The Lovable Reunion - Kris Bryant on his MAGICAL 2016 MLB MVP year & Cubs World Series + Ross & Rizzo's HILARIOUS hazing

Welcome back to Loveable Reunion—Anthony Rizzo here with David Ross, and we’ve got our guy, the 2016 MVP, Kris Bryant; can’t believe it’s been close to ten years.

I went second overall behind Mark Appel and figured it’d be Cubs or Rockies, which is pretty funny considering where I am now; that feels like a lifetime ago.

When he first showed up, I gave him the classic clubhouse ribbing about money and homers; I learned how to chirp without cutting people down, thanks to Rossi.

I once called him “C.B.” for a week before he told me it’s Kris with a K, and as the gray‑bearded vet I tried to keep things light but make sure the kid felt supported, not buried.

Rizzo laughed across the room when I said I had eight in spring and reminded me I had zero in the bigs; it stung in a good way and grounded me.

I learned early that lifting young guys beats hazing; you still hold standards, but you make the room safe so talent can breathe.

I’ve always been reserved and hyper‑demanding of myself, the type who expects five great at‑bats every night, which can make it hard to enjoy the ride.

He once went five‑for‑five with three homers and two doubles and still wanted more the next day—that edge is why he’s special, but we tried to help him let the good moments land.

There’s a life balance in chasing perfection while finding positives on bad days, like clean defense behind Lester or Lackey.

Up top you’re hunting that fifth at‑bat while guys at the bottom might get three and a breather; the mental math starts as early as the third inning.

Spring of fifteen he torched, then they slow‑walked his call‑up while billboards were already up; when he arrived, we needed him, and that’s rare for a prospect.

I was used to being the guy since travel ball, so the pressure felt normal; my debut was fourth in the order against James Shields and I punched out three times before anything clicked.

He made the All‑Star Game anyway, and that first homer took a while, which we all turned into playful pressure.

A great spring made the demotion easier because I knew I’d be back; Mike Olt’s injury opened the door, the grievance was awkward but I respected Theo and Jed, and it all still led to Rookie of the Year, MVP, and another huge season after.

Our mix of hungry kids and grizzled vets clicked; when did you feel like we were legit in fifteen?

I didn’t know what playoffs even felt like and leaned on you guys for everything from shares to routines while the other young dudes shared the load.

When he showed up, pressure slid off me and onto him in the best way, and our friendly one‑up game kept both of us hot without rooting against each other.

We even ended up with twin stat lines in sixteen, which still blows my mind.

The real gift wasn’t swing tips, it was how you made me feel after tough days; I always left our locker‑to‑locker talks lighter and ready to go.

Big‑market everyday guys carry a different weight; I could joke around as a part‑timer, but you two had to post and produce daily.

I signed early and that security let me focus on winning and on clearing space for superstars like KB to be their best.

The extra noise was heavy—billboards, a goat bit with Red Bull—cool in hindsight, but at the time I was worried about tripping over a jinx; I wish I’d talked to you both more about that side.

Fifteen’s Derby was special with your dad throwing; I’ve always loved how parents see what even coaches miss.

My dad never yelled; he’d send calm emails with perspective, like reminding me stars slump too, and I still keep those notes.

Our dads were everywhere at Wrigley, having the time of their lives like they owned the place, which honestly they deserved.

We got swept in the NLCS, but you nailed your rookie goal; you even told every rookie there’s only one shot at that first‑pitch homer.

My first plate appearance against Shields was all changeups and punchouts, and the All‑Star homer I remember was off Chris Sale.

Your BP plan—launching high to center to stay on plane—was simple and brilliant.

It was about matching the ball’s downward path and letting flight happen; Wrigley’s wind forced me to learn to pull without topspin, even as the perfectionist in me nitpicked singles.

I still live by something you shared: comparing yourself steals your joy.

In sixteen we launched the Grandpa Rossy Instagram at dinner and you two were rock‑star busy, but the jokes and bits kept the grind fun.

Rossi was our perspective compass—when I’d spiral, he’d steer us back to pitch‑to‑pitch wins and not beating ourselves.

You bounced all over the field like a dream utility star; I even wanted you in center as a manager, but Theo shut me down.

Joe asked if I could play center five games in and I just said yes; moving around kept me locked in through a long season.

Lester and Lackey brought that don’t‑mess‑this‑up edge, and on bunts we barely had to signal—our infield moves felt like a cheat code.

And the three‑oh “statue” pose in the infield became our little unity gag, which somehow never burned us.

When we clinched in sixteen, it felt like destiny; we joked they’d need a helicopter to get us off the field.

Travis Wood kept the celebration shots lined up while I clinked water; my on‑field favorite was the five‑for‑five day, and in October it was the game five homer after a dawn ER run with my mom.

That swing broke the dam in a must‑win, and we stacked a rally within minutes in a ballpark that had been crushing us.

Your World Series homers were huge, but your base running was next level.

I wanted to score a hundred because I could control effort on the bases; I scored from first on Andrew Miller and tagged on a deep fly that had no business scoring, and I sprinted on every grounder out of sheer pride.

We skipped most on‑field BP that series to dodge the circus; the one day he went out there, the BP pitcher nicked him and we shut it down.

Pre‑game Mario Kart with the boys calmed the noise, while Rizz would crack us up with “free” swings in the cage to loosen the room.

Jumping ahead, early leads in six and seven were massive, but Rajai’s blast off Chappy was a gut punch that sucked the air out of the place.

In the rain delay I saw the tarps and drink tubs set up and spun right back to the weight room; then I saw Chapman in the corner in tears after carrying the load for weeks, and it hit how much everyone had poured in.

He emptied the tank in game five, pitched again in six, and then broke down in that room; being new, Cuban, and still learning the language only made it tougher. What do you remember from how we pulled around him?

I barely heard anyone because I was locked on Chappy sobbing and just felt for him, then later saw replays of him on the rail exploding with joy after those big hits and it was night and day.

I went and grabbed him off the bench and told him we were not there without him, and you could see it hit. My favorite photos are always the bench losing it for a teammate because that joy tops any stat.

In October you go back to being a kid and the only thing that matters is moving the team one step closer.

Take me to your tenth inning swing to right center that looked like a homer in neutral weather; did you know right away it would not carry at Wrigley?

Yeah, the contact was good but the side spin told me it would die at the track, and Albert tagging from first on that ball was pure feel and not by the book with Joe changing the plan and him changing with it.

That is how we won, a chain of gutsy choices with everyone doing their part.

Joe made it easy to be players and people, and his messages still guide how I live and parent; we do not win that title without his calm, unconventional touch.

He kept a century of noise off our backs and owned his decisions, and he was different in the best way.

They pulled C.J., brought in Montgomery, and nobody had that on the bingo card, and in that cold I packed my first baseman’s mitt with pine tar because I was not letting a ball pop out.

Defense under that spotlight can feel heavier than any at bat because you never want to be the one who lets the group down.

Catching was my calm and hitting had me amped, and yeah, there was a Lester breaker that once had me seeing stars and I rolled an ankle getting up.

On the last play I took two big strides, saw the wet grass, got it in two hops, and guided the throw because my plant foot slipped and I was not risking an air mail.

I raised my arms because as a kid my dad and I practiced finishing as champions, then I tucked the ball and sprinted to you and we crashed together, just like we had talked about finding each other in that moment.

Afterward our families flooded the field and Chicago threw a two year party, and we went from Lester’s house to the country club to SNL, Ellen, and Disney.

Fans made it bigger than our wildest thoughts, with blue W flags everywhere and families sharing it across generations at graves and homes.

Ten years later, what changed you most?

Saying the goal out loud and getting everyone to buy in made the impossible feel close, and now I try to teach my kids that grit by letting them figure things out when it is hard.

Without you, the Brizzo years, our wives being close, and your mentorship, I would not look back this full of joy.

Even if we go months without talking, when you call it feels like yesterday because that bond is real.

When you do what we did you are brothers for life, and we carried me off the field at forty because of what you all meant to me.

Thank you, Chris Bryant, MVP and champion, for the memories, the ring, the friendship, and the round of golf we are about to play; love you, Dad.