Wednesday, August 19, 2026
Column 722
Celebrating the life of Kelly “Rags” Ragland
I’ve written far too many of these – columns about people from the darts world who were here one day and, suddenly, weren’t. This is one I never expected to write.
Kelly “Rags” Ragland died on August 5. He was only 58 years old. Never could I have imagined I’d be writing about him in the past tense. I hate the past tense.
The darts world is a funny little community. People drift into it. Sometimes they disappear for a while. Then they turn up years later at some tournament somewhere and they pick up the conversation as though they’d seen each other yesterday. That’s what I always figured would happen with Rags.
I knew Kelly for many years. Except I never called him Kelly. Nobody did. He was Rags.
Just Rags.
For many years, Rags was my web guy. That’s how I usually described him when his name came up. “My web guy.” Technically accurate. Doesn’t scratch the surface of the whole story.
I spent a ton of time with Rags in Texas over the years. We worked on Dartoid’s World. We talked darts. We threw darts. We drank a few beers. Okay, probably more than a few. We solved most of the world’s problems. Unfortunately, nobody listened.
Rags was an artist, graphic designer, businessman, computer wizard, entrepreneur and one hell of a darts player. This always struck me as somewhat unfair. Most people are lucky to be really good at one thing – Rags apparently didn’t get the memo. There is something fundamentally irritating about a guy who can fix your website, design your shirt and then beat you at darts.
He studied at the Art Institute of Dallas – advertising, photography, art history, life drawing, computer graphics and even math. Math? Yes, math’s an essential component of the sport of darts where the ability to subtract 136 from 501 after six beers deserves its own college degree.
Rags eventually figured out how to make a living combining things he loved with things he was good at. Through Rags to Stitches Productions and later My Dart Shirts, he became part of the fabric – literally – of darts in America, and globally. For 18 years, My Dart Shirts served our wonderfully strange little corner of the sporting world. Rags designed shirts for leagues, tournaments, teams and players. He did work for John Kuczynski, the late George Silberzhan and many others.
He designed a book cover for Howie Reed. He worked on a cover for Stacy Bromberg. He designed covers for me.
He built Dartoid’s World. More importantly, he kept Dartoid’s World running. This was no small accomplishment. My technical expertise consisted primarily of calling Rags and saying: “Rags, the damn website isn’t working.” And then he’d fix it. That was our system. It worked beautifully.
Before Rags, I went through three different people trying to get the website right. Then I found Rags. Or maybe he found me. Either way, my headaches stopped. His probably started. Years later, I wrote a testimonial saying Rags to Stitches Productions was “absolutely EXCELLENT in every respect.” I meant every word. And – whenever I needed to locate one of the old Dartoid’s World “Double Out” girls from years gone by, somehow Rags could usually find her. This was an important technical service.
Long before everybody and their grandmother had an online business, Rags understood the internet. He knew search engines, online marketing, CSS, HTML, Javascript and a whole bunch of other stuff that might as well have been Swahili to me. He was talented, creative, meticulous and dependable. But mostly he was just a decent guy, a very gentle guy.
After Rags died, his parents, James and Sandy, sent me something they had written about their son. I thought I knew a lot about Rags. It turns out I didn’t know the half of it.
For example, I never knew where his nickname “Rags” came from. Obviously, it was a play on his last name. I thought darts players gave it to him – nope, baseball players were responsible. As a kid, Kelly was an outstanding baseball player. His YMCA team went 62-2 over five years and won four league championships. His teammates shortened Ragland to Rags. And it stuck. Decades later, even the doctors and nurses treating him during his final days called him Rags.
He played basketball through high school. He golfed. He fished with his dad. He loved Indy car racing and camped out at the Dallas Motor Speedway with his buddies. And he was a musician. A good one. While living in Detroit, Rags taught himself bass and six-string guitar and became a well-known bass player in a local rock band. Other bands would call him when they needed somebody to fill in.
None of this should have surprised me. Rags was just one of those people who could decide he wanted to learn something and then actually learn it. Whenever I decide to learn something new, I generally take a nap.
Eventually his artistic ability took him to Fastsigns in Irving, Texas, where he became so accomplished at digitizing logos and designs that other stores reportedly sent him their toughest jobs. Then darts entered the picture – that’s where our worlds met.
When darts entered Rags’ life, he did what he always seemed to do – he combined things. Darts and art. Darts and business. Darts and technology. Anybody can design a shirt. It’s something else to design a darts shirt that darts players actually want to wear. Darts players aren’t entirely normal. Rags understood this. No doubt some of you reading this now have one of his shirts hanging in a closet. Don’t throw it away.
But the professional stuff only tells part of the story.
If you really wanted to understand Rags, you needed to see his Man Cave. It was in his garage, and it was magnificent – of course there was a darts setup but there were also television screens all over the walls, a refrigerator full of beer, a place to cook, captain’s chairs – and on one side there was a workshop and room to park a car so Rags could pull out its engine, rebuild it, and put it back in. And if the Man Cave wasn’t enough, there was also the sprawling Man Land in a friend’s backyard. I can’t even begin to describe this – the most amazing thing is that Rags’ friend’s wife let them build it!
For Rags and me there were darts (always) and beers (always) and conversations and laughs and all the stupid stuff that happens when friends are together and nobody is thinking about the fact that someday they’ll wish they could have just one of those evenings back. That’s what I’ve been thinking about lately. One more evening. One more beer. One more game. One more ridiculous conversation.
I must have read the memories Rags’ parents sent me a dozen times. My wife read it once and cried. I knew he was a good man. I didn’t know just how good. There was side of him I didn’t know existed.
Rags was a caregiver.
When his great-aunt Charlotte developed cancer and her husband, Roger, began suffering from dementia, Rags moved in with his parents and helped care for them. And he didn’t just help. He studied dementia care. He learned how to communicate with Roger, how to keep him calm and occupied, how to make his days better. He took responsibility for Roger so his parents could concentrate on Charlotte.
Roger died in January 2022. Charlotte died five days later.
Rags stayed.
His parents are retired and deal with physical limitations of their own, so their son quietly became their caregiver. He maintained the house, drove them to medical appointments, bought groceries, removed things they might trip over, installed lighting inside and outside so they could move around safely at night. He cooked.
He looked after his mom and dad. Every day.
About five years ago, Rags took a job with one of my clients, handling internet and social media work for the organization. In typical Rags fashion, he didn’t simply do the job. He threw himself into it. He worked like a madman. His parents told me he changed his sleeping schedule so he could work through the night, timing updates and fundraising campaigns to reach supporters as they woke up in different parts of the world. That was Rags. If he was going to do something, he was going to do it right. When his position was eliminated it “broke his heart.”
Rags had a heart condition. He was diagnosed with throat cancer in January. Then came two strokes in April. Near the end, Rags made his own decision – no more emergency rooms, no more spending whatever time remained running back and forth to doctors. He wanted to be home. So, that’s where he was, in McKinney, Texas, his mom and dad beside him. His passing was quick and peaceful.
And even then, Rags wasn’t quite finished helping people. He donated his body to medical science. Of course he did.
There was no funeral or formal gathering. That’s what he wanted. Instead, he asked the people who knew him to remember him privately, in their own way. So, I suppose this is mine.
I remember our times in Texas. I remember the Man Cave. I remember Man Land. I remember the darts. I remember the shirts. I remember the book covers. I remember calling him when something went haywire with Dartoid’s World. I remember laughing.
And now I’ll remember some things I didn’t know before. A little boy sneaking into his baby sister Lindy’s room because he couldn’t wait for her to wake up so they could play. A baseball player called Rags. A bass guitarist in Detroit. A fisherman. A nephew studying dementia because somebody he loved needed him. A son making sure there was enough light in the backyard so his parents wouldn’t fall. A man facing the end of his life and deciding that even his body might still be useful to somebody else.
That’s quite a life.
I always figured – took for granted – that there’d be another tournament. Another trip to Texas. Another beer. Another story. Another night throwing darts. Another phone call beginning with, “Rags, I screwed something up.” Until, suddenly, there wasn’t, isn’t. That’s the part I am struggling with. He was so young.
Rags’ parents believe he’s now reunited with the people he loved who went before him – and with Preacher, his beloved dog, named after Clint Eastwood’s character in Pale Rider.
I am certain they’re right.
And I know that in Heaven there’s a fishing hole, a guitar, a cold beer, a dartboard and a decent internet connection. Maybe even a Man Cave. No. Knowing Rags… Man Land.
Rest easy, buddy. Thanks for the website. Thanks for the book covers. Thanks for the shirts. Thanks for sometimes giving me a chance at the board. Thanks for the laughs.
Mostly, thanks for being my friend.
Stay thirsty, my friends.
Dartoid
