred thirty.”
“Who had the record for the most shutouts?”
“Walter Johnson—one hundred and thirteen.”
“Who hit the most home runs in his career?”
“Babe Ruth—seven hundred and fourteen.”
Word of the young player’s ability began to circulate, and professional scouts came to take a look at the young phenomenon who was playing on the Chicago Cubs minor-league team. They were stunned. By the time Keller was seventeen, he had been approached by scouts from the St. Louis Cardinals and the Baltimore Orioles and the New York Yankees.
Howard’s father was proud of him. “He takes after me,” he would boast. “I used to play baseball when I was a youngster.”
During the summer of his senior year in high school, Howard Keller worked as a junior clerk in a bank owned by one of the sponsors of his American Legion team.
Howard was going steady with a pretty schoolmate named Betty Quinlan. It was understood that when they finished college, they would get married. Howard would talk baseball by the hour with her, and because she cared for him, she listened patiently. Howard loved the anecdotes about his favorite ballplayers, and every time he heard a new one, he would rush to tell it to Betty.
“Casey Stengel said, ‘The secret of managing is to keep the five guys who hate you away from the five who are undecided.’ ”
“Someone asked Yogi Berra what time it was, and he said, ‘You mean right now?’ ”
“And when a player was hit in the shoulder by a pitched ball, his teammate said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with his shoulder except some pain—and pain doesn’t hurt you.’ ”
Young Keller knew that he was soon going to join the pantheon of the great players. But the gods had other plans for him.
Howard came home from school one day with his best friend, Jesse, who played shortstop on the team. There were two letters waiting for Keller. One offered him a scholarship at Princeton, and the other a scholarship at Harvard.
“Gee, that’s great!” Jesse said. “Congratulations!” And he meant it. Howard Keller was his idol.
“Which one do you think you’re going to take?” Howard’s father asked.
“Why do I have to go to college at all?” Howard wondered. “I could get on one of the big-league teams now.”
His mother said firmly, “There’s plenty of time for that, son. You’re going to get a good education first; then, when you’re through playing baseball, you’ll be fit to do anything you like.”
“All right,” Howard said. “Harvard. Betty is going to Wellesley and I can be near her.”
Betty Quinlan was delighted when Howard told her what he had decided.
“We’ll get to see each other over the weekends!” she said.