Chapter 6.2: The Ring of Power

Last night's Little League game almost fried my already frazzled psyche. After umpiring through a blowout (I stopped noting the score after it hit 20-3, but there was more -- so much more), I unstrapped the tools of ignorance from my legs and shoved the equipment into the back of the egg-mobile (my little white 1992 Honda CX). At some point my Claddagh ring must have fallen to the ground. I didn't hear it and didn't notice it missing until I was almost home.

Usually I take my wedding ring and Claddagh off before leaving the car when I arrive at the field. I don't want them damaged by a random foul ball off my knuckles, no matter how unlikely that is to happen. But last night I wasn't sure the game would even be played, considering the amount of rain that had fallen over the previous 48 hours. Just before the game began I remembered the rings and tucked them in my pocket.

I was driving home when I thought of my rings and pulled over to rummage through the pocket. I was pleased to find my wedding ring, but the Claddagh was gone. It was a gift from Maureen and almost as much a symbol of our marriage as the One True Ring on my left hand. I'd misplaced my rings before, taking them off to play softball. I've placed them in my sneakers and discovered them with my toes. I've tied them to my sneaker strings and heard them jingle onto bleachers when the knot came undone. I've had a couple too many beers after games and forgotten where I'd hid them. This night, again, I was just a dope.

Having dug through the egg's seats without finding the ring, Maureen and I returned to the field, armed with a flashlight. I parked about 15 feet behind where I'd been before and shined the light along the curbside, feeling hopeless. The name of St. Anthony crossed my mind; I think he's the one to pray to for lost things. And I considered my guardian angel as well.

Then the light hit it. Resting on its heart, the ring lay on the ground unharmed. How easily it could have been crushed by tires. One of the players could have picked it up like Bilbo Baggins and gone unwittingly on his way. So simply I could have just missed it in my search. Yet, I'd found it, my precious. I raised my arm up in triumph, picked the ring up and placed it back on my finger, the heart pointing back to my heart. I smiled at my wife.

"It always comes back," she said.

My mind is still frazzled. I feel behind on my work, my freelance articles, my book. I feel poor. I feel unsatisfied that I'm doing what I should be doing. But if nothing else, I have a wonderful wife to whom I feel completely attached. Things could be much worse.