NEW SHOW PREMIERE - The Lovable Reunion - David Ross & Anthony Rizzo kick off 2016 Chicago Cubs World Series podcast

Anthony Rizzo here with David Ross at Murphy’s Bleachers, kicking off our reunion podcast about the 2016 Cubs with real behind‑the‑scenes stories; today, it’s our turn.

We’re walking through that ride with the same clubhouse energy—jokes, dances, and a little too much honesty.

What’s life been like since you hung ’em up, and how wild was your Chicago homecoming?

It’s been awesome being back as a Cubs ambassador and calling games, but this show is our passion; funny full‑circle note—I met Rossi during my cancer fight in 2008 when he left me ALCS tickets, and I was so amped I left my mom’s car running the whole game.

We really connected in 2014 at ESPN, then he and Lester arrived and changed our standard—winning habits, edge, and accountability.

That day at ESPN felt like we’d been friends for years, and once I signed here, the journey with you, Lester, and the group turned into laughter, tears, and some heavy moments we’re finally sharing.

Rossi lived on two‑year deals and by year two I wanted to strangle him, but he could light up a room and still rip you clean, then somehow leave you smiling.

It’s the classic sandwich—praise, hard truth, praise—and it worked because that clubhouse had the character to take it and grow.

You and Lester raised our professionalism and taught me the daily energy it takes to win, which makes losing feel unbearable once you’ve tasted it.

Championship teams stack focused days, sweat the little things, and then trust talent and a few breaks in October.

The August 2015 sweep of the Giants flipped our belief—boat races on the field, karaoke after, and a team that knew it was good.

Beating a group with that resume told us we belonged, and the young guys settled in; by the way, your Home Run Derby in Cincy was a blast.

We partied too hard in Pittsburgh once, I rolled into a day game and hit into a bases‑loaded double play, you torched me, I snapped back, then went deep and we laughed through it.

I was blunt because you asked, and when you homered you stared me down like, keep that same energy, which I happily did.

Joe taught me to honor the bench—if you’re off, be on that rail for first pitch—lesson I carried the rest of my career.

I’ve called out vets for vanishing on day games because everyone deserves your eyes when they grind.

Losing to the Mets in 2015 hurt, but Lester’s toasts and our wild parties bonded us and set the tone for 2016.

We came back starving, Dexter’s surprise return and Lackey’s edge filled in gaps, and the whole Grandpa Rossy thing became its own sitcom.

In 2016 we carried a humble swagger like the ending was already written, and we said it out loud.

Joe kept us loose and framed pressure as a target to embrace, so the curse talk never crept in.

Vegas exhibitions were a team‑bonding circus—late nights, then a Bloody Mary and mimosa bar before first pitch—and we still handled business.

I was a corpse on the table and still caught my innings, then went right back out for night two.

Road workouts with Busy became our ritual—Equinox in Newport, Muscle Beach, the bright Gold’s Gym tanks—and one ill‑timed monkey‑bar session shredded my hands before game two.

Those mornings turned into my favorite rhythm on the road—lift, lunch, nap, ballpark—and they deepened our bond.

Your 100th here was pure joy, and Yadi twice stopping the game for ovations showed the respect you earned.

I’ll never forget the way you guys exploded in the dugout—or the seven curtain calls that night.

Seven All‑Stars, dugout dances, and a vibe that felt easy to root for; even at the All‑Star Game our guys set the tone.

We even had a ridiculous pregame handshake to flip the switch from goofing to game mode.

I joked about being a switch guy, and you hated my loose chatter 30 minutes before first pitch until I turned it on.

I’d tell you good luck and you’d deadpan that luck had nothing to do with it, which cracked me up.

NLDS against the Giants was tight—Javy’s wind‑cutting homer, our gutsy back‑pick with Havi crashing behind first, and a wild ninth‑inning comeback in Game Four.

We trusted those plays because guys like Javy had unreal baseball IQ and soft hands, and momentum finally swung our way.

The Dodgers were loaded; a jam‑shot single off Kenley flipped my feel, I locked in, homered off Kershaw, and the city went nuts while I kept thinking, job’s not done.

Game three at Wrigley felt tense and quiet, and I still want fans’ stories from that night.

Cleveland and Chicago both chased droughts, we fell behind three‑one, and you reminded us we’d won three straight all year; I put Rocky on every clubhouse TV and we started boxing the air.

After Game Four I told the room tomorrow was a gift—Game Five at Wrigley—then belted the stretch and we clawed that one out.

For Game Seven I skipped BP like usual, played Mario Kart, and gave a full Rocky speech in the buff until Rondon sprayed me; I pouted, you dragged me back, and we cranked the music again.

His naked BP bit actually loosened rooms for years, and that night the Fox crew in the tunnel and a Phil Collins drum break made the moment feel cinematic.

Game chaos hit—a spiked ball rocked your mask, I told the cameras I was a glass case of emotion, and Rajai tied it off Chappy.

I felt awful about two runs on a wild one, then turned around and homered off Andrew Miller after guessing he’d finally bring heat.

The rain delay saved our heartbeat—Joe West called it, J‑Hey rallied us in the weight room, Chappy was in tears and we pulled him in, and Schwarber smoked the first pitch after the break.

That huddle reset our identity, our bullpen was lined up better, and we walked out with color back in our faces.

They put four fingers up on me in the tenth, Zo split the gap, Miggy added insurance, and all I could think was how far this club had come from shopping‑cart BP days.

Montgomery got the last out, KB’s throw sailed, your glove was sticky with pine tar, and that childhood arm‑raise looked like, we’re champions of the world.

Then you maniacs scooped me mid‑interview and carried me off; I still don’t know what to do with my hands in that photo, but it’s the honor of my career.

We lifted you because you shaped how we thought, led, and loved the grind, and it felt right to give you that walk.

The plane home was a movie—families everywhere, Lester making it rain hundreds on kids, and Dempster racing Theo with drink carts down the aisle.

We made sure legends who built this place felt included, I even handed Dempster the trophy on the bus, then stole it home for sunrise photos before Lester demanded it back.

We spent the next day celebrating across the city, and the images of fans laying W flags on loved ones’ graves still hit me in the chest.

On the road, my favorite thing is hearing how people lived that clincher. The passion runs through families; even at the White House, Michelle Obama shared watching with her dad and tearing up. Those stories mean more to me than any ring.

A decade later, it still hits hard. At opening day yesterday, people were crying about what that title meant, and the parade still feels unreal.

Six million strong. I stepped up to speak, got choked up, and when I looked out it was just a sea of heads to the horizon, people even perched in trees.

Chicago made it personal. Even after time away, fans ask about my parents and Emily and tell stories about nights out with my dad. That is why this is home.

The Friendly Confines is real. Cops still thank us for the overtime they worked that year.

I played more years here, then got traded to New York and loved it, made it back to the World Series, and came up short. That one hurt. At the WBC I even teased Ross after his silver, and we both know second place stings.

It does. That is why this show matters—so we can tell the full stories. We are grateful we get to sit with our guys and relive it.

The reunion energy is real. Guys show up nervous and leave wanting hours more. We already had a mini get together, with a full reunion weekend coming in July, and we will share the behind the scenes all year. Follow along and subscribe.

This one was about us. The rest will spotlight everyone else, and I cannot wait.

Next week it is our skipper, Joe Maddon. We go deep on what he meant to us and to every player, and there is no way we have that success without him. Tune in, and thanks, fans.