Living Room, 2030
"Kids, there are people who come into your life and change it forever. Sometimes they're lovers, sometimes they're friends, sometimes they're mentors. And sometimes..."
Ted pauses dramatically.
"...sometimes they're the owner of a bar whose name you don't even know until you see him in a coffin."
His children exchange glances.
"The story of that 2007 Super Bowl doesn't start with the game, or with Barney's obsession with betting, or with Aunt Lily's bean dip. It starts with a man named Mark and with the most revealing funeral we ever attended."
Sunday, 2007 – 5:47 PM
The day had begun with a promise: Super Bowl, spicy wings, and the group's most sacred tradition.
It would end with a funeral, a mystery, and the discovery that sometimes you don't know the people you think you know. But let's start at the beginning.
12:03 PM – The Announcement
MacLaren's was unusually quiet for a Sunday. Carl, the bartender, had a serious expression that was unusual for him. When Ted, Marshall, Lily, Robin, and Barney walked in to confirm their wing orders for the night, they were met with a funereal atmosphere.
Literally.
"Guys," said Carl in a grave voice. "Mark died."
The silence spread like a coffee stain on a white tablecloth.
"Oh my God," said Lily, bringing her hands to her face.
"Mark?" asked Ted, with an expression of genuine grief. "The Mark?"
"The same," Carl nodded.
Barney, who was checking his Blackberry, looked up. "Mark... Mark?"
"Yes."
Marshall, with tears in his eyes, hugged Lily. "He was one of us, Carl. One of us."
Carl nodded, moved. "The funeral is today at six at the Sullivan Funeral Home, down the street. And I know he would have loved for you to come. You were his favorite customers."
"Of course we'll go," said Ted firmly. "Mark was family."
They left the bar with heavy hearts. Outside, the cold February air did nothing to ease the sense of loss.
"We're going to have to reschedule the Super Bowl thing," said Lily.
"Reschedule?" asked Barney. "It's the Super Bowl. You don't reschedule."
"Barney, a man has died."
"Yes, but... can't we go to the funeral and then watch the game?"
"The funeral is at six. The game starts at six."
There was a silence. Everyone processed the information.
"We can record it," Marshall proposed. "We go to the funeral, pay our respects to Mark, and then watch the game together tonight."
"That's a good idea," said Ted.
Barney hesitated. "But... what if someone tells us the score? What if at the funeral someone mentions—"
"Barney," said Robin, "it's going to be a funeral. People are going to talk about Mark, not football."
"You're right." Barney nodded, convincing himself. "I can do this. Go to a funeral without finding out who wins the Super Bowl."
Living Room, 2030
"Kids, there are funerals that last an hour. There are funerals that last two. And then there was Mark Thompson's funeral, which lasted what felt like three entire lifetimes."
Ted Mosby leans back in his armchair, with that expression of "this was a mistake but now it's too late to regret it."
"When Carl told us about Mark, we thought: 'We'll go to the funeral, show respect, and in a couple of hours we'll be watching the Super Bowl.' It seemed like a solid plan. It was a solid plan. Until reality, as always, decided to laugh at us."
Ted's children lean forward.
"What we didn't know is that Mark Thompson wasn't just anyone. Mark Thompson was, apparently, the most beloved person in all of Brooklyn. And his funeral... well, his funeral became the most crowded social event of the season."
6:03 PM
They arrived at the funeral with high morale. An hour, they thought. Two at most. Then home, recorded Super Bowl, everyone happy.
The Sullivan Funeral Home was packed.
"Wow," said Robin, looking at the crowd swirling at the entrance. "Mark was popular."
"He was a bar owner," said Ted. "People loved him."
They went inside.
The interior was a sea of unfamiliar faces, all with expressions of profound grief. In the center, the open casket surrounded by flowers. And next to the casket, Marta, the widow, receiving attendees with a grateful smile.
When she saw them, her eyes lit up.
"Oh, you must be Mark's friends from the bar! Come in, come in! He talked about you so much."
The five exchanged confused glances, but before they could ask anything, Marta was already guiding them inside.
"Sit here, in the front row. You're like family to him."
And so, unable to protest, they found themselves seated in the front row at the funeral of a stranger.
6:30 PM – The Beginning of the Ordeal
The funeral began.
A kindly-looking priest went up to the pulpit and started talking about Mark—his childhood in Brooklyn, his job as an accountant, his passion for gardening, and his love for his wife, Marta.
"And then," said the priest, "there was his other great passion: MacLaren's, the bar where he spent every Sunday."
The group tensed.
"Mark used to sit on the same stool, at the end of the bar, and observe. He said it was like watching a play—the same actors, but always new stories."
Robin leaned towards Ted. "Is he talking about us?"
"I think so."
"A few weeks ago, Mark confided something to me," the priest continued. "He said, 'Father, I've found a group of young people who are more entertaining than any TV show. The architect, the journalist, the funny one in suits, the lovebirds who can't stop touching each other... and the quiet artist, the one who draws. She's my favorite.'"
Alyx felt a chill. Her hand tightened on her sketchbook.
"Mark said that girl saw things others didn't see. That her drawings captured people's souls."
The silence in the funeral home was absolute.
Everyone present was looking at the group.
Marta, the widow, smiled at them with tears in her eyes.
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