The Same Ring
By James J. Neal ‘60
08 June 1956. It’s 1000 as I walk into the office of Ruth Thompson, U.S. Representative for the 9th Congressional District of Michigan. We’re meeting for a final discussion concerning her offering me a nomination to the USNA, Class of 1960. On her side of the large oak desk is a three-term member of Congress, and a judge since 1925. On my side is a hungry 17-year-old with no Plan B.
I was sitting there because one week earlier I finished my last final at UCLA. I was an NROTC Contract student: that meant I took the classes, but the scholarship would not start until my junior year. When our instructor announced the Academy entrance exam was being given, I was all in. As soon as I received the letter saying I’d passed, my parents and I met with my congressman. When he found that my family did not have the means to contribute, he remembered that his nominations were committed.
The year that just finished had taken every cent I had. After my last exam, I decided I needed to get to Washington, D.C., to knock on congressional doors until I found a nomination. It took three days to fly to Washington, then three more to knock from Alabama to Michigan.
The previous year three of Congressman Thompson’s midshipmen got married and were drummed out. She felt angry and betrayed. Quietly, but firmly, she repeated today’s only question, “Do you promise me that you will not get married in the next four years?”
Considering that my answer assured me a world class education, playing any sport that I qualified for, all the food that I wanted, tailored uniforms, a commission in the Marine Corps, a $1 million worth of flight training, plus an entry to the rest of my life, I instantly gave her my strongest, “Yes, Ma’am, I do.” I had just received an offer I couldn’t refuse. The meeting ended as Representative Thompson told me she would create an address for me in her District in Michigan. I was to return home to California, wait for a letter to report to the Academy, and to never forget my promise.
During my first visit to the Academy – three weeks before plebe summer began – I stopped in Preble Hall. Among the wall-to-wall of ships and swords, the display that held my attention was the case of class rings. As I read the number on the class-side of the rings, I added 5-10-25 years to each and thought of the history that they had seen and made. To dream of wearing a ring with 1960 on the side, and how adding those years might apply to me, was more than I could imagine.
On the day we took the Oath of a Midshipman, I made one caveat with myself: that I would never do anything stupid enough to give cause for me to see Maryland Avenue as only an outward bound street. Among the list of potential Class A offenses was scalping Army game tickets. Had I not hustled mine, I could not have paid for my ring until after graduation. Thankfully, my buyers were happy. From Ring Dance to today, I’ve had the privilege of wearing a ring with Ex Scientia Tridens on one side and my class’ crest on the other. To it, I’ve had the pleasure of adding another 60. The same ring.
Inside it was engraved, Ensign USN. Later it was re-engraved, Captain USMC. Early on it was mated to a twisted band. Now it’s worn alone. It’s seen peace, and wars both hot and cold. It’s travelled most of the continents and Seven Seas. It’s even changed hands. Its size is the same, but its fit isn’t. My fingers are smaller and my knuckles are bigger. The same ring.
Its carvings of torches and tridents, of scrolls and swords, are wearing smooth. The chipped facets of its Mediterranean blue spinel are now a stone near round. Had it broken, I planned to replace it with a diamond. I’ve not needed to call De Beers. Not so with the bezel. I shouldn’t have lost my temper that night and fisted so hard. New bezel. The same ring
Our ring has a chain just below the USNA inscription. I was told that for our class it has 60 links. After the Ring Dance I thought I’d wait as long as possible to verify that number. Now, as those links are wearing faint, so are my eyes. I’ll continue to take that count on faith. The same ring.
As our class gets closer to the front of Shipmate, our place in the ring case gets farther from the bottom. It seems like just yesterday I gave my ring its first ride in my new Triumph TR-3. It was down Highway 1, as I headed to Naval Air Station Pensacola. The same ring.
When I got my ring it was nothing like a hardwired telephone. Now, it’s like a smartphone in all that it’s replaced or represents. It became a calendar. From that summer day when I first walked into the Yard, until graduation when I drove out, it marked four years, to the day. It’s the bio of who I was and what I did. It was my passport to a worldwide club. I no longer wear the uniform and some years I don’t visit the Academy, but I always have my ring. My ring is trust. It never lied to me. The same ring.
Today, in the era of Super Bowl bling, someone wins one ball game and tarts-up for life. I’ve been asked what championship my ring is from. I smile and explain. Sometimes, I just answer, “Life”. The same ring.
I’ve seen Olympic medals and Super Bowl rings for sale.
If I lost everything, would I sell mine?
… maybe a kidney, instead.
For 60 years it’s faithfully deposited gold
near the last joint of my middle and little fingers.
Now, a thief would have to cut off my finger to get it.