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I believe it was Napoleon, the old emperor not the old shortstop, who observed that men will die for medals. Some will hit home runs and some will strike out the side as well.

How a ring became the authentication of athletic success is not entirely clear to me but it has become so and no athlete is complete without one.

Ernie Banks will be forever Mr. Cub, but maybe he would have been Mr. Baseball if he had the proper jewelry. Dan Marino never can be the greatest quarterback because his hands are free of the doo-dads of ultimate glory.

Until LeBron James gets as many finger trinkets as Michael Jordan, he never can be Michael Jordan.

In such context, it is understandable how overestimated might be a ring 108 years in the getting. What is a little tougher to appreciate are the strings the Cubs have attached to the gift.

A gift is a gift or it is not. A reward is not a rental. Generosity seems insincere when it must be notarized.

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I do not know the card that came with the ring box but it must be something like this:

The Cubs thank you for your help and support. Take this token of our appreciation but understand that it is not really yours. It always will be ours. Sign here.

I’ve never understood the memorabilia market, never understood how a personal souvenir becomes someone else’s collateral.

My high school class ring was stolen many years ago, along with my daughter’s beer-can collection. She was more upset than I.

I am on my third wedding ring — same wife, third ring.

Several knick-knacks from the Tribune, a watch, anniversary pins, are somewhere, given to me without my asking and without ceremony. I got one of them a year late when a departing sports editor was cleaning out his desk.

“Oh, here,” he said. “Forgot about this.” Never wore any of them.

I still might have a commemorative wrist watch the undefeated Dolphins gave to members of the press, this back when such things were done. Never wore it either. But never sent it back.

I did prize a little golden glove I got for being the novice middleweight champion of my hometown. I put the glove on a cheap chain and gave it to a girl. I don’t know where they went, the girl or the glove. I went to the Air Force and never saw either again.

That’s about it for my jewelry. These things meant to me what they meant, some more than others. What they meant to anyone else, I have no idea.

The whole bunch is probably not worth one diamond in the Cubs showy World Series ring, the value of which, we are reminded, must be maintained.

What is the value? The Cubs have put a dollar value on each gift, a value of $1.

To the players who earned the rings, who broke the 108-year curse, and they are really the only ones who matter, the tokens mean much more than whatever the dollar value is.

To the many other Cubs employees who did not hit a ball, throw one or field one, those associates the Ricketts family generously included, each gift is worth whatever they think it is, however important it is to them.

That is as it should be. And it should be theirs to do with what they want.

If the Cubs truly care about heartless employees flooding the secondary market, they shouldn’t have given out so many in the first place. And it is a bit imperious to suspect that is exactly what will happen.

The Cubs are new at this and after several more titles they might realize that the bling that comes with winning is worth whatever the market will bear and has nothing to do with what really matters.

Anticipating the passing of the emotion and jubilation of this time, say, another generation or two ahead, when the Cubs return to more familiar terrain, when the songs are sad and hearts are heavy, it is the memories that will remain.

Can’t put a price on them.

Bernie Lincicome is a special contributor to the baiduhai.