No. 201 – Riverside

Performer: America

Songwriter: Dewey Bunnell

Original Release: America

Year: 1971

Definitive Version: None.

Riverside is a song I feel as though I’ve known my entire life. Consequently, I probably could attach any memory I wanted to it, and it would fit. Well, I’ve been heavy on the relationship stuff of late, so let’s go fun and games.

My baseball career wasn’t much to speak of. It had its moments, certainly—a few of which I’ve noted with a big one still to come. That said, my early baseball years were brutal. The highlight, as I noted at the last America song (good ol’ No. 373), was my first game, which was more memorable for the tornado that ended it.

I didn’t have T ball when I was a kid, so I was thrown into the breech against big, fireball-throwing 11-year-olds in 1973. My knees were knocking so hard when I went to the plate that I probably couldn’t have swung the bat even if I wanted to. I swung the bat only twice all year—missing the ball by a mile each time.

My strategy actually was three decades ahead of its time. By keeping my bat firmly on my shoulder, it was up to the pitcher to get the ball over the plate. A lot of pitchers were unsuccessful, so I walked 11 times in my 14 plate appearances for a team-leading—and eye-popping—.714 OBP. Call me Mr. Moneyball.

My team, Comanche, was a good team. We missed the playoffs by one game, and ultimately, you can’t say I didn’t contribute. The next year, however, with Pawnee, my money wasn’t as well-spent.

1974 started in promising fashion. I wasn’t as afraid of the ball as the year before, and I got hits in practice. I also fielded well, so in our first practice game, I started at first base.

Now THIS was a step up. In U.A. Cub Scout ball, typically only third-year players were the regulars who played the infield. You had to be really good to be a regular as a second-year player. But as I began to imagine my eventual big-league career, I probably should have ended the year right there.

I got spiked on a play at first base in the second inning and couldn’t walk without a limp, so I was pulled from the game. In my only at bat, I made my first actual contact with the ball, but the outfielder caught my high fly—what a dirty trick.

However, by the time my ankle was better, another kid had sewed up first base. Worse, my strategy of waiting for a walk didn’t work as well. I was taller, and the pitchers were better, so my OBP plummeted to where I ended up playing left out—right field and at the bottom of the order when I got in.

The team wasn’t as good, and that was merely a warmup for 1975. That year, I was a regular. I played first base, second base and even pitched.

My mound debut was auspicious. I faced four batters, getting three out, including one on strikes. Hey, maybe I can do this pitching thing. The next inning, I gave up eight runs. But because I was about as good as it got, I continued to pitch, which should tell you how bad we were. We won two games all year, and I think I got the victory in one of them.

I got my first hit, off the Jim Abbott of U.A., who wore his mitt over the hook at the end of his left arm. One auspicious day, I took a mighty rip and sent the ball rolling somewhere in the vicinity of second base. I ran down the line like my butt was on fire, fully expecting at any second to see the ball thwack into the first baseman’s mitt, but it never did. For all I know, the second baseman bobbled the ball five times, but it’ll always go down as a single in my scorebook.

I was OK defensively, but I still couldn’t hit worth a damn the whole year. I don’t think I hit my weight, which was about a buck 20 at the time, although I had a two-hit game later in the season after I learned to bunt and used that as my only offensive strategy.

My biggest highlight in that otherwise dismal year came when I accomplished something that even I’m not sure I’ve seen anyone else do, although I’m sure someone has: I retired the side on three pitches.

On the first pitch, the batter grounded out to the shortstop. On pitch No. 2, the batter singled. On the third and final pitch, the batter popped up to the second baseman. But the base runner took off on the pitch and couldn’t get back in time, so he was doubled up.

Dad was in attendance that day, and he brings up my feat to this day. He has the MLB package on DirecTV, and whenever someone gets the first two batters on the first two pitches, he says, he pays attention. He insists he’s never seen anyone get the third on the third pitch, but it can’t be that rare.

I guess you can say I set a baseball record that can’t be broken: Fewest pitches to retire the side by a pitcher who started the inning. So there’s that.

And with that—800 songs down, 200 to go—we’re entering what I call the Pantheon. The previous 800 songs were the stairway leading to the Pantheon. The next 100 will take us to the Inner Sanctum, and would you expect someone who loves Rush to NOT think in these terms?