“We are gathered here today to honor and remember the life of one of the NBA’s greatest sharpshooters…”
The assembled group of mourners stood solemnly as the minister paid a final tribute to the man who was, at that very moment, lying in a casket that was waiting to be lowered into a six-foot-deep hole in the ground. Some were gently weeping. Most were standing stone-silent, stricken by grief but attempting not to show it. A small shudder or involuntary tear betrayed the true emotions which they internally wrestled with.
Kyle Korver was dead. While his legacy would echo immortally through the vaults of NBA record-keeping, his earthly mission had been cut short. Whatever of his work remained to be done would have to be done from the other side. And at that moment, the raw pain of losing Kyle Korver the friend was much more real than the joy of remembering Kyle Korver the three-point specialist.
Soon, it was time to give Kyle his final interment. Watching the casket placed in that hole conferred a sense of conclusion that could not be revoked. Once he was cradled in the arms of the earth, in the earth he would remain. Forever.
The minister offered the funeral-goers the chance to place a shovelful of dirt over the casket. It took a while for someone to step forward. Eventually, somebody did. It was Giannis Antetokounmpo.
“Thank you for trying to fix my shot,” Giannis said with a smile that was framed by tears. “It worked. It was never as good as yours, though.” With a deep breath, he threw a shower of dirt into the hole. After Giannis, more teammates of Kyle’s came forward to do the same. Friends, family members, lovers, all took the chance to say their final goodbye. The white casket could no longer be discerned under the layer of brown earth.
That was when the lid of the casket began to rattle. Clumps of dirt danced across the surface and fell to the side. Some of the women in the group fainted. Some of the men yelled out in surprise. The minister’s face turned pale white as if he was witnessing a miraculous resurrection like the one described in the holy book that was in his hands. There was the sound of something unlatching. Then, the casket swung open and a man climbed out of the grave.
“I’m Kyle Korver reborn!” Doug McDermott announced, triumphantly holding his arms wide.
“But…Kyle…” Paul Millsap stammered. “He’s dead! What did you do with him?”
“I’m standing right here,” said a man who was standing in the back of the group and who had not taken the chance to symbolically participate in the burial. It was Kyle Korver. “I’ve been here literally the whole time.”
Paul looked at Kyle, who was clearly alive and clearly not an impostor, and then back at Doug, and then at the minister. The rest of the attendees were doing the same, murmuring to themselves. “But you died! There was an announcement and everything! That’s why we’re having a funeral!”
“Well, I mean, he did die…metaphorically,” Doug said. “His NBA career is basically over. That’s why we organized his metaphorical funeral, so that he could symbolically die and I could symbolically become the new Kyle Korver, the guy who comes off screens and shoots 45% from three while being white and handsome.”
“It seemed like a real funeral to me,” Paul muttered before turning to the minister. “Did anybody actually look in the casket?”
The minister looked around nervously. All eyes were on him. “Well, I’ll be! A miracle the likes of which are rarely witnessed in modern times! The Lord truly smiles on us this day. I must write to the denominational leadership at once.” And with that, he dropped his bible and took off sprinting across the cemetery.
“Dude, somebody take a picture of me with the casket!” Kyle said, pushing through the stunned group and jumping into the freshly-dug grave. “I can’t believe you idiots fell for it!”
“There was an obituary in the newspaper!” indignantly shouted a woman.
Doug laughed. “Newspapers are folding left and right, you know how easy it is to bribe them to print a fake obit? The funeral home took a bit more negotiating, but when I promised I’d do my real funeral with them when the time came, they agreed quick. They even threw in a neck pillow so I wouldn’t get stiff lying in there for hours.”
“It’s true!” Kyle laughed, holding up a zebra-print U-shaped pillow. “Now is anybody going to take a picture or not? Hang on, let me rub some dirt on myself so I really look dead.”
Disgusted grievers were walking back to their cars, leaving behind just one: a sad-looking Brook Lopez sitting on the grass with his knees tucked up to his chest.
“Come on, dude, I’m still alive, no need to be so sad,” Kyle said consolingly.
Brook sniffled and wiped his teary eyes with the sleeve of his suit jacket. “I thought I was going to be the next Kyle Korver.”