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| Rebus (circa 2015) |
Comment by Rebus:
As a little kid, Rea felt he was living in a better world when he was playing baseball or watching cartoons on television. And, it was his routine to read the sports section and the funnies every day.
At about nine years old, Rea started creating a series of hand-drawn, newspaper-like sports sections. He invented six teams in an imaginary baseball league, made up of cartoon animals -- monkeys, bears, dogs, etc. The home team, Animaltown, had a roster filled with characters based on the stuffed animals he had played with when he was younger.
Rea acted out the animals' baseball games in his head and wrote stories about the highlights, pretending to be a sportswriter. He kept batting averages for the players. And, he drew illustrations of the action, but he showed those make-believe sports sections to no one.
At the time, Rea didn't think of any of that material as art or writing to show off to earn praise. It was just playing in his pretend world.
At 11, Rea played outfield on a Little League team sponsored by a drug store. Then, at 12, he was a pitcher/outfielder on his elementary school's team. In both cases, at home after the games he made drawings of key plays.
Following the Beatles appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show in February of 1964, at 16, Rea drew caricatures of the band performing and cartoonish portraits of the Fab Four. He claims girls at Thomas Jefferson High School lined up in the cafeteria during lunchtime to watch him draw them. Then they bought the sketches for a dollar each. That episode was when he started signing his at artwork.
The decidedly unorthodox Fan District Softball League bubbled up out of the pop culture ooze of the summer of 1973, which was the heyday of WGOE's popularity. WGOE was the daytime AM radio station that dominated the Fan District in a way that's never been equaled.
By the next summer, teams began to jell into rosters, but there still was no formal schedule. And ball fields were still being commandeered, rather than secured by arrangement with any proper authority.
In 1975 the name, Fan District Softball League, came into use and the six-team organization had its first commissioner — Van “Hook” Shepherd. The team representing Cassell’s Upholstery beat the Bamboo Cafe in a one-game playoff for the first season’s championship finale. The four other teams in the league that inaugural season were the Back Door, Sea Dream Leather, Uptop Sub Shop and WGOE.
In 1976, in addition to the regular season the league staged two tournaments. Teams representing the Biograph Theatre, deTreville, Hababa's, J.W. Rayle, the Pinheads (the VCU sculpture department and friends) and the Rainbow Inn were formed in that year.
The lucky Swordfish won 15 games of the 17 we played with umpires that initial season. (We played a handful of practice games, no umps or kegs, but I don't know what the record was for them.) We only had a few experienced softball players on our roster, made up of theater employees, old friends and a few film buffs. We also had two French guys on the team who'd never seen a baseball or softball game.
Typically, our opponents saw themselves as more experienced/athletically superior, which only made it more fun when they bumbled their way into handing us the victory. That first year, it was uncanny how often those supposedly better teams seemed willing to overplay their hands and lose to a Biograph team they saw as clownish.
Now, having played and observed a lot of organized softball, I know that virgin Swordfish squad was absolutely charmed. In any sport, it was the loosest organized team with which I’ve ever been associated. Both of the Swordfish’s 1976 losses came in unusual situations. The first was the championship game of one of the two tournaments we entered. Yes, we won the other one.
The second was played inside the walls of the old state penitentiary. Located at Belvidere and Spring Streets, the fortress prison loomed over the rocky falls of the James River for nearly 200 years (it was demolished in the early-1990s).
As it happened, the guy in charge of recreation at the pen frequented J.W. Rayle, a popular bar of the era, located at Pine and Cary. During a conversation there he asked me if the Biograph team — I played outfield and served as the coach — would consider taking on the prison’s softball team on a Saturday afternoon. My friend, Chuck Wrenn, the bar manager at Rayle, had already told the guy the restaurant's team would do it. So I went along with it, too.
As it turned out, the first date the prison's recreation guy set up was canceled, due to something about a small riot.
OK.
A couple of weeks later the Swordfish entered the Big House wearing our baby-blue Biograph T-shirts with images of Groucho Marx and Carmen Miranda printed on them. To get into the prison yard we had to go through a process, which included a cursory search. We had been told to bring nothing in our pockets.
As we worked our way through the ancient passageways, sets of bars were unlocked and then locked behind us. Each of us got a stamp on our hands that could only be seen under a special light. Someone asked what would happen if the ink got wiped off, inadvertently, during the game. He was told that was not a good idea.
OK.
The fence in left field was the same high brick wall that ran along Belvidere Street. It was only about 230 to 240 feet from home plate. Because of its height, maybe 30 feet, hard-hit balls frequently caromed off of it. What would have been a routine fly ball to left on most fields was a home run there. It was like a red brick version of Fenway Park’s Green Monster.
The prison team, known as the Raiders, was quite good at launching softballs over that towering brick wall. They appeared to have an unlimited budget for softballs, too. Under the supervision of watchful guards, some 60 or 70 prisoners sat in stands to pull for the home team. Actually, they cheered the loudest for good plays in the field and flying dirt collisions on the base paths.
During a conversation with a couple of my teammates behind the backstop, I referred to our opponents as the "prisoners.” Their coach, who was within earshot, immediately stepped toward me. Like his teammates, he was wearing a red and gray softball uniform, typical of that era, with “Raiders” printed across the chest in a script.
“Call us the Raiders,” he advised, somewhat sternly, as he pointed to an awkward-looking mural on the high wall that said, “Home of the Raiders.” It looked like a creepy jailhouse tattoo, blown up large.
OK.
“While we are on this ballfield, we’re not the prisoners,” he said with, ahem, conviction. “We’re the Raiders.”
“Yes, Raiders,” I said, acknowledging my faux pas with a friendly tone.
“And, all our games ... are home games,” he deadpanned.
We all laughed, grateful the tension had been broken. The Raiders coach slapped me on the back and thanked us for being there, for agreeing to play the game. Apparently it wasn't easy for them to round up Saturday afternoon opponents.
In a tight, high-scoring affair the Raiders prevailed. Afterward, I was glad the Swordfish had met the Raiders. And, I was glad to leave them, too. Located smack dab in the middle of Richmond that prison was a perpetual nightmarish sight in Richmonders' collective periphery.
In terms of winning and losing, the Biograph teams that played in the FDSL through its last season never found anything close to the success that first year's team knew. Still, popups and bad hops aside, I'll wager most of the guys on that original 1976 roster remember more little details about our meeting with the Raiders than any of the games we won or lost at Chandler Ballfield, the home of the FDSL for 18 (1977-'94) years.
The FDSL also established its Hall of Fame in 1986. The first class was elected by the 12-team outfit’s designated franchise representatives. To be eligible then one had to have retired from play and considered to be among the league's founders. Ten names were tapped for the first class of Hall-of-Famers. The same rule held true in 1987, when six new names were put on the plaque.
Comment by Rebus:
Following the Beatles appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show in February of 1964, at 16, Rea drew caricatures of the band performing and cartoonish portraits of the Fab Four. He claims girls at Thomas Jefferson High School lined up in the cafeteria during lunchtime to watch him draw them. Then they bought the sketches for a dollar each. That episode was when he started signing his at artwork.
Fan District Softball League
by F.T. Rea
The Fan District Softball League had its own style. It was referred to as the “hippie league” by softball players who played in the area's polyester-clad softball realm governed by recreation and parks departments. The FDSL leaned toward cotton, silk-screened T-shirts and its games were staged on schoolyards with open fields. That, rather than in charmless softball complexes with fenced-in fields.
Among other things that meant the Fan League's throwback style of play put more emphasis on defense. Which meant its games were not simply home-run derbies, with beer-bellied Bubbas jogging around the base-paths. Softball was quite popular in the metro Richmond area in the 1970s, '80s and into the '90s.
In the early-to-mid-1970s WGOE's sound could be heard in the shops and on the sidewalks of the bohemian commercial strip of West Grace Street, adjacent to Virginia Commonwealth University. In this time WGOE-AM set in motion what eventually became the Fan League. That happened when its promotional softball team of DJs and a few ringers -- the ‘Nads -- played a few games against impromptu squads that represented a few regular advertisers on the station.
By the next summer, teams began to jell into rosters, but there still was no formal schedule. And ball fields were still being commandeered, rather than secured by arrangement with any proper authority.
In 1975 the name, Fan District Softball League, came into use and the six-team organization had its first commissioner — Van “Hook” Shepherd. The team representing Cassell’s Upholstery beat the Bamboo Cafe in a one-game playoff for the first season’s championship finale. The four other teams in the league that inaugural season were the Back Door, Sea Dream Leather, Uptop Sub Shop and WGOE.
In 1976, in addition to the regular season the league staged two tournaments. Teams representing the Biograph Theatre, deTreville, Hababa's, J.W. Rayle, the Pinheads (the VCU sculpture department and friends) and the Rainbow Inn were formed in that year.
During the first six or seven years of the league’s existence, next to the burgeoning music and bar scene softball-related activities were at the heart of the baby boomer-driven social life in the Fan District. As the years wore on more teams sponsored by bars, and whatnot, came along. Each team was like its own little fiefdom.
*
That first summer of organized softball at the Biograph we called our team the Swordfish, after a joke in a Marx Brothers movie. That season the Swordfish played a schedule that was not set in advance. Instead, our practice was to challenge established teams to play us with a keg of beer on the line. Of course, the keg was already on hand during the games. The losing team had to pay for the beer. Most of our opponents were Fan League teams.
The lucky Swordfish won 15 games of the 17 we played with umpires that initial season. (We played a handful of practice games, no umps or kegs, but I don't know what the record was for them.) We only had a few experienced softball players on our roster, made up of theater employees, old friends and a few film buffs. We also had two French guys on the team who'd never seen a baseball or softball game.
Typically, our opponents saw themselves as more experienced/athletically superior, which only made it more fun when they bumbled their way into handing us the victory. That first year, it was uncanny how often those supposedly better teams seemed willing to overplay their hands and lose to a Biograph team they saw as clownish.
Now, having played and observed a lot of organized softball, I know that virgin Swordfish squad was absolutely charmed. In any sport, it was the loosest organized team with which I’ve ever been associated. Both of the Swordfish’s 1976 losses came in unusual situations. The first was the championship game of one of the two tournaments we entered. Yes, we won the other one.
The second was played inside the walls of the old state penitentiary. Located at Belvidere and Spring Streets, the fortress prison loomed over the rocky falls of the James River for nearly 200 years (it was demolished in the early-1990s).
As it happened, the guy in charge of recreation at the pen frequented J.W. Rayle, a popular bar of the era, located at Pine and Cary. During a conversation there he asked me if the Biograph team — I played outfield and served as the coach — would consider taking on the prison’s softball team on a Saturday afternoon. My friend, Chuck Wrenn, the bar manager at Rayle, had already told the guy the restaurant's team would do it. So I went along with it, too.
As it turned out, the first date the prison's recreation guy set up was canceled, due to something about a small riot.
OK.
A couple of weeks later the Swordfish entered the Big House wearing our baby-blue Biograph T-shirts with images of Groucho Marx and Carmen Miranda printed on them. To get into the prison yard we had to go through a process, which included a cursory search. We had been told to bring nothing in our pockets.
As we worked our way through the ancient passageways, sets of bars were unlocked and then locked behind us. Each of us got a stamp on our hands that could only be seen under a special light. Someone asked what would happen if the ink got wiped off, inadvertently, during the game. He was told that was not a good idea.
OK.
Rayle played the prison team first, then the Biograph. The umpire for the games came in with us. He was Dennis “Dr. Death” Johnson, a rather high-profile Fan District character, at the time, who played on yet another of the league's teams. Among other things, Johnson did some professional wrestling, so he was adept at hamming up the umpire's role.
The fence in left field was the same high brick wall that ran along Belvidere Street. It was only about 230 to 240 feet from home plate. Because of its height, maybe 30 feet, hard-hit balls frequently caromed off of it. What would have been a routine fly ball to left on most fields was a home run there. It was like a red brick version of Fenway Park’s Green Monster.
The prison team, known as the Raiders, was quite good at launching softballs over that towering brick wall. They appeared to have an unlimited budget for softballs, too. Under the supervision of watchful guards, some 60 or 70 prisoners sat in stands to pull for the home team. Actually, they cheered the loudest for good plays in the field and flying dirt collisions on the base paths.
During a conversation with a couple of my teammates behind the backstop, I referred to our opponents as the "prisoners.” Their coach, who was within earshot, immediately stepped toward me. Like his teammates, he was wearing a red and gray softball uniform, typical of that era, with “Raiders” printed across the chest in a script.
“Call us the Raiders,” he advised, somewhat sternly, as he pointed to an awkward-looking mural on the high wall that said, “Home of the Raiders.” It looked like a creepy jailhouse tattoo, blown up large.
OK.
“While we are on this ballfield, we’re not the prisoners,” he said with, ahem, conviction. “We’re the Raiders.”
“Yes, Raiders,” I said, acknowledging my faux pas with a friendly tone.
“And, all our games ... are home games,” he deadpanned.
We all laughed, grateful the tension had been broken. The Raiders coach slapped me on the back and thanked us for being there, for agreeing to play the game. Apparently it wasn't easy for them to round up Saturday afternoon opponents.
In a tight, high-scoring affair the Raiders prevailed. Afterward, I was glad the Swordfish had met the Raiders. And, I was glad to leave them, too. Located smack dab in the middle of Richmond that prison was a perpetual nightmarish sight in Richmonders' collective periphery.
In terms of winning and losing, the Biograph teams that played in the FDSL through its last season never found anything close to the success that first year's team knew. Still, popups and bad hops aside, I'll wager most of the guys on that original 1976 roster remember more little details about our meeting with the Raiders than any of the games we won or lost at Chandler Ballfield, the home of the FDSL for 18 (1977-'94) years.
The freewheeling FDSL was also the only organized-yet-independent softball league in the Richmond area. Thus, the Fan League governed itself, made its own schedule and rules, cut its own deal with the umpires, etc. It remained so through its last season.
Unlike most softball leagues in the 1970s, the FDSL usually had lots of fans on hand at its games. Of course, those kegs of beer that were around — which meant free beer — probably had something to do with that.
That independence also meant the league received way less scrutiny by authorities outside of itself. Which, no doubt, was a good thing.
Comment by Rebus:
*
Comment by Rebus:
.jpg) |
| FDSL Commissioners Rea and Wrenn (1977) |
In 1977, Rea became one of three commissioners of the FDSL, along with Chuck Wrenn (of J.W. Rayle)and Durwood Usry (of the Back Door Bombers). In that role, Rea published a newsletter for the league he called The Sports Fan; the name was suggested by John Richardson, of Back Door and Big Daddy's BBQ fame.
Rea wrote the stories about the league's games and activities He also drew cartoon illustrations and even sold ads. The publication, itself, looked more or less like an underground comic book from the late-1960s.
*
Every year since 1980, on the first Saturday of May, a Biograph softball reunion has been held (except for 2020, due to COVID 19). Anyone who ever played on one of the Biograph softball teams has been welcome, families, friends, etc., included.
Serendipitously, that first reunion/old timers game in 1980 was staged on the afternoon in which the Kentucky Derby was run. The special game was played at Thomas Jefferson HS. Afterward, some of the players went to the Chris Liles' Track Restaurant, to join a Derby-watching party already underway.
The reunion subsequently became an institution and it’s been Derby Day ever since. Over the years, the game has moved around to various locations.
Serendipitously, that first reunion/old timers game in 1980 was staged on the afternoon in which the Kentucky Derby was run. The special game was played at Thomas Jefferson HS. Afterward, some of the players went to the Chris Liles' Track Restaurant, to join a Derby-watching party already underway.
The reunion subsequently became an institution and it’s been Derby Day ever since. Over the years, the game has moved around to various locations.
Then the old timers got too old to play a game, so they just gathered and partied on Derby Day, anyway. Of course, the fabulous Track Restaurant is long gone.
*
In 1978 the league expanded to 12 teams. That's the year the FDSL began throwing a party draped around its All-Star Game, in the middle of each season. Each mid-summer the stars of the Mars Division played the stars of the Jupiter Division. As I remember it, perennial all-star, Buddy Noble, came up with the notion of using planets for the names of the two six-team divisions.
The method for selecting the all-stars varied with the year. Occasionally votes decided the issue. Sometimes there were caucuses of the circuit's bossiest guys; the best teams always put more men on those squads. Other times, each manger just named three players from his team. No matter how it was done, popularity, or the lack of it, influenced the results.
In 1980, blonde bombshell Donna Parker and the aforementioned Dennis Johnson made a memorable appearance at the All-Star Game at Chandler Ballfield. The ever-outrageous Johnson was wearing his wrestling costume, which included a mask. Donna was outfitted in a black leather bikini. Johnson left town soon afterward.
In 1982, the Bamboo Cafe went through the regular season undefeated, 33-0, but lost to its bitter rival, Hababa's, in the finals of the playoffs. Throughout the decade of the '80s one of those two outfits won the post-season playoffs every time.
For several years during the ‘80s the all-star exhibition/party was staged at the Columbian Center in Henrico County. That era had the largest turnouts for the annual event, as between 200 and 250 people paid five bucks each to attend. The beer was free and the food was plentiful.
One particularly hot day for the party, according to the Budweiser truck guy, the attendees went through 22 kegs of beer. Figuring 200 beer drinkers, do the math.
For music, a couple of years Chuck Wrenn DJ-ed the parties. The softball games were played on what was a field always in rough shape -- rocks in the infield and overgrown clumps of weeds in the outfield. We enforced a rule against sliding on the base paths, to prevent injuries. The late Pudy Stallard was once called out, when, out of habit, he slid into second to beat a throw from the outfield.
In 1987 and ’88 the food contest was at the center of festivities. Each team put out a spread to share and the consumers voted for the best of them. Some teams went to great lengths to coordinate their overall entry, others simply had people bring out covered dishes and whatnot.
The most talked about of all the efforts was the 3rd Street Diner’s 100 pound hamburger in ‘88. The beef was packed into a giant patty at The Diner. It was hauled around with great care, so as not to break it apart. The huge bun was put together at the Tobacco Company and baked in one of its large ovens.
Cooking the burger on an open grill at the picnic site turned out to be the best part of the ordeal. There must have been 20 experts and assistant experts standing around that grill, opining on how to go about doing the job. The burger itself was a good ten inches thick at the center.
The method for selecting the all-stars varied with the year. Occasionally votes decided the issue. Sometimes there were caucuses of the circuit's bossiest guys; the best teams always put more men on those squads. Other times, each manger just named three players from his team. No matter how it was done, popularity, or the lack of it, influenced the results.
In 1980, blonde bombshell Donna Parker and the aforementioned Dennis Johnson made a memorable appearance at the All-Star Game at Chandler Ballfield. The ever-outrageous Johnson was wearing his wrestling costume, which included a mask. Donna was outfitted in a black leather bikini. Johnson left town soon afterward.
In 1982, the Bamboo Cafe went through the regular season undefeated, 33-0, but lost to its bitter rival, Hababa's, in the finals of the playoffs. Throughout the decade of the '80s one of those two outfits won the post-season playoffs every time.
For several years during the ‘80s the all-star exhibition/party was staged at the Columbian Center in Henrico County. That era had the largest turnouts for the annual event, as between 200 and 250 people paid five bucks each to attend. The beer was free and the food was plentiful.
In the foreground: Artie Probst, Fitz Marston
and Paul Sobel at the 1985 All-Star Game at
the Columbian Center.
One particularly hot day for the party, according to the Budweiser truck guy, the attendees went through 22 kegs of beer. Figuring 200 beer drinkers, do the math.
For music, a couple of years Chuck Wrenn DJ-ed the parties. The softball games were played on what was a field always in rough shape -- rocks in the infield and overgrown clumps of weeds in the outfield. We enforced a rule against sliding on the base paths, to prevent injuries. The late Pudy Stallard was once called out, when, out of habit, he slid into second to beat a throw from the outfield.
In 1987 and ’88 the food contest was at the center of festivities. Each team put out a spread to share and the consumers voted for the best of them. Some teams went to great lengths to coordinate their overall entry, others simply had people bring out covered dishes and whatnot.
The most talked about of all the efforts was the 3rd Street Diner’s 100 pound hamburger in ‘88. The beef was packed into a giant patty at The Diner. It was hauled around with great care, so as not to break it apart. The huge bun was put together at the Tobacco Company and baked in one of its large ovens.
Cooking the burger on an open grill at the picnic site turned out to be the best part of the ordeal. There must have been 20 experts and assistant experts standing around that grill, opining on how to go about doing the job. The burger itself was a good ten inches thick at the center.
The flipping of the thing, to cook it all the way through -- without having it fall to pieces -- turned out to be quite an engineering feat. After all the kibitzing, it was done without mishap, much to the delight of one and all. A spontaneous celebration ensued.
*
The FDSL also established its Hall of Fame in 1986. The first class was elected by the 12-team outfit’s designated franchise representatives. To be eligible then one had to have retired from play and considered to be among the league's founders. Ten names were tapped for the first class of Hall-of-Famers. The same rule held true in 1987, when six new names were put on the plaque.
However, by 1988, a few of those who had been inducted into the Hall of Fame had un-retired ... more power to them. So, that year, eligibility to the Hall was opened up to anyone who seemed deserving. Those already in the HoF got to vote, as well. Nine new members were selected.
The meetings to select new inductees were always quite lively, as were most FDSL meetings. The voting process was probably no more twisted than any hall of fame’s way of choosing new names and not choosing other names.
For 1989 six additional names were picked. The class of ‘90 added seven new names, and in ‘92 the last five names were tacked on. In all, 41 players and two umpires were selected. As for what bias may have existed, well, the list does appear to tilt somewhat in favor of guys who made significant contributions to the league's lore in its early years.
Those men who were inducted into the FDSL’s Hall from 1986 through 1992 are as follows: Ricardo Adams, Herbie Atkinson, Howard Awad, Boogie Bailey, Yogi Bair, Jay Barrows, Otto Brauer, Ernie Brooks, Hank Brown, Bobby Cassell, Jack Colan, Willie Collins, Dickie deTreville, Jack deTreville, Henry Ford, Danny Gammon, Donald Greshham, James Jackson, Dennis Johnson, Mike Kittle, Leo Koury, Jim Letizia, Junie Loving, Tony Martin, Kenny Meyer, Cliff Mowells, Buddy Noble, Randy Noble, Henry Pollard, Artie Probst, Terry Rea, John Richardson, Jerry Robinson, Larry Rohr, Billy Snead, Jim Story, Hook Shepherd, Pudy Stallard, Durwood Usry, Jumpy White, Barry Winn, Chuck Wrenn.
For 1989 six additional names were picked. The class of ‘90 added seven new names, and in ‘92 the last five names were tacked on. In all, 41 players and two umpires were selected. As for what bias may have existed, well, the list does appear to tilt somewhat in favor of guys who made significant contributions to the league's lore in its early years.
Those men who were inducted into the FDSL’s Hall from 1986 through 1992 are as follows: Ricardo Adams, Herbie Atkinson, Howard Awad, Boogie Bailey, Yogi Bair, Jay Barrows, Otto Brauer, Ernie Brooks, Hank Brown, Bobby Cassell, Jack Colan, Willie Collins, Dickie deTreville, Jack deTreville, Henry Ford, Danny Gammon, Donald Greshham, James Jackson, Dennis Johnson, Mike Kittle, Leo Koury, Jim Letizia, Junie Loving, Tony Martin, Kenny Meyer, Cliff Mowells, Buddy Noble, Randy Noble, Henry Pollard, Artie Probst, Terry Rea, John Richardson, Jerry Robinson, Larry Rohr, Billy Snead, Jim Story, Hook Shepherd, Pudy Stallard, Durwood Usry, Jumpy White, Barry Winn, Chuck Wrenn.
We have to assume all of them deserved it. One thing is for sure: If you put all 43 of them in the open grassy field across Woodrow Street from the ballfield -- no-man's-land -- let's say in June of 1980 or '81, at twilight, as your time machine floats in toward it, the sound you'd hear would be laughter.
*
Comment by Rebus:
As an organization, the Fan District Softball League lasted 20 years, which was a wonder in itself. There are plenty of true stories from those years that are almost unbelievable.
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