The organ’s blare assaults the entrants as the chapel’s shadows toss a blanket over the congregation. All heads turned to the front, where a cross had been delicately carved into the oak walls of the sanctuary.
The altar shows its age, though with little wear to speak of. The occasional dent, chip, and imperfection is inevitable, though they’ve only added to their medium’s value, as if every loss of wood was replaced with a story. One quick scan of the edifice could write a vast novel if its visitors would simply open their eyes and read.
The sun’s beams penetrate stained glass tapestries and place a spotlight over the stand as a man shuffles to the microphone. His hair was grey and thinning, pulling one’s sight from the uncomfortable-looking hitch in his step. Right, left, drag, right, left, drag. Hunched at the base of his neck and subtly shaking in his extremities, today’s host will not be questioned for a lack of experience during today’s services.
Years have lined the pastor’s face. As he squares himself to the attendees, the sun’s bath envelops his features. Every wrinkle is a canyon. Every smile line, a ravine. The eyes have cratered into his skull, sinking as if Saint Peter and the pearly gates were beckoning them from within the cranium. Slowly, steadily, this holy man approaches his great reward. He pauses to breathe and gathers himself before finally opening his mouth.
“We’ve gathered to mourn the untimely demise of a tank,” the pastor’s voice reverberates through the aged concourse. “To say goodbye is the harshest obstacle one must face in life. A world with so many hellos must inevitably be met with goodbyes, and today, we all carry this burden.”
The seal is broken; reality has arrived. Loud, obvious sobbing cries out from the pews.
“It’s never easy to acknowledge such a harsh truth,” the pastor slips through a forced smile. “But just as life is given, it must also be taken away.”
“BUT WHY!“A man slams his hands on the bench and leaps to his feet. ”Why must we accept this? Why do we do nothing to alter our world? Why, oh why, do you all sit here and act as though there is nothing to be done?“
Discomfort washes over the congregation, rippling tremors from the vocal epicenter. Shock is frozen on the pastor’s withered face. Embarrassed, yet determined, the disturbance continues.
“This team is not ready to compete! Utah has no superstar — no future — and you all know it!”
“Have a seat,” the pastor recaptures control of the service with surprising vigor. “The course of our lives cannot always be entirely within our control, and it’s time to accept this simple truth: like it or not, the Utah Jazz have abandoned the tank.”
This was true, and denying the truth was futile. Smothered in flowers of purple and blue, and placed at the foot of the pulpit was the casket: evidence that the corpse of Utah’s tanking efforts was present for the ceremony.
The pastor dug in his heels and fired darts from his eyes at the interruptor. His adversary yields and returns to his seat, which certainly feels less comfortable than ever. Having established control once again, the ancient speaker returned to his prepared speech.
“The signs became too numerous, and the symptoms had overwhelmed this franchise. Take a look around — Utah is a 12-19, a game outside of the play-in threshold, and climbing. Keyonte George is blossoming into an All-Star candidate before our very eyes. Just try to rationalize 30 points on average in his last eight games. Grapple with the fact that this team just beat the first seed in the East only to turn around and tackle the mighty beast of Victor Wembanyama the very next day!”
“Something has changed for this lowly franchise!” The pastor’s face glowed scarlet, and saliva exploded like fireworks with every plosive. “Lauri Markkanen has returned to his former glory. Even without Walker Kessler, this team is winning basketball games. This is only the beginning!”
“Isn’t OKC getting this year’s draft pick?“ A murmur echoed through the vaulted ceiling. “Keyonte will never be a superstar, and we need a superstar in Utah to compete!“
The pastor pushed against the impending crescendo.
“Forget this year’s draft pick!” He barked. “The draft is a fruitless endeavor. Even with the best odds, Utah slid to 5 last year. The best odds haven’t reaped the number one pick since Adam Silver flattened the odds. It’s a hapless circle in which teams like San Antonio, Philadelphia, and Dallas thrive on flattened odds, and the worst teams that truly need the help of Cooper Flagg, Victor Wembanyama types are slighted time and again. When will you open your eyes and recognize that Utah will never receive the prize of the lottery? Quit your gambling and begin to advance to solid ground!”
The murmurs grew louder, angrier. Some rose from their seats and began to approach the front. The pastor could feel the balance of power slip from his grasp; his trembling fingers were now clenched in fists of indignation. Raising his right hand and pounding it on the head of the pulpit, he released one final cry.
“Just be fans, I beg of you!” He pleaded with sweat beading on his temple and his frame losing its structure, mere moments from complete failure. “Applaud success! Mourn defeat. This should not be a funeral, but a celebration!”
The walls of the church began to shake, and the floor in turn. An earthquake? Now?
A chorus of screams sounded from the audience. Scratching, clawing for safety, the Utah faithful dove for cover and rushed for the exits. That’s when it happened.
BOOM!
Silence suffocates the atmosphere of the holy structure. A cloud of dust slowly dissipated as the mob wiped their eyes. From the front of the room, the casket had toppled from its stage, the lid flung wide open. It was empty.
Calvin Barrett is a writer, editor, and prolific Mario Kart racer located in Tokyo, Japan. He has covered the NBA and College Sports since 2024.
