To the Rescue, Here I Am

Goddamn, I love Bob Marley. I hadn’t been listening to him as much lately, but there was a time when he dominated my speakers, especially during my college days in Miami, rolling to the beach with my boys in my 1979 Jeep CJ-5 with the top off.

So it seemed like a positive omen when he popped up on the radio as I headed out to Skyway Golf Course in Jersey City. “Sun Is Shining” felt even better than I remembered it, and I hoped it would infuse this gloomy day with one last glimmer of hope. I had recently misplaced my wedding band, and since I’d already gone through everything in my house, I (perhaps irrationally) believed that I had lost it on the fairways of my second home.

I’d secured a metal detector from a friend, and as I drove I was picturing the scene in which I’d hoist the found treasure. Would I silently fist pump like a proper golf course celebration or go wild like a hole-in-one fire? I couldn’t wait to find out.

On the course with my clubs and this geeky dad instrument, I got a proper welcome from one of my fellow locals, who called out, “If you find any 55-gallon drums, don’t open ’em!” I replied that all I had found so far was Jimmy Hoffa’s watch, and we had a Jersey backslap about it all.

The detector went off only once, but there was nothing in the area where it beeped. As I continued the search, I had a lovely conversation with Skyway’s superintendent, affectionately known as Uncle Jimmy, and he joined my wretched hunt. We chatted about mixing spray, how far 300 gallons of it goes and how peaceful the place is in the morning when he has it all to himself. I could talk to Jimmy all day. 

Several items were found, starting with the wedge I’d left on the first green. Edmund, the director of outside operations, returned it to me after a few holes. Service with a smile at Skyway. Then I found a 9-iron from a rental set. When a dude wearing white Chicago Bulls away-game shorts and talking with a Vlade Divac accent came roaring up in his cart, asking if I had his club, I was delighted to tell him not only that I did have it, but that I was old enough to remember going to Chicago Stadium to see Air Jordan play. We did one of those weird thumb-lock handshakes that often turn into a chest bro-hug.

Then I found an iron cover, for God’s sake. I was playing without a cart, but my partner had his, so I dismissively tossed it in the little basket on the back. I don’t judge iron covers the way most do, and I realized that my snap of anger was just a product of how badly I wanted my lost thing to be found.

I know I am one of the lucky ones. I have healthy kids and a loving wife, and clean running water flows from my faucets (although I have to buy these $100 filters every six months, but I can do that, too, which is no minor miracle). Yet thanks to two disastrous basement floods over the years, my list of valuable material possessions, which once included my drums and a Fender Rhodes electric piano, had dwindled alarmingly low.

The wedding band wasn’t much—maybe $20 worth of silver. But it was a relic from a past life. A symbol of love’s evolution, its imperfections perfectly encapsulating how strong a marriage can be even as it takes on scratches and dings.

I never found it. After the round, I sat in the car, took a deep breath and called up Bob’s “Kaya” for the ride home. On the way, I smiled at the strip of untanned skin on my bare ring finger. I looked forward to walking in the door and gathering up my kids. Everything was gonna be alright.