Like who laid the chunk.

It was around the Summer of 2013 and we were eager to visit our old friend, Mel Gossen and his custom harvesting family outside Billings, Montana. Kevin and Mel went back a lot of years and had become very dear friends as they enjoyed the milestones of life together with the frequent phone calls and annual visits.

Now don’t get me wrong, I was eager to see Mel too, but, come on, it’s Montana and I’m a fisherman. And it’s Montana. I begged and was granted (though I was still technically his boss) an extra day on the trip for us to go fishing-- an allowance that was slowly whittled down to a half-day and finally only a few hours late one afternoon.

Down in Dixie, you can get a fishing license pretty much anywhere, but I had none such luck in Montana. We stopped at an outfitter for flies, advice and directions and they steered to a gas station that “might” sell a license. Well, the gas station did not but they did sell beer, which was a decent substitute.

 We found the stream the outfitter guys steered us to and it was everything you’ve seen from screen savers to inspirational calendars. Emerald green water rushing over polished rocks and cutting through a seemingly desert landscape. I couldn’t have dreamed something so beautiful. Richard and I suited up and walked down the bank toward the water. Kevin leaned on the car, drank beer and shouted instructions.

“You almost got him; halfcocked,” he’d yell between sips of (I believe) Keystone light.

Wild Montana fish fight like nothing I had seen in the little brooks and creeks of Georgia. And they were pretty too-- like someone had covered them in jewels. I know because I got a good look at one before he jumped and shook my hook.

“You gotta to set the hook,” came from the Keystone light gallery up on the bank.

You should probably understand that Kevin loved terrible beer. When the boys were all out to dinner and ordering whatever boutique local IPA the menu offered, Kevin would pan straight to the bottom of the list an order something slightly north of dishwater.

“I got to run to the bathroom,” someone would often announce. “You want me to refill your glass while I’m in there Kevin?” To which the whole table would roar despite cracking the same joke for nearly five years.

I didn’t pull anything in fishing that day, but the experience was nearly perfect. I decided to cede the day to the trout and go have a beer. Richard had the same idea, so we packed the gear and grabbed some of the steadily warming “beer” from the front seat. It was a great afternoon. The sun was starting to dip. We were in such a remote area; there was no one around for miles except the two game wardens barreling right towards us in a pickup.

Oh my.

These guys were straight off the set of Walker Texas Ranger. They were both big dudes in Montana Fish and Game polos, jeans, boots and some pretty serious guns. You don’t mess with Montana’s natural resources. Not if you know what’s good for you.

We had to act quickly. I stashed the beer under the passenger side footwell and looked at Kevin. We both knew what we needed to do and we had done it together before enough times that we instinctively straightened our collars and stood up straight. We were going to talk these guys to death.

“Where you fellas from,” Biener started. One of the guys was from a part of Montana Kevin knew well and was likely near Kevin’s old dealer buddy who used to call him monkeyface. The other guy was from Kansas. I thought of reaching for the seatbelt to brace for the oncoming storm as Biener recited every major event in the past 20 years in a 100-mile circumference of this guy’s hometown. 30 minutes later, you could see them getting worn down. We covered drought conditions in Kansas, wheat prices, how cold it had gotten that year-- anything but what was on everyone’s mind-- fishing without a license.

“You got your fishing license,” one of the rangers finally blurted out before Kevin’s oncoming splurge about the plains Indians. “Yeah,” I said.

“No.”

Fishing without a license in Montana can get you 20 years in the electric chair. I thought about choosing my next words carefully but then decided not to.

“I’m not fishing,” I said standing there in wet wading boots.

“You’re intending to fish,” he said.

“Intending to fish? Really? That’s a law?” I asked.

“I could take you to jail,” he followed, bringing the discussion to a neat and tidy conclusion.

Richard and I both got the most serious tickets and summons I would have imagined for intending to fish-– and a letter warning of my imminent arrest. Biener, of course, got off with a warning which, while unsurprising because of his remarkable charm, was also fortuitous because he still had an outstanding infraction in Montana for getting caught HUNTING ON A GAME PRESERVE!!!!!!!!

“I shot the deer and then it ran into the preserve. I was just retrieving it,” he explained himself to Richard and I like we were the jury.

Biener had a unique relationship with authority. I think he liked old Generals more than fresh lieutenants, though he built friends across the ranks. The big dogs would often trek down to Kevin’s office to get the straight unvarnished truth. Kevin had little ambition to climb in rank and that gave clarity to his views and advice.

Kevin was close with the company founders and they often lunched together at the Taco Mac on Tuesdays. By good fortune, he would often take me to the old AGCO boys lunch club. It was an experience rich in wisdom and humor. Bob Ratliff and Jim Sever were Kevin’s dear friends and it was funny to watch these industry titans tease each other about which salad they were going to order.

In 2012, the company was starting new production of tractors at the Jackson, Minnesota plant and there was a request for Bob to attend and share some words. Being good friends for decades, Kevin volunteered to travel with Bob and I came along to be their driver and carry their luggage. It really was an incredible experience. Bob recounted the amazing and scary early days of the company and the many adventures he and Kevin had. They talked about the death of John Schumejda-- a man they both cared for deeply. For me, that trip was a galvanizing moment where I understood the dream and intent of AGCO like never before.

In 2013, the company made a massive investment in a one-of-a-kind paint system like nothing the industry had ever seen before. The building jutted up into the Hesston, Kansas sky and was taller than anything around it. Inside, unmanned robots carried loads of equipment to different stations. Above us, the tanks and baths of a world-class painting system ran with precision. It was big deal for the company and Kevin couldn’t say enough good things about it. For six months it seemed all he could talk about was the superiority of the paint system. He wasn’t just being a corporate toady-- rehashing sound bites like a dodo reading his PowerPoint presentation. He believed in the company’s strategy to use automotive-level paint quality as a differentiator. He could rattle of facts and figures like he built the thing himself. Want to know how many seconds the frame spends in the e-coat dip? Just ask Kevin.

There’s an old saying attributed to Abraham Lincoln that goes something like, “all men can endure adversity. If you want to test a man, give him power.” Leadership is tough and it’s made tougher by all the sunshine and blown smoke that drifts upwards obscuring the views of reality on the ground. Kevin understood that and was a loyal confidant in the ways that are not always easy or advantageous for himself. He was honest with the leadership and they appreciated it. He just saw it as a duty to something, some place and some people he believed in. That was reward enough.

There was an executive Kevin was fond of and he would tell Richard and I he had planned to grab a bottle a good wine and go shoot the breeze with this fella before Kevin retired. Kevin had amassed a lot of knowledge in four decades and he was steadily reaching the point where that insight needed to be put to work beyond his own efforts. We even had the bottle. A 1968 Chateau LaFite Rothschild I had bought off a dear friend.

 Kevin didn’t get the chance to share that bottle but his friends, including the executive he so cared about, drank it in his stead in 2019. It smelled of a superfund site that used to make agent orange and looked like watered down maple syrup. It tasted like someone aged brake fluid and grapefruit juice in a plastic tarp for a century or two.

None of us said a word. I think we had oversold the moment beforehand and no one wanted to admit defeat with the boss in the room. If only Kevin had been there. He would tell the truth. He would rise to the situation and call it what it was.

I can almost hear his words.

“This wine is terrible. Who wants a Keystone light?”

"You’re Not Getting Any of This Are you Richard" is the story of one remarkable salesman, marketer, leader and friend told by those who worked by his side for years. It’s a collection of raucous accounts, emotional stories and needed lessons to inspire hearts, instruct minds and incite laughter. The book is being released over several digital channels one chapter at a time.