The Lovable Reunion - Kyle Schwarber’s WILD journey to 2016 Cubs World Series roster, amazing Game 7 story | Ross & Rizzo

Ross, Rizzo, and Kyle Schwarber back together on Love More Union—World Series legend, decade of memories, and a lot of laughs; can you believe it’s been ten years?

It still feels like yesterday when we all linked up for the reunion, and I’m grateful I’ve been able to keep playing at a high level.

Take us back to 2015 camp when you were grinding behind the plate—didn’t you have a wake‑up mishap that first spring?

My phone died, I overslept, and the sun was already up; the minor league catching guys covered for me and told the veterans I had a sore shoulder, and I’ve had nightmares about being late ever since.

And the debut—how did that first taste of the show actually happen?

I got promoted from Double A after an injury, pinch‑hit at Wrigley and struck out on three pitches against a lefty specialist, then started at DH in Cleveland and lined my first big‑league hit off the starter—a triple—and wild stat, my first hits at Double A, Triple A, and the majors were all triples.

What was it like calling your parents with that news, given their first‑responder roots and your foundation now?

Telling my mom and dad to get to Chicago was the dream call, and they packed up with my sisters and followed us city to city, which meant everything after all the sacrifices they made.

Share the San Francisco story with Tommy on the mound and the lesson you took from Rossi.

I shook to a heater 3‑2 to avoid a walk and it left the yard, and I walked back defeated until Rossi reminded me to own the mistake and never show the other side you’re rattled; to this day I won’t let an opponent or my own dugout see doubt on my face.

You loved catching—how did you handle shifting to left field and the highs and lows that came with it?

I always wanted to be a catcher but needed pro instruction, and once the staff asked if I could handle left I jumped in, survived a nerve‑wracking first fly ball, learned the wind games at Wrigley and San Francisco, wore some ugly errors, but also threw out big runners and kept fighting the label that I couldn’t defend.

You and Lester had a special bond, and that retirement blooper reel you narrated was legendary.

Riz and I cut a serious‑sounding tribute that was really just all my worst outfield plays behind Jon, and even on days I felt awful—like a muddy misplay in Milwaukee before they pulled the tarp—those laughs taught me to roast myself, reset, and keep it light.

That clubhouse vibe mattered—you learned to keep it fun and still lead.

You play too many games to ride the emotional roller coaster, so I try to enjoy it, mentor younger guys, pick up dinners, and pass along what Lester, Lackey, J‑Hey, Dex, and others gave us.

Set the scene for the 2015 Wild Card at Pittsburgh with Cole—your first playoff punch.

I moved the leadoff man with a single in the first, sat on a slider the next time and got one I could drive, and that ball into the river in that insane atmosphere is still one of my favorites.

Then 2016 starts hot, and three games in you blow out your knee—what ran through your head?

At first they told me it was an ankle sprain, then the MRI said ACL and LCL, and my first thought was I’m going to miss a once‑in‑a‑century run we’d basically manifested in camp.

You stayed in Chicago and worked like crazy—when did the World Series return feel real?

The doctor cleared me for predictable movements like hitting and straight‑line running, I lived on the Hack Attack tracking pitches, took a couple Fall League at‑bats, then Theo texted me on workout day that I was on the roster and hitting fifth against their ace, and I called my family from the tarmac with goosebumps.

Game Seven, rain delay—what were you locked in on when we regrouped?

Heyward’s talk cleared the fog, and all I could think was find a way on; I barreled a cutter down for a knock, Albert pinch‑ran and made that brilliant tag‑up, and it was pure team baseball in the biggest moment.

Ten years later, that title still follows us because of what it meant to the city, and winning really does fix everything.

That group set my standard—play for the parade, play for each other—and I’ve carried that into every clubhouse since, through injuries, a DFA, and a new chapter as a leader who still hunts rings.

At Wrigley I never felt like I’d see my true ceiling; that wind can mess with your head.

On those howling days I’d stare out and wonder where to even aim, and when the shift went away I thought I’d feast, but that season my average dragged even while the power still played.

My path’s been a ride—on top in 2016, then back to Triple A in 2017 with Rizz telling me to grind, and in 2020 I struggled, got DFA’d, and had to take a tough call that ended up being the best thing for me.

Washington with Davey and Kevin Long reset my swing and my mind, and I’m grateful to Chicago for teaching me how to be a big leaguer, a teammate, and someone who can relate so guys never feel stuck on an island.

That’s why we do this—to share the messy parts and the wins, and yeah, we still had our goofy postgame bump deep into the WBC.

You were DFA’d before the trade, and that kind of jolt mirrors moments I’ve had too.

Theo once told me my reputation was slipping, and it stung, but I owned it and made sure I’d never hear that again.

Adversity builds you; when I got dealt to New York after being the guy in Chicago, I realized how closely everyone watches and how much I had to grow.

You’ve turned that same pressure into consistency and thunder, you drive runs and show up in October, and I believe another ring is coming.

I still want WBC redemption with a gold around the neck.

Philly fits you—tough fans, straight talk, and a hardhat style that lifts the room.

If I’m bad I’ll say it before anyone else does, and thanks to everything we went through, I can learn fast and, as a DH, stay on the field and bang every day.

That 2016 run took every single person, from top decisions like Theo’s bold call to start you to the rehab and work you put in; without all of it, we’re not telling this story.

We love you—Kyle Schwarber, folks; that’s a wrap.