Harry Kincaid

Harry Kincaid is a good guy.  Well, I guess that depends on your point of view.  He’s one that you would want on your side in a bar fight, a street fight, a dog fight, a… you get the idea.

He was raised in a tough neighborhood in the East Bay area of northern California.  His father was an academic at Berkeley and was more likely immersed in some inane study of the dietary patterns of wood beetles than paying any attention to Harry or his younger brother Sam.  His mother, to whom the boys were close, worked as a pharmacist at Oakland General Hospital.  When Harry was seventeen, his mother was gunned down by a drug crazed addict while working a night shift in the hospital pharmacy.  Two days after burying his mother, Harry joined the Marine Corps.  He knew that he was burning with hostility and thought it best to join some outfit where he could channel it in some meaningful way. 

Once in the Corps, Kincaid excelled at anything involving individual performance or competition.  Whether it was an obstacle course, the hand-to-hand combat pit, or a rifle range, he was a star.  When it came to teamwork, he was a miserable failure.  He soon became known as a loner.  He signed up for advanced training in anything having to do with skills in dealing with an enemy at close range.  When given the chance, he applied and was admitted to SEAL school, the Navy’s elite group dealing in special operations.  

The training course given by the U. S. Naval Special Warfare Command is intense.  It is estimated that as many as 90% of a single class may not finish.  Harry Kincaid was one of them.  The physical, mental and emotional stress is almost beyond description.  So, it is understandable why the attrition is so high.  But, in the case of Marine Lance Corporal Harry Kincaid, this was not the case.  In fact, just as with previous training, on the individual level, he excelled.  He would come in first in forced marches, icy cold three mile swims, or down and dirty hand to hand combat.  But when placed in a team environment, when each man’s life depended on the help of others, Kincaid was noticeably absent.  He was washed out by the cadre of the school within days of completion.

From there, with the help of a sympathetic Commander, he was able to wrangle a cross service assignment to the U. S. Army’s Delta Force.  Here he met with the same fate, for the same reasons.  His next career stop was Langley, Virginia, where he found a home with the C.I.A.  Kincaid flourished in the environment of a lone CIA operative.  He went through all of their training like a knife through hot butter.  He learned to kill in as many ways as can be imagined.  Up close with his hands, or at a distance with whatever was available to him, he mastered the skills of taking another human life.  He became fluent in languages such as Arabic and Farsi.  These, he added to his street Spanish he had learned growing up.   After ten successful years working wherever he was sent and accomplishing anything he was asked, Harry Kincaid resigned when he heard the call: “Tired of playing by the rules?  Come on over.”  That’s when he joined Oceanic Import-Export, a firm headquartered in Fairfax, Virginia.  It was founded by a trio of former employees of various governmental services and agencies.  Veterans from the alphabet soup including the CIA, FBI, NSA, SEALs and others found their recruiting slogan appealing. 

His stint with the country’s most clandestine organization won him friends in high places.  Before leaving the CIA, he was called into the Director’s Office for a meeting with the ‘old man’ himself.  The Director, who was one of the most ‘untouchable’ non-politicians in a totally political town, told Harry to keep his personal phone number.  He told him not to hesitate if he felt he could use the Director’s help.

In the coming years, Harry Kincaid had done so more than a few times.  The Director, a forty year veteran of ‘dark ops’ realized that there were times and circumstances that called for the talents of a Harry Kincaid.  And no one else need know about it.

You can read more about Harry Kincaid and some of those special “times and circumstances” in any of my three novels.

Thanksgiving in Naples

Thomas Mitchell Keegan has a wicked fastball.  It’s deadly accurate coming from a pitcher’s motion that has a batter guessing long after the snap of the ball in the mitt.  But that isn't all.  Before leaving Boston and moving to Florida with his mother, Mitch had made it his quest to learn to throw a knuckleball.  His reasoning was sound.  With a deadly fastball to keep the batter on his heels and a knuckler to make him wonder if the ball was going to land in the same zip code, Mitch determined that he could send most batters back to their dugout talking to themselves in a foreign language.   It was no wonder that at fourteen, he had an excellent shot at making the rotation for the varsity team at Gulf Breezes High School.  This was something that had never been done by a freshman.  But in Jack Bynum’s twelve years as Manager of the Gulf Breezes Hurricanes, he had never seen a Mitch Keegan. 

It was November and the high school football season had just ended.  Gulf Breezes had never been much of a contender on the gridiron.  This year they had managed to squeak out a seven and five season.  Bynum, acting as an assistant to head football coach Jimmy Flynn was always happy to get football out of the way so he could concentrate on his baseball Hurricanes.  In his years as Manager, Bynum had taken his team to the playoffs six times and had won the State Championship twice. 

Thirty two boys showed up for tryouts on a Thursday afternoon.  It was brisk with a light wind coming in from the outfield, but not chilly. The south Florida sun shone through a layer of scattered clouds.  The school’s maintenance crew had kept the field in good shape through the off season.  It was clear from looking at the facilities that the school’s Dugout Club was more supportive than its Touchdown Club.  Baseball fundraising was up.

After some loosening and stretching exercises, Bynum had the group assemble in the dugout.  “It’s good to see you guys out this year.”  He paused to get the most impact with his next statement.  “I’ll just go ahead and say it:  The Hurricanes are going for the State title this year.  If that sounds appealing to you and you are willing to put in the time to win ball games, then you are in the right place.  If you are out here to win a letter jacket and impress your girlfriend, well, you may be in the right spot but on this team, we play for the name on the front of the uniform, not the name on the back.  Any questions so far?” 

One lanky kid wearing shorts, a Gulf Breeze High School t-shirt and baseball cleats raised his right hand, holding his baseball glove.  “Yeah, Coach.  How many guys are returning from last year and how many will you have on the team after tryouts?” 

“The Florida High School Athletic Association allows us to have a roster of twenty five players.  We have eighteen out here who played for us last year.  So, you might think that new guys are trying out for seven positions.  Wrong.  No one has made the team yet.  We have thirty two players trying out for twenty five places.  Any other questions?”  He looked around and saw no hands.  "Okay, here’s the way it works:  We’ll be holding tryouts this afternoon, tomorrow afternoon, and Monday afternoon.  On Tuesday, by lunchtime, I will post the team roster on my office door.”  Again, Coach Bynum looked around for questions.  “Okay, let me introduce my assistant coaches.  All of these guys worked with us last year.”

As the coach was making his introductions, a shiny Navy blue Corvette pulled up and parked behind the opposite dugout.  A man of medium height and very athletic build emerged.  He was wearing baseball pants and a t-shirt that could not be read at the distance.   He took his time.  He located a pair of beat up baseball cleats and, leaning against the rear of his car, put them on.  Then he took a slow walk around the backstop looking at the hopeful players sitting in the dugout, all intently listening to their coach.  The players lost sight of him until he emerged from behind their dugout and stepped onto the apron of the field.

“Guys, I’ve got a real treat for you.  It’s a treat for the whole team.  Most of you should recognize Pete Kelly, starting catcher of the New York Yankees.”  Bynum let the introduction sink in as a hearty cheer rose from the players.  “Pete’s a home town boy and he's going to be working with us a bit here until he has to report to his own spring training in a few weeks.”

Kelly stepped forward.  “Hi, guys.  I didn’t hear all of what Coach Bynum said, but I did hear him say that no one had made the team yet.  Well, it works the same way with my team.  Every year it’s another tryout.  I’ve got to work my tail off to get my job back just like you do.”

The dugout crowd was excited.  Some were star struck.  One was not.   Mitch Keegan was sitting on the bench at the third base end of the dugout.  He held his Boston Red Sox cap in his hands.  He looked down at the historic “B” embroidered on his cap.  No one else could hear him when he said, “A damn Yankee.”

Anyone who follows baseball knows of the rivalry between the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees.  It is thought to be one of the most intense in all of sports.  Having been born and raised in Brookline, Massachusetts, Mitch Keegan had been a Red Sox fan all of his life.  He would admit that he was impressed that a major leaguer would be there to help a high school team.  But it would have suited him much better if it had been anyone other than a Yankee.  It didn’t help matters any that Pete Kelly had always been effective in batting against the best the Red Sox threw at him. 

Coach Bynum’s voice shook Mitch from his thoughts.  “Okay, let’s split up.  Outfielders go with Coach King to centerfield.  Infielders, stay here with Coach Barfield.  Pitchers and catchers, head out to the bullpen with Pete here.  And he will be ‘Coach Kelly’ while he’s here.”

Mitch made his way out to the bullpen along with three other players who were trying out to catch, and four other players hoping to pitch.  When they arrived, Pete Kelly said, “Okay, I need some names here.”  He offered his hand to each player and shook it as the boy gave his name.

“I’m Mitch Keegan,” Mitch said taking Coach Kelly’s hand.

Kelly noticed Mitch’s cap.  “Uh oh, I see I have a Sox fan, huh Mitch.”

“Sure am.  All my life,” he answered.

“Well, they are a fine team.  I have always loved playing at Fenway,” Kelly said.

“I guess you have.  I was there when you tagged Beckett for a grand slam last year.”  Mitch was not smiling.

“Well, geez.  Don’t hold it against me.  Hey, we’re both Irish, aren’t we?”  Kelly was laughing, thinking he’d win this kid over in no time.

Mitch tipped his cap.  But he still didn’t smile, still thinking, “I can’t believe they’ve got a Yankee here.”

For the next three hours, Pete Kelly worked with all of the players assigned to him.  He paired prospective pitchers with catchers and had them throwing with each other, staying loose and warm.  He took the catcher’s position behind the plate and caught for each prospective pitcher in turn. 

“Okay, Mitch,” Kelly said, “Show me what you’ve got.”  He got into his catcher’s crouch and showed the big mitt as Mitch’s target.  Mitch stretched to begin his wind up.  He kicked his left leg high and brought it down, unleashing his fastball with all his might.  A split second later Kelly’s mitt cracked the air as the ball found dead center without Kelly having to move it at all.  “Say now, that looked like a fastball, though most of what I saw was a blur.  Thanks for hitting the mitt.  I could have been hurt.”

Mitch snickered a bit.  Then he threw another one.  Again, Kelly didn’t move the mitt as the ball found the middle of it.

“You got anything else, Mitch?” Kelly asked.  “Not that you need it…”

Mitch delivered his third pitch.  It was the knuckleball that he had worked so hard to master.  Kelly tried to follow the ball as it morphed into a butterfly.  It took off up to the left; it dropped over to the right.  It seemed to back up.  Kelly reached to catch it, still in the strike zone.  It bounced off the side of his mitt into the dirt.  He had Mitch throw two more knucklers and two more fastballs before calling him in from the mound.

“Mitch, if Beckett had thrown to me the way you just did, Boston would have won that game.”  Mitch smiled for the first time while talking to Pete Kelly.

“Mom, he really is a nice guy.  But, geez… he’s a Yankee.”  Mitch was describing Pete Kelly to Maggie Keegan as if he were a serial killer.  "I want to like him.  But... I just can't.  He's a Yankee."

“Mitch, that’s really not so bad.  Did he teach you anything?” she asked.

“Yeah, he really did.  He showed me a way of coming out of my stretch that would help me hold a base runner.  And, he showed me a better way of disguising my grip when I threw the knuckler.”  Mitch showed a respect for the major leaguer.  “But, Mom,… he’s still a Yankee.”  There was no doubt in Maggie Keegan’s mind that her son respected and even liked Pete Kelly.  And it puzzled even her that Mitch’s allegiance to the Red Sox was as strong as it appeared.

To no one’s surprise, Mitch Keegan was listed on the team roster the following Tuesday.  And at practice for the next week, Pete Kelly spent more time with Mitch than any of the other pitchers.  At night when Maggie would ask Mitch about his day, she would get the full report.  He told her about his classes and how he was progressing in his academics.  And of course he gave her a thorough rundown on how baseball practice went.  She still found it amusing that whenever Mitch referred to Pete Kelly, he simply called him “the Yankee.”

It was Thanksgiving Day.  Mitch was sitting on the sofa watching a pro football game when the doorbell rang.  Maggie was busy in the kitchen preparing the turkey, dressing, and the rest of the feast that they would soon enjoy.  It was their first Thanksgiving in Florida and Maggie was determined to make it a good one.  Mitch rose to answer the door at the same time Maggie emerged from the kitchen.  Mitch saw the Corvette sitting in the driveway.  He looked over at Maggie with an unhappy expression.  “It’s the Yankee,” he said.  It was in a begrudging way when he opened the door.

“Hi, Mitch,” greeted Pete Kelly.  “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said.

“Hi, Coach.  Happy Thanksgiving to you.”  It was the best Mitch could muster.  And still no smile.  “Oh, this is my mom,” he said turning toward Maggie who had moved to the door.

“I’m Maggie Keegan, Coach,” she said extending her hand.  “Please come in.”

The man stepped through the door and shook her hand with his right hand.  He held something behind his back in his left.  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Keegan.  I just got some news that I thought I’d share with Mitch here.”

“What is it?” Mitch asked, curious.

“I got a call just this morning.”  Pete Kelly brought his left hand around and put a new baseball cap on his head.  He solemnly said, “I’ve been traded.  Looks like I’ll be catching in Boston next season.”

Mitch broke into a smile that was as broad as the left field wall at Fenway Park... the famed ‘Green Monster.’  He left the floor and jumped into Pete’s arms with a big hug.  “Yahoooo!” he shouted.  “Hey Mom, can Pete stay for dinner?”

Maggie Keegan

Brookline, Massachusetts offers a cross section of society that leans toward the working middle class.  Reflecting the melting pot that is America and virtually surrounded by Boston on three sides, Brookline, like its people, maintains its own identity refusing to be taken in by the big city next door.  It is the home of Maggie Keegan.  It is where she was born and was raised.

Maggie Keegan was the only daughter of Tom and Rona Keegan, both second generation Irish-Americans whose forefathers came to America to improve their lot in life.  From Tom and Rona, Maggie learned that the opportunity offered by America was only limited by one’s own ambition and willingness to work.  So, from the time that she was old enough to be of any help, Maggie Keegan could be found working in Keegan’s Bakery alongside her father and mother.  She learned the skills of a master baker.  She learned the art of dealing with customers.  She learned how to turn a profit in a small business.  But most of all, she learned the value of hard work and the satisfaction of fulfilled self responsibility.

Maggie graduated from high school with respectable grades.  She certainly could have advanced her education by attending any of the numerous colleges or universities in the area.  But with no argument from her father, Maggie elected to stay with the family business, knowing that it would be her life’s work anyway.

Maggie’s chestnut hair, startling green eyes and hourglass figure captivated many a young man.  She was a typical fun loving young woman and enjoyed the attention of those who pursued her.  Two years after graduating from high school, Maggie decided that she should move into her own apartment and out from under the watchful eye of Tom and Rona.  Anyone who has been to Boston knows that it is really just a big college town.  Though she was not a student, Maggie mixed easily with those who were and could be found, on most nights, in their company.  She lost her virginity soon after moving into her apartment in the Coolidge Corner section of Brookline.  The young man was a pre-med student from Boston University.  Though they were fond of each other, both realized that their relationship was only casual and probably headed nowhere.  She dated other young men and never entered a committed relationship with any of them.  Maggie was learning about life.  It was a time of fun, recklessness, and except for the bakery, no responsibility.

Maggie’s life changed when, at the age of twenty one, she became pregnant by a Harvard law student.  Again, the relationship was not love.  And both Maggie and the boy knew it.  The young man was not one of the wealthy blue bloods attending Harvard as a legacy.  No.  He was a bright young man from Paducah, Kentucky who had been lucky enough to get into Harvard Law School but had to work two jobs supplementing student loans in order to stay there.  It was on a Sunday afternoon, one rare that he wasn’t working.  Mike had asked Maggie to a Red Sox game with the despised Yankees.  The Red Sox won a close one, 7 – 6.  Mike and Maggie celebrated the win with a roll in the hay back at her apartment.  The consequences would arrive nine months later.

Mike made all the offers and overtures of one who clearly thought the pregnancy should be terminated.  Maggie would not even entertain the thought.  She released Mike from any further or future responsibilities of the baby and bid him good-bye.  Whether it was guilt, affection, or a sense of obligation, Mike continued to pursue Maggie hoping to sway her, or, failing that, offer a life together.  It took months for Maggie to convince Mike that she would handle things her way.  But when she did, he backed off, leaving her to fend for herself, and the baby.

To say that Tom and Rona Keegan were pleased with the situation would not be accurate.  In fact, it would be downright absurd.  But the Keegans loved their daughter as life itself and helped Maggie move back in with them.  They knew nothing of the situation or the father and didn’t ask more than once.  Rona was a constant attendant to Maggie during the pregnancy and when Thomas Mitchell Keegan was born at Beth-Israel Deaconess Hospital, prouder grandparents you couldn’t find.

Learn more about Maggie Keegan, and her son “Mitch” in “Following Claire.”