The Lovable Reunion - Jake Arrieta & John Lackey on no-hitters, beer fridges & more Cubs World Series tales

Welcome back—ten years since 2016, and we’ve got two horses from that run, John Lackey and Jake Arrieta; the ring collector and the guy who made our lives a lot easier.

You came up in an old‑school room and won in three different places—what stuck with you as the game evolved?

The clubhouse is everything; the right mix of hungry kids and vets who can steer the room is the common thread on every title team I was on.

Your run was long, and that’s rare now; between social media noise, shorter outings, and bullpens full of guys throwing gas, teams protect starters to keep them fresh for October.

The blueprint is stay healthy for October, and with more wild cards it’s about rolling when it matters.

Jake, you arrived from Baltimore with big stuff and found your lane fast—what changed?

I stopped trying to be someone else, told Theo and Jed I was going to be myself, blocked out the noise, and leaned on a room that believed in me; I knew I could pitch like an ace and finally did.

By 2014 you were carving in Boston, and once we paired you with Lester I knew we had two true ones at the top.

Our rotation fed off each other in 2016—friendly rivalry, do your job, then try to top it—with everyone posting every fifth day.

In 2015 we went from pesty to believing we had St. Louis’ number—did you feel that from the other side?

We were locked on our work, but we saw you guys surging, adding the right vets, and turning kids into pros; that’s a big reason I wanted in.

Lester finally got me for his first hit and I paid the whiskey tax at his house that night.

Jake, your wildcard tweet in Pittsburgh felt like a gauntlet throw, and then you backed it up.

I was fully prepared and ultra confident, told the boys on the plane to give me one, took the HBP, stole second, and kept it calm; the crowd noise turned into pure focus.

His conviction spread through your team—when you’re right on the edge, that kind of belief can push you over.

We beat a great Pirates club, then handled the Cardinals; that trip flipped our expectations from hopeful to certain.

Lack, you’ve always set a tone—did you ever open with anything but a heater?

I lived on first‑pitch fastballs and gave up only two leadoff homers doing it; the math worked in my favor.

Best part of that night was Hyder whispering ‘steal’ after the HBP, the crowd blacked out around us, and it still felt like just me, the hitter, and my catcher.

Walk us through your five‑day routine—beer fridge stories optional.

Legs and long cardio day one, bullpen and upper body day two with all the shoulder work, light full‑body day three, then sprints and hot‑cold on day four; celebrate the win or drown it after, then flip the switch back to work.

Playing behind you was easy—you were fire on the mound and kind off it, which not many guys can pull off.

I needed that edge; I wasn’t a 98 guy, so I had to pitch a little angry and then leave it at the field.

Who recruited you hardest to Chicago?

Lester called me daily; I took less to join because I trusted the trajectory and wanted that room.

You brought Boston habits—talking about winning the whole thing from day one and making young guys comfortable—plus the line we all loved: we’re here for jewelry.

Aiming at All‑Star and champion raises your floor; it changes how you work.

Your first 2016 start got rough early and no one flinched; we still boat‑raced them and you kept taking the ball.

We knew we’d never lose with airtight defense and a dozen on the board—just give Lack a lead and let him ride.

The camaraderie mattered—Lester set the tone with boots and dinners, and you’d beat him to the check with the quiet handoff at the host stand.

That mirrored my rookie year in Boston—vets picked up everything and pulled us in; it builds real trust.

Knowing wives, girlfriends, and kids deepens the bond; you pull harder for someone when you know their people.

Catching your Cincy no‑no was a bucket‑list moment; you kept shaking me back to heaters and walked me through it like a pro.

L.A. was video‑game stuff; Cincy was weak contact and sinkers in the zone with five punchouts and a 16‑nothing cushion.

Catchers steer the ship—studying guys like Yadi taught me the pitcher might shake once, but the catcher sets the game plan.

Trust shows up in big spots—after I let a breaker get by in a clincher, you doubled down on it, I blocked it, strikeout, inning over, and that belief stuck with me.

That trust comes from the prep and sweat you put in; if I give up a homer, you’re not pointing fingers—we’re in it together.

Between your lockers sat the beer fridge, which was really a culture beacon—work like crazy, then exhale together.

I loved taking young guys out, then being the first one sweating the next day; you’ve got to earn your party or you lose the room.

That’s accountability in action—if you play hard at night, you better grind in the morning or you forfeit trust.

That 2016 team was the most fun I’ve been on—Pebble off‑day, Kenny Chesney backstage, then right back to business and wins.

We also explored cities on little sleep—walks, golf, finding juice spots—because you don’t always get another trip back.

Bench energy matters—late September I dragged rookies out of the clubhouse to back the guys in extras, and we finished it off together.

Game one against the Giants was a one‑nothing tone‑setter, and Jake’s laser off Bumgarner in game three was a jolt.

He’d been pounding me up and in, so I sold out for the heater, barreled it, and tried not to trip on Hyder’s high‑five; cool thing is a Cubs fan caught it in that sea of orange.

We celebrated hard but kept our heads, exposed their bullpen, and avoided Queto in a game five coin‑flip.

Beating the Dodgers felt like the bigger mountain; Hendricks got Kershaw in game six, which let me reset for the Series.

Fans partied like we’d already won it all after the NLCS, but inside it was, great—one more rung, now finish the job.

Later in my career I tried to savor it—sharing it with family, knowing how many great players never get there.

We had wild post‑win hangs too—Eddie Vedder with my dad on guitar, Lester’s open house vibe just like Big Papi’s in Boston.

Down three‑one, what gave you belief we could climb back?

We were too good to look past the next day; win tomorrow, then do it again.

You said it that night—everything’s fine, win tomorrow—and once we took game five, we had Lester, Jake, and Hendricks lined up.

Exactly—if we grabbed game five, our rotation stack put us right where we wanted to be.

Walk me through the swing from that tight Game Five to the blowout in Game Six; Tomlin surprised us once, but seeing Kluber a third time felt like our shot.

It never felt like a true three to one hole to me; Game Two was freezing and I fought the baseball, but I got the big punchout with the bases loaded, and once the weather turned in Game Six, I settled in and cruised.

I was selfishly fired up to start a World Series game at Wrigley; that alone had me buzzing.

Our offense finally clicked after Zobrist’s NLCS bunt; in Game Five the wind was howling, Bauer was dealing, then Kris tied it and Chapman emptied the tank for an eight-out save, and you guys set the tone in Game Six.

After my late homer, Joe stuck with Chappy and the dugout tensed up; it was the first time we really barked to make a move.

Two-out swings can speed everything up on a manager; Joe later owned that he was pushing hard just to reach Game Seven, and I respect how accountable he was.

Heading into Game Seven, what was your plan if your name got called?

I told Joe early I was good to go no matter what I threw the night before; walking to the bullpen with Lester and the boys, I was ready to give whatever was left.

That walk to the ‘pen had my heart pounding; it hits different out there when it’s the last game of the year.

Then Rajai ties it, the place erupts, and the rain hits—where were your heads at?

It felt like a coin flip after that homer; Cleveland fans were on us, but Chappy gutted out the ninth, and in the delay J Hey said exactly what needed to be said while I kept getting loose.

Even with the shock, the vibe was we’re not stopping here; the reset helped, though the tiny visitors’ room and media swarm made it a circus.

Dex and I slammed a five-hour-and-Woodford special and told each other we were still winning; our dugout looked ghost-white, even Theo, so that 17-minute rain felt like the city’s tears rinsing us clean, and J Hey’s words landed because he rarely talks.

Did the scale of it hit you right away or only later?

It grew with time—the family stories about grandparents waiting their whole lives still give me chills.

Boston once carried me off, but Chicago’s love is different—brothers for life, standing ovations at dinner, all of it tied to breaking that wall.

Cleveland fans were cool about it, then Chicago turned into a sea—approximately five million people—and we nearly got clotheslined by a wire on the bus before that emotional stage moment.

I was holding my newborn, weaving through waves of people; it felt endless.

Block after block, the crowd just followed like a tide; you could not even see the street.

Ten years out, what are you most proud of from your careers and how you led?

I maxed out my ability; in 2012–2013 I considered walking away, but Brittany told me I was not done, and I wanted the guys to know that every fifth day I was emptying the tank for us.

I worked, respected the game, treated everyone right, and hoped that seeing my name in the lineup made teammates feel like we could win.

I leaned into being a support guy after learning I could spiral mentally chasing results; great teams and leaders taught me how to treat people, and those lessons carried me straight into managing.

Playing every role gave me empathy—from starting to pinch-hitting to struggling—and now I teach my kids and players to talk to themselves the right way.

Rossi’s career lasted because of who he is; he owned his lane and was elite at it.

I learned to love the cloudy days because they make the sunny ones feel earned.

People forget every big leaguer is one of roughly 1200 on Earth; it is way harder than it looks from the couch.

Now every team has multiple guys throwing a hundred; it is not “just hit the fastball” anymore.

How did hitters adjust as velocity spiked late in our careers?

Early on you could gear up because the command lagged, but then pitchers added sequencing and high heaters, so prep had to level up; Schwarber’s approach of hunting the middle made sense as command still leaked there, even as secondaries got nastier.

It was hard for me to buy into setting up down the middle after a lifetime of edge-hunting, but with you we did it because the movement played.

Right—aiming at corners turned my movement into balls; starting middle was the smart bet.

Analytics are gold when applied with feel, but too much can scramble your head.

This whole series is our way of thanking teammates and telling the stories; love you guys, and thanks for the rings and the memories.

That puzzle was not complete without every piece; you both shaped me as a player, a person, and now as a dad, and I am grateful.

Ultimate team game; could not have done it without you—love you, dad. That is a wrap.