Page 43 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

“All pitchers are liars or crybabies.” Yogi Berra said that. I didn’t know who Yogi Berra was, and I assumed it was Yogi Bear spelled incorrectly. Wikipedia informed me otherwise.

Raymond was a pitcher, a pretty darn good one. His being a liar or crybaby is debatable, depending on who you ask. And it’s me. If you ask me, he’s both, and we’re going to honor the liar and crybaby with the Raymond St. George Memorial Baseball Tournament on Saturday, June 22nd. To stay up-to-date with all the details, follow @RSGMemorial on Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok. If you’re interested in sponsoring the event, you can message me directly.

Tell your friends, grab your gloves, and we’ll see you there!

#Grief #RaymondStGeorge #BatterUp #SeventhInningStretch #HomeRun #Strike #ThatsAllTheBaseballVocabularyIKnow

CHAPTER 17

Iposition the screen of my laptop toward my mom. “What do you think of this one?”

She ignores me, washing the floor on her hands and knees. She’s been cleaning all day. It started with the dining room, vacuuming and dusting, and now in the kitchen, like a middle-aged Cinderella.

“Mom?”

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“The T-shirt design. You like this one?”

“Sure.”

She doesn’t really look. I don’t know why I thought she’d have an opinion on this when she hasn’t given her two cents on anything else. She hasn’t been interested in helping like I thought she would be, so I’m stuck organizing this tournament myself. Because apparently one baseball game wouldn’t actually raise any money, it’s transitioned into a tournament and ballooned into something much bigger than I had originally planned. I called in a favor from my old friend and college roommate, Alma, who came up with a super-simple logo, and I am chugging along, even if I haven’t heard back from Mr. Alvarado on sponsorship ideas.

Google and my Fundraising for Dummies book say I need to work on securing a location and permits, but I need a bit of money for that. And for money, I need a sponsor or two. I used my long-dormant writing skills to complete a draft of a sponsorship letter but have no idea where or to whom to send it. Making a T-shirt, though, I can handle. I settle on a navy cotton T with white writing and a Springsteen lyric on the back, leaving room for the names of the sponsors. My goal is to have team sign-ups by Memorial Day for the tournament, but the end of May is quickly approaching and the slice of this pie I agreed to is a bit too big for me to eat.

Leaving my mother to her bucket and rag, I shut my computer and stalk out to the living room as I call Aunt Joanie. She picks up after a few rings.

“Hey, Cassie Cat.”

“Hi.”

“What’s up at one thirty in the afternoon on a Wednesday?”

“I’ve been working all day on this baseball tournament,” I say. I’d told her I’d agreed to do this after my first meeting with Mr. Alvarado, but it’s only now occurred to me she’s a pretty good contact. “You know anyone who might be interested in sponsoring it?”

She hums in thought for a bit. “I could pass the information along to a few people. The hospital won’t sponsor, but individual doctors or practices might. Have you tried the school?”

“Yeah, I haven’t heard back from the principal yet. I’ve emailed him twice.”

“Call. Always call. It’s better to hear a voice than read words.”

“Fine,” I grumble. The list of people I will actually call on the phone is very short. Currently, two. One, I’m talking to now, and the other is the man who I know will always pick up.

“Have you thought about prizes or food?” Auntie Joanie asks.

“Prizes?” I choke out. “Food?”

She laughs at me. “Cassie, you’re putting a sports tournament together. There’ll be winners and losers. The teams are going to pay money to sign up, so if they win, they should receive something in return…maybe the top three teams? And you’ll need to provide food for the players and anyone who buys tickets to watch. You always need peanuts, right?”

“I guess.”

“Food’ll be easy. People are always willing to donate juice boxes or soda or whatever. That’ll be a—” She cuts off, her voice fading in the background as she speaks to someone else. “Cass, I have to run. Once you have all your information together, send me a digital copy of it all. And make sure you’re making physical copies of everything too. Put it in new folders. It’s more professional-looking that way.”

I make another mental note.

“And don’t wear jeans with holes in them when you go to talk to anyone.”

“Now you sound like my mother,” I say.

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