This photo story about the Salt Lake City Trappers Minor League Baseball team was captured in the early 90’s at their ballpark, Derks Field, as well as on the road, including a trip up to Canada. The team was not affiliated with any Major League Team, but played in the Pioneer League.

At the time the Trappers had won the league championships four times between 1985 and 1991, including three consecutive wins. The team was best known for winning 29 consecutive games in 1987, an all-time record for all of professional baseball, according to Sports Illustrated. 

The team relocated to Pocatello, Idaho in 1993, was renamed the Pocatello Posse, and then moved again to Ogden Utah in 1994 and became the Ogden Raptors, and still play there today. 

Minor League Dreams

by Rick Rickman

Every year, thousands of young men secretly dream of what it would be like to have enough talent to make it to “The Show,” baseball’s Major Leagues. It starts early, with boys sitting in their bedrooms, their baseball gloves sitting worn and ready on the bed. They talk to their parents about how one day they’ll get there. As they grow older, teenagers laugh and boast with friends about how they'll break records once they’re out there, on the big field, under the bright lights.

But as years pass, reality starts to creep in. For young men in their early twenties, the dream doesn’t fade, but it changes. Now, it isn’t about breaking records or becoming a star—it’s about getting just one more chance. One more shot to show what they can do before life catches up to them. Before they hit that cold, hard reality wall, where dreams either make it or break.

One such group of young men takes to the field in Salt Lake City, a minor league ballpark tucked beneath the towering Wasatch Range. The grass is freshly cut, the lines of the field drawn with precision. The air smells of rain, heavy clouds hanging over the mountains in the distance. There’s something about tonight. Maybe it’s the lingering feel of a summer storm waiting to break, or maybe it’s that quiet, hopeful hum that always fills the air before the first pitch. Tonight, they think, could be different.

They don’t know it, but up in the bleachers, sitting alone under the brim of a worn baseball cap, is a scout. He’s one of many, moving quietly from ballpark to ballpark, searching for that one player, that one moment, that one night when everything clicks. The players on the field don’t see him. They don’t need to. They know someone like him could be there, and that’s enough to make every moment feel like destiny is whispering in their ears, urging them on.

“Just one chance to show my stuff,” they think, the same thought that echoes across the country, across every field where young men chase the dream. “Just one more shot.”

Hours before the game, the ritual begins. Groundskeepers meticulously drag the infield, smoothing the dirt, carving out the batter’s box with chalk. There’s a mechanical precision to it, but also a kind of magic. Baseball is a game of details—where one small shift, one slight mistake, can change everything. This diamond, this field, is their stage.

Baseball has its own rhythm, its own language. The weather can stop the game, the rain can delay it, and in Salt Lake City, late afternoon showers are common. Some games are called before they even start, the rain pounding down too hard to keep playing. But tonight, the rain has already passed, leaving behind a brilliant pink sunset stretching across the sky, casting a soft glow over the field. The air is thick with humidity, the kind that makes your skin stick to your jersey.

The players stretch, jog lightly across the field, loosening up but quietly fighting off nerves. 

One player, Jake, who spent the last half hour secluded in his cubby in the locker room, grips his bat a little too tightly. He’s been here before. He’s been playing in this league for several seasons, hopping from one team to another, hoping for just one scout to see him on the right night. But time is running out. He knows it. He feels it in his bones.

Jake looks up at the clouds, his breath catching for a moment. The anxiety builds in his chest, but he shakes it off.

“Just one more shot,” he whispers.

All the preliminaries are over now.  All the autographs have been collected and the San Diego Chicken has performed his antics with the crowd.  The guys in the score board are ready for their tasks to begin.

The game starts slow. The first few innings are uneventful—some hits, a few strikeouts, nothing remarkable.  Then, in the seventh inning, something changes. Jake steps up to the plate, his cleats digging into the dirt. The pitcher winds up, and for a moment, everything goes still. The sound of the ball hitting the glove echoes across the stadium. Strike one.

Jake steps back, adjusts his grip, and steps in again. He can feel the eyes on him. It’s a pressure that’s familiar but heavy. The pitcher throws again. The ball rockets toward the plate, and Jake swings, his bat cutting through the air with a satisfying crack. The ball soars into the outfield, arcing high into the night sky, and for a brief moment, time stops.

The crowd roars, as small as they are. Jake rounds the bases, his teammates waiting for him at home plate, clapping him on the back as he crosses. He smiles, but there’s something tentative in it, like he’s waiting for the moment to sink in.

As the game continues, Jake watches the crowd from the corner of his eye.  Did someone important see that tonight he wonders. Did someone up in those bleachers take out a notebook and jot down his name? Jake’s thoughts return to thinking about spending the night in another cheap hotel room playing cards and getting back on the bus the next morning. When the final out is called, the field lights still buzzing above, a scout stands, tips his cap towards the field, and walks away into the night.

“Did he see me?” Jake asks, looking out over the emptying stands. His teammates don’t answer.  No one really knows.

But the dream isn’t over. Not yet.

For these young men, baseball isn’t just a game. It’s a prayer. It’s a ritual, a delicate thing held together by fragile hope. They’ll keep playing, keep chasing it, because that’s what you do when you dream of “The Show.” You chase it until you catch it, or until the lights finally go out.