I try to be philosophical about death. It's going to happen to all of us, you know? Plus, as I understand it, being dead means you can pull wacky pranks on Abbott and Costello. Cool!
One of the things that worries me about the prospect of death, though, is that I fear there will be no sports in the afterlife. I mean, everyone is supposed to kind of get along and junk once we've shuffled off this mortal coil, right? How is the prospect of eternal bliss in any way compatible with having to share said eternity and bliss with a bunch of dumbass brotards from the Bronx wearing Derek Jeter jerseys and arguing about how Chuck Knoblauch belongs in the Hall of Fame? (HE DOESN'T.) I'm not sure I'm comfortable with having to leave my homerism behind, even if it does mean a perfect life in an incorruptible body while participating in the transcendent spiritual good that underlies the universe. Damn it all to hell... wait, no, that's not what I meant.
Anyhoodle, it appears that MLB, forward-thinking body of spiritual assuagement that they are, has already anticipated this crisis of faiths, and has accordingly licensed a series of commemorative caskets and urns so that you can be buried with your love for your team.
Check out the full line at the company's website here; note that you can also buy Precious Moments and Star Trek caskets, should you feel so inclined.
Note: This story is actually pretty old, but it only showed up on The Sporting News yesterday, and I don't usually bother watching Outside The Lines because I don't care about human interest stories about how female high school wrestlers are brave for breaking gender stereotypes and blah blah blah.