A cynical fan would look at the demise of Derks Field and figure it represents the demise of the game itself - the loss of grace and joy amid all the money-grubbing agents, baseball brats and loopy owners.
Fortunately, there are fans who don't think that at all.For true Field of Dreamers, the last days of Derks are simply a chance to sift through the photo albums, look up some stats and trade a few anecdotes. It's a chance to celebrate the history of America's pastime.
And more than any other sport, baseball feeds off its own history.
More than any other local ballpark, Derks Field was the archive.
The thing about baseball memorabilia is the best stuff is never stored in museum glass cases; the best stuff is in your head. And in Salt Lake City you could throw a baseball into a crowd and likely hit someone with baseball memories of Derks.
Remember old "Dr. Strangeglove," Dick Stuart? The '60s Salt Lake Bee could hit like Thor but fielded more like Pegasus. Some swore his glove was fashioned from cinder block.
And how about slugger R.C. Stevens, speedster Mickey Rivers and all those triple-A wannabes? (What true fan will ever forget Ty Cline?)
We had the Bees. We had the Gulls. And we had the Trappers. The Trappers hit the high-water mark with their 29-game win streak in 1987.
The low point came this week - when the Derks lights went off for good.
My own memories run back to 1960. While nosing around in my parents' basement recently I uncovered a couple of artifacts: programs from two major league exhibition games in the early '60s. The first was a 1960 game between the Cubs and Cardinals. Ernie Banks and Stan Musial were on hand that day. The Cards also had a 19-year-old rookie catcher trying to make the team. His name was Tim McCarver.Thumbing through the program I found names I hadn't seen since my childhood: Dick Ricketts, Lindy McDaniel, Moe Drabowski. Each page was a movie screen for nostalgia.
In one ad students were encouraged to buy grandstand seats to 47 Salt Lake Bee games for $5 (about 10 cents a game).
Loran Rae Smith (Miss Banking) and Carol Sue Jacobsen (Miss Foothill Village) were candidates for Queen Bee of Derks Field that year and Hibbs Clothing was pitching suits for $89.50 (Mr. Mac, take note.)
The following year, 1961, we went again. This time my father - in a moment brilliance - brought along his 8-mm camera. The game was between the Giants and the Indians, and along with shots of Willie McCovey putting one out, the family also has footage of me hassling a 29-year-old Willie Mays for an autograph. ("Probably the most complete ball player in captivity," my old program says, "The most exciting player of the decade" and 1961's "top contender for the same accolade.")
Down the years my life has crossed with Derks Field dozens of times. As a cub reporter in 1977 I covered a high school game at Derks and got blown away by a young Roy shortstop who also pitched and batted cleanup. I'd never seen such a competitor. His name was Jim McMahon.
Not long after I covered another shortstop, Dickie Thon of the Gulls, and knew he was destined for the Bigs. (He's one of the league's leading hitters this year.)
My most memorable trip to 1300 South, however, came last. When I got there the trucks were already hauling the dreams away. I sat in the stands on the third base side (the same seat I had in 1961 when I watched "The Say Hey Kid.")
The green grass in the outfield looked eerie, like some unused cemetery. The fences seemed a country mile away. Of course, baseball was rural at heart, I thought. Of course, inner city kids turned to basketball. Where would a bunch of kids from East L.A. find the room to really play this game?
Growing up in Utah, we were lucky. We had room for home runs.
The field was fading fast as I watched. A sod-buster was carting away flats of grass. People were right. The death of Derks did mark the end of an era. Gone were the days when this field was the home of all-American boys with shy smiles and farm families who listened to Augie Navarro on the radio. The game was no longer a haven for that America's vision of itself. The game was another one now.
And we needed a new way of looking at it. A "new paradigm," as the politicians say. America, always reinventing itself, had invented a form of baseball where shortstops did backflips on their way to the infield and even routine plays were cause for high-fives and celebrations.
Baseball in 1993 was not baseball in 1953.
And this "new baseball," this fresh model of the sport, didn't fit in old heads. It didn't even fit in the old stadiums.
The "new baseball" required a new arena, a new stage for theatrics and showmanship; a new field of dreams.
I, for one, anxiously await that new field.