THE SAN DIEGO UNION-TRIBUNE / COMMENTARY / JAN. 20, 2023 

Opinion: NCAA title rings cannot exceed $415 in value, but my son’s journey is worth much more

BY JEFF NELLIGAN 

Nelligan is a former San Diegan and the author of “Four Lessons from My Three Sons: How You Can Raise Resilient Kids.” He lives in Annapolis, Maryland, and can be reached at Jeff@ResilientSons.com.

America’s football nation grinds closer to college and pro playoffs, and after the 2023 College Football National Championship game and Super Bowl LVII, two select groups of players will receive a singular piece of jewelry, the championship ring. Far from an easily worn accessory, these rings are really miniature, hand-carried trophies and represent the pinnacle of athletic achievement.

Super Bowl rings feature up to 20 carats of white diamonds and can be worth up to $50,000 apiece. NCAA title rings cannot exceed $415 in value, per NCAA rules. Yet in size and design, they fit the hand-trophy ethos.

I know — I have one. It was available to all the parents of the U.S. Military Academy’s varsity rugby team, for whom my youngest son played, when it won a national championship this past May. It’s huge and gaudy and has all the traditional features of an NCAA title ring — “National Champions” in huge block letters, the date of triumph, a rugby ball, the player’s name, the school colors and crest — West Point’s black and gold sword and Athenian helmet — and something unusual: 19 black stars on each side of the ring, signifying the 19 former Army rugby players killed in action in conflicts around the globe.

For me, my son’s ring represents a panorama far beyond $415 worth of steel and zirconium. I’m like the 87 percent of American parents who have one or more kid playing organized sports: I know firsthand the youth athletic journey because I’ve been on it every game of the way.

The signposts remain vivid. It began with my son’s first game in organized sports: recreational soccer at the age of 4, which featured a disorganized bunch of kids happily running around a field, sometimes even chasing the ball. Seventh-grade basketball, where he learned to ride the bench. It hurt. It hurt him also.

Sophomore football and lacrosse practices on hot summer days where the artificial turf hit 110 degrees and those same fields in winter, where every hit was painfully magnified by the cold. The solitary hours swimming laps at the community pool; the hard clack of weight machines in airless gyms and miles of running through our neighborhood. 60 million American kids play organized sports and each one of them knows something about this grind.

Moreover, a big part of the athletic journey is the journey, as every parent knows. It’s driving to numberless practices and the family treks across four states to tournaments and college recruiting camps. I did this with all three of my sons (the two eldest also played college sports) and can’t recall but will never forget our long conversations about anything and everything. The long afternoons sitting on wooden bleachers, cheering and wincing, as exhausted with emotion and nerves as whatever son was on playing on the field. The wins, the losses, being on both sides of blowouts, the nerve-wracking contests for league championships and the struggles to remain out of last place.

There was also the escalation in seriousness; it’s truly fun to walk the sidelines of a sixth-grade lacrosse game, chatting and laughing with other parents. By 11th grade, you’re up in those forlorn bleachers and on edge as the sidelines are now filled with scowling college coaches and your son is in their crosshairs.

Throughout it all, every moment, practice and game, I was fortunate to see my three sons acquire the solid character that competitive sports nurtures: resilience in handling pressure, the tight camaraderie of a team, the grinding discipline of working to get bigger, faster, stronger.

At last, it all comes together — the long, grueling journey beginning with a 4-year-old child prancing around on a soccer field ends with a young man bursting out of a stadium tunnel to win it on all on the national collegiate stage.

After his last game, I spent the evening in a typically crazy Dad endeavor: I meticulously added up all the contests in all sports in which my son had played since his recreational soccer debut. My foggy estimate: 1,227 games.

The irony is that despite my pride in his accomplishments, I have worn the ring only several times in public. It’s so large and garish, and I feel self-conscious that I didn’t earn it. But as a father, I earned something better — I was along for the entire journey.

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