In Roslindale, there’s a bar with a subtle scent of possibility and old brick. It is housed in a structure that has served as a power center, an abandoned shell, a gradually rediscovered landmark, and now it has evolved into something unexpected: the unlikely birthplace of Boston’s most talked-about collectible. Not a jersey. Not a signed picture. Ten dollars for a paper pack of five illustrated trading cards.
The Substation opened inside the former Roslindale Substation, which was constructed in 1911 for the Boston Elevated Railway Company. It is situated at 4228 Washington Street. After being abandoned in 1970, the building lay dormant for decades. Its high ceilings, industrial bones, and architectural style make you want to ask questions. Therefore, it makes sense—possibly even inevitable—that someone would eventually decide to make those questions into cards.
Co-owner Adam Rogoff collaborated with local artists Rick Pinchera and Eric Funk to create the first Substation Trading Card Series. The response to the set, which debuted earlier this year, was the kind of quiet, sincere enthusiasm that doesn’t always appear in press releases but does appear in sold-out runs and local word-of-mouth. Locals who had passed by the building for years without fully understanding its history, history buffs, and transit enthusiasts all had something tangible to grasp.
A different aspect of local history and building lore is covered by each of the five cards. One has a train on the Orange Line. Another shows the rescue hook that is still suspended from the room’s ceiling; this is the kind of artifact that you would pass by without noticing it unless someone pointed it out. A card concerning the rotaries is present. The set is anchored by a title card. And then there’s the Great Boston Blackout, which is a topic of constant discussion.
Millions of people were left in the dark in 1965 when a power plant failure in Ontario spread to eleven states in the United States and Canada. Boston also went nearly completely dark. The string of lights that ran along the MBTA’s lines, which were kept alive because South Station’s power source wasn’t connected to Edison’s contemporary grid, was the exception, the card stated. It’s the kind of detail that seems too cinematic to be true, but it is, and it takes on an odd new significance when printed on a two-and-a-half by three-and-a-half-inch card.
It’s difficult to ignore what Rogoff and the artists seem to know instinctively: local history doesn’t have to be presented solemnly in order to be taken seriously. The format of trading cards is purposefully lighthearted, paying homage to the small thrill of finishing a set and the childhood ritual of collecting. However, there is actually substantial content beneath that format. The project as a whole seems to trust its audience in a way that many public history initiatives don’t; it doesn’t overdesign or overexplain. It simply hands you an intriguing object and lets you sit with it.
The illustrations by Pinchera and Funk are appealing in their own right. The cards are rendered in a way that is both nostalgic and distinctive, giving the impression that they belong in the structure where they are being sold. It’s unclear if that was intentional or just happened naturally, but it works.
The sets are only available for purchase in person at the bar; there is no online store, shipping, or digital version. That’s either a practical constraint or a principled position, but it does mean that you have to show up in order to finish the set. Maybe that’s the point. It has been a long time since the building was found. The cards are just one more incentive to enter.
