Every once in a while I get this crazy notion to ransack boxes in my basement in search of a 1993 Orioles All-Star ring the club gave me during the time I worked there many moons ago. It was incredibly special to me; it represented years of working for an organization I loved.
Back then, I was single, and moved five times in five years to a new apartment or townhouse. At some point during the transitions, I lost it. Its vanishing act has haunted me ever since because I can’t remember when I last wore it or saw it. In fact, the irony is that I used to wear it all the time, which is why its disappearance continues to baffle me all these years later.
I opened up three bins of Orioles memorabilia I kept. They are stuffed with printed publications I created or directed for the club, programs and souvenirs from special occasions, and irreplaceable items like pictures of my best friends and me. I can get lost in those boxes; I find myself reminiscing about good times we shared and all the experiences we went through together including milestones like moving from old Memorial Stadium to Oriole Park at Camden Yards, 1993 All-Star Week in Baltimore, Cal Ripken’s Streak Week, and many more celebrations and touching moments too numerous to count.
Nevertheless, after I searched through the boxes, reality set in…again. There was no 1993 All-Star ring among the nostalgia.
It’s really quite depressing. I mourn the loss of that ring—of what it represented for me—and I suspect I always will.
