The proposal

It turned out to be simple: Donate a chunk of your paycheque to the Jays Care Foundation, the team’s children’s charity, and you can make as big an ass of yourself as you want on the Jumbotron. So, I got seats for an upcoming game and locked it in. “We’ll call the morning of the game to let you know what inning,” explained the lady from the Jays Care Foundation over the phone. I had one month to find a ring.

Asking for hints from your beloved is useless — it’s almost like a zombie trying to head-butt through bulletproof Plexiglas. “So,” asked Mr. Zombie one morning over brunch, “hypothetically speaking, what sort of engagement ring would you want?” The future Mrs. Zombie glanced up coyly from her eggs Benny. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said.

Liar! She knew. And you, Mr. Zombie, are supposed to know too. All Shannon said was “I don’t want a new diamond; I want an antique ring or an heirloom.” She’d heard h horror stories of so-called “blood diamonds,” or conflict diamonds, mined in Africa to fund heinous warlords. No such gem would grace her digit.

So, I wandered into antique stores and saw rocks and rings of all shapes and sizes. “You know you have to perform a ritual,” said one dealer. Say what? “You have to bury a ring or leave it in the sunlight to remove any bad energy from the former owner.” I hoofed it out of there and headed to the pawnshops downtown, but I stood outside looking at all the forsaken saxophones and Trinitrons in the windows and just couldn’t go in. Talk about “bad energy.”

I decided to play my trump card. “Mom,” I asked over the phone, “do you have any heirloom rings?” She did. The one in question was given to her years ago as a birthday gift from my late father. Its thin silver band was mounted with a red stone surrounded by eight smaller, clear stones. It looked good, but my father, I’ll admit, had a propensity for dubiousness. “You’d better have it appraised,” said my mother. I did. It was the real deal: a ruby and diamonds in 18-karat white gold, handmade circa 1970 — a very good vintage.

The big day arrived. “It will be at the bottom of the fourth inning,” said the lady from the Jays Care Foundation over my cellphone. “Roger, tango, wilco,” I wanted to reply, in keeping with the clandestine nature of the plan. Instead, I said “Thank you so much” and quickly hung up, my heart pounding.

At the ballpark, Shannon and I shared a foot-long hot dog and drank beer. I snapped photos of Alex Rios catching a fly ball. I hoped Shannon wouldn’t notice the conspicuously cube-shaped bulge in my pants that screamed “Hey, is that an engagement ring in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” The fourth inning was interminable. The Jays were beating the Tampa Bay Rays 8–O. It had been a home-run fest, with four Jays hitting it out of the park, but for the first time in my life I was secretly hoping that they would strike out as my eyes kept darting from the scoreboard to the massive Jumbotron.

Then it happened: Jays hitter Kevin Millar grounded out to third, ending the inning. “Look,” I said to Shannon, pointing up at the Jumbotron. In a giant red heart appeared the words “Shannon, will you marry me? Love and smooches, Shaun.” By the time she turned back, I was on one knee, the ring box open. She looked so beautiful and happy and surprised. I was beaming. The crowd roared as the moment was broadcast overhead and the Jays mascot, Ace, arrived to rain confetti over us as Shannon nodded her head and said “Yes!”

It was a home run we’ll never forget.

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