CHAPTER 5
PUNCH IN THE GUT
8:15 P.M.
Cubs Lead, 1–0
Don’t underestimate Kyle Hendricks.
Nicknamed “the Professor” by the media—we called him “Karl,” though I was never quite sure how bullpen catcher Chad Noble came up with that name—Hendricks established himself as one of baseball’s best control pitchers in 2016. The Ivy Leaguer could boast about his economics degree from Dartmouth College and a major league–best 2.13 ERA during the regular season. The right-handed starter entered Game 7 tied with Lew Burdett (1957) and Bob Gibson (1967) for the longest scoreless-inning streak in the postseason. Though he struggled to command his fastball in the early innings of Game Three, he threw four and a third scoreless innings in our 1–0 defeat.
Hendricks might not light up the radar gun, but he can throw a changeup, cutter, and curveball below the zone for strikes in fastball counts. Nearly 70 percent of his first pitches went for strikes in 2016, according to MLB metrics. Kyle might have flown under the radar in his second full season in the major leagues—he started the 2016 season as our number-five starter—but we knew he had the stuff and talent to be successful. His incredible 2016 season was probably my favorite story of the Cubs’ season (not including my own, of course!).
After Dexter Fowler hit a solo home run to give us a 1–0 lead in the top of the first, Kyle set the Indians down in order in the bottom of the inning. Leadoff hitter Carlos Santana lined out to Jason Heyward in right field on Hendricks’s first pitch. Hendricks struck out Jason Kipnis on a low changeup for the second out. Francisco Lindor reached first base on an error when second baseman Javier Baez slipped as he tried to throw from his knees after he fielded Lindor’s ground ball. Hendricks avoided any potential trouble when he got a broken-bat ground-out to shortstop from Mike Napoli for the third out. It was just the start we were looking for.
The cynic might say, well, it’s easy to be a great teammate—when you’re winning. I’d question that assumption. Is it easy to make sure everybody’s happy and pulling on the same end of the rope? Is it easy to step back from your own problems and do the work of a good teammate?
Every player on our Cubs team had a job to do. I had a job to do, both in the clubhouse and on the field. If Joe Maddon called on me, I had to be ready. But I also learned that I needed to be able to recognize when spending some time with this guy or that guy could help. I wanted to be invested in every one of my teammates. For instance, there might be a day when I didn’t like a player’s body language. What’s going on? He doesn’t seem like he’s into it today. On those occasions, I had to be direct and ask: Why are you not playing hard? What’s going on? If a player is in a bad mood for three days, that affects our team and that affects me. If a player wasn’t ready to play, it hurt our chance of winning. And I want to win.
If the end goal is winning, we should all be concerned about everybody.
Over my fifteen years in the big leagues, I developed a sixth sense for knowing when and how to approach my teammates. It stemmed from my own successes and failures as a player over many years. I was a starter at times, but mainly what we called “a role player.” And there were stretches I was as bad as anyone could possibly be. But I also knew what success looked like. I was never a superstar, but I enjoyed success and thought, for a brief spell with the Cincinnati Reds, I had what it took to be a day-to-day starter for the long haul. That’s not what panned out, of course. But those highs and lows—from watching and learning from the best and worst things that happened to me during my career—helped me develop my ability to connect with my teammates.
Sometimes you need a punch in the gut to help you gain perspective.
Midway through my career, I reached a crossroad that changed my course in the major leagues as a player, a teammate, and as a person. In 2008, seven years into my big-league career, I was cut for the first time in the majors. The Cincinnati Reds released me on August 19. Manager Dusty Baker and I didn’t see eye to eye, and I thought I deserved more playing time. Being released was a startling experience that, quite frankly, had me worried. I thought my career might be over.
I believed I had finally established myself as a starting catcher in the major leagues after I hit 38 home runs in my first two seasons (2006–07) in Cincinnati. I had landed in Cincinnati after abbreviated stops with the Pittsburgh Pirates and the San Diego Padres in 2005. The Dodgers sold me to Pittsburgh, where I played in thirty-five games in a reserve role before I was traded to San Diego in late July. I played in seven games with the Padres, who, the following spring training, traded me to the Reds for minor-league pitcher Bobby Basham on March 21, 2006.
That off-season, the Reds changed their ownership and their general manager. The team was managed by Jerry Narron. Right-handed pitcher Bronson Arroyo was an off-season pickup who would become a great friend. We finished in third place in the NL Central division, three and a half games behind the division winner and eventual World Series champion St. Louis Cardinals. At age twenty-nine, I was a starter and set career highs across the board in games (90), at-bats (247), doubles (15), home runs (21), and RBI (52). The 2007 season, however, didn’t go as well for us as a team. Jerry Narron was fired on July 1, 2007, and advance scout Pete Mackanin was named the interim manager. We finished fifth in the NL Central behind Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Louis, and Houston.
The season, however, was a benchmark in my own play. I played 112 games—a career high. I also set a career high in at-bats (311) and I tied my career high in hits (61) from my previous season. My batting average dipped from .255 in 2006 to .203 in 2007, but I also hit 17 home runs and had 39 RBI. Defensively, I threw out 25 of 61 base stealers for a 41 percent rate, well above the league average of 25 percent. And my salary had tripled from $500,000 to $1.6 million annually in 2007, with an increase to $2.52 million in 2008. (My 2008 salary represented the highest to that point of my fifteen-year career.) I had a lot to feel good about after my first two seasons in Cincy.
In 2008 Dusty Baker came on board as the Reds’ new manager. Dusty was a bit of a legend. He played nineteen years in the major leagues himself and previously managed the San Francisco Giants and the Chicago Cubs.
Dusty may have been a proven commodity, but he and I didn’t get along at first. And when I was slowed by back spasms that started in spring training, that led to a platoon setup at catcher with Paul Bako. I wasn’t happy about it. It felt like an insult after my successful first year in Cincinnati. I felt like I had finally hit my stride—I was hitting home runs, catching every day, partying with the guys. I was, in my own mind, one of the big-time players in Cincinnati.
I let the ego thing get me. And then, all of a sudden, I wasn’t playing as much as I thought I deserved. I went into a hitting slump. Still, I was pissed about the situation and I complained to Dusty.
Big mistake.
On August 19, 2008—at age thirty-one and after appearing in only fifty-two games that season—I was released. It really humbled me in a hurry. It happened in the snap of a finger. Just as I’d started to believe the hype and was sucked into it, I now worried my playing career might be done.
Three days later, to my relief, I signed a free agent contract with the Boston Red Sox and ended up finishing the season on a team that finished second in the American League East (the Reds, by contrast, finished second to last in the NL Central). Led by manager Terry Francona, the Sox beat the Angels in the American League Division Series before losing to Tampa Bay in the American League Championship Series in seven games. The team boasted a great group of guys, including Dustin Pedroia, David Ortiz, Jason Varitek, and many others.
I only played in eight games that season for the Sox and had a measly one hit in eight at-bats, but I embraced the environment and the organization’s culture of winning. I also immediately felt at home. I was the team’s third-string catcher but I got to attend the advance meetings heading into the 2008 playoffs—not always the case for a “reserve” catcher. I wasn’t afraid to speak up and offered my insights—with conviction and confidence—on our own pitchers’ strengths and how we should attack hitters in the two series against the Angels and the Rays. It was wonderful to be someplace that sought and welcomed my opinion, but I knew I likely was just a short-term “rental” for the Red Sox.
After losing to Tampa Bay, I was in the Red Sox locker room packing to head home to Florida for the off-season when Theo Epstein, the team’s general manager and executive vice president, walked up to me. He motioned me into Terry Francona’s empty office. Theo told me he loved that I was part of the organization and he’d be in touch in the off-season. Even at that time, Theo told me I’d make a great coach or front office staffer when my playing career had ended. I was a free agent, and Theo was up front about the team’s plan to re-sign starting catcher Jason Varitek. Jason was the team’s All-Star captain who, at that point, had played all twelve of his major-league seasons with Boston. Theo said he’d keep me posted and I appreciated his honesty.
Then, just as I was about to head back to my locker, Theo made a comment that blindsided me. He said it was a comment I deserved to hear. Theo told me the word out of Cincinnati was that “David Ross is a bad teammate.”
My eyes got wide and I just stood there for a moment in stunned silence. A bad teammate? That went against every fiber in my soul. Thoughts raced through my head—Who could have said that? And why would they say it? But I was too stunned to ask; too stunned, frankly, to say anything. I just listened. According to the grapevine, Theo said, in Cincinnati I had a difficult time accepting my role and instead acted more like a “me-guy” in the clubhouse. Theo stressed he had not seen that from me in Boston, but he wanted me to know about it.
The “bad teammate” comment cut deeply because I didn’t see myself that way. Yes, I definitely had shown I was a little self-absorbed when I was in Cincinnati—it was the first time in my career I was an everyday catcher and I believed I had earned it. I was invested in myself and trying to do the best I could. Was that being a bad teammate? I was flummoxed. Theo said it was difficult for him to imagine I could be a bad teammate, but he felt I needed to know as I headed into free agency and contemplated my future. “Reputations die hard,” he said. “And that’s yours by some account.”
Whether it was a fair label or not, I realized at that moment I didn’t want that to be my reputation.
Looking back on it, walking into Cincinnati manager Dusty Baker’s office when I was pissed off and wanting more playing time when the team had just suffered a loss probably didn’t look good. But I was tired of being lied to and didn’t know what my role was with the team. I was mad and frustrated. I acted out.
I learned a lot from that bad decision, and Theo’s message helped me take it to heart. I was forever grateful to Theo for being so honest.
You have to put the team first, not yourself. I hadn’t done that in my conversation with Dusty, and I hadn’t done it in Cincinnati.
Big lesson learned.
I could have gotten defensive, or laughed off the criticism. Instead, that conversation with Theo in an empty office became a turning point for me: As I headed into the 2008 off-season, I needed to figure out how never to let those words be said about me again. Wherever I landed, I was committed to becoming the best teammate I could possibly be.
DAVID’S iPHONE JOURNAL
2/29/16
Really miss my family
After I finished out the season in Boston, my agent, Ryan Gleichowski, and I talked about my options. Ryan and I were baseball teammates at the University of Florida, and Ryan’s wife, Rose, and I attended the same high school, Florida High, in Tallahassee—further proof that it’s a small world. (There’s actually a photo floating around of Rose and me at Florida High’s middle school prom.) Ryan and Marc R. Pollack formed Sports One Athlete Management in 1999, and I was Ryan’s first professional client. I signed with Ryan when I was in Single-A in Vero Beach with the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1999, and we’ve been together ever since.
One of the early options we talked about for the 2009 season was a one-year deal with the Houston Astros as a starter. The Atlanta Braves were in the mix, too, making me a two-year, $3 million offer as the backup to All-Star catcher Brian McCann.
Like any professional baseball player, I always wanted to try to make the best decision from a business standpoint but also one that enabled me to continue to play my best, to contribute as much as I could. I never wanted to get too greedy, and I always wanted to be in the right situation. I certainly wanted to take care of myself and my family financially—but not to the point of ultimate risk. I always knew that this life was not going to last forever.
Ryan wanted me to pursue the one-year offer with Houston to prove that I could continue to be a starter. If I had a big year, like banging twenty home runs, then maybe I would get even a bigger payday the following year. The Braves offered a little more money and security, but I also understood the ramifications. I was pretty much signing up to be a backup catcher the rest of my career. But you know what? I was good with it. I knew my role and made the decision to embrace it. The grass is not always greener on the other side, right? I’d been a backup for most of my career. I had the chance to start in Cincinnati and look what happened. This was a new opportunity with the Braves, a chance to turn the page. And, most important, my role was defined for me.
Brian McCann was the starter, I was his backup. There was no gray area. It wasn’t a competition between the two of us. I think one of the hardest things as a baseball player, at least for me, was not knowing my role. In Cincinnati Dusty didn’t define it for me sufficiently. It wasn’t a good feeling to walk into the Cincinnati clubhouse every day and look at the lineup wondering, Am I playing today? (Nowadays they send out the lineup via text message.)
All professional athletes are amazing competitors. Many have been blessed with tremendous physical abilities, tremendous insights, and tremendous mental toughness. Everyone is wired differently, however, and I think one characteristic that separates the ones who stay for a long period of time from the ones who don’t stick around is what happens from the shoulders up. I think my ability to understand and embrace my role—and to be the best at that role—is one of the single most important factors for my long-term success on and off the field.
On December 5, 2008, I signed with the Atlanta Braves.
As much as it was a pivotal time in my career, my transition to the Braves was seamless. Brian McCann and I hit it off immediately. He’s become one of my closest friends. Brian and I knew of each other prior to my signing with the Braves, though. It’s a funny story, but we almost got into an altercation during a game with the Braves when I was with the Reds. Brian said something to one of our hitters about trying to bunt for a hit when his pitcher had a no-hitter going, so I started screaming at him from the top step of our dugout. If I would have been in his shoes, I may have done the same thing. But this was my teammate and I stick up for my guy no matter what.
Brian had made the All-Star team three consecutive seasons when I joined the Braves. Backing up a player of Brian’s caliber was the best thing for me at that point in my career. Seeing how he worked with pitchers and thought so differently, being a great hitter, took my game to a whole new level.
Brian and I got along so well because we had similar attitudes toward the game. It felt like we became best friends instantly. And I liked the routine in Atlanta. I knew the days I was scheduled to play to give Brian a break. I got the opportunity to learn the pitching staff. I was really fond and appreciative of the communication within the organization. And Atlanta was close to my hometown of Tallahassee, so it was an easy trip for family and friends. Not to mention I had the chance to play for the legendary Bobby Cox, who was nearing the end of his Hall of Fame coaching career.
DAVID’S iPHONE JOURNAL
3/3/16
Well, it’s been a crazy few days. Camp is in full swing and we started games today. They had a crazy retirement prank/gift thing for me this morning. It was pretty funny, gave me a grocery store scooter and a golf cart thing that carries my bag!! I told Kyle I’d name it Schwarber and he said, “I am honored.” I love that kid. These past few days I have been busy. We had a team golf outing, dinner and golf with Lack and Millar three days in a row. Got to meet and golf with Michael Waltrip. He is hilarious. Getting things lined up for the family to get out here. They are changing so fast, I can’t wait to see them. Got a few nights out with my wife planned. I can’t wait to talk to her. She is having a hard time running the family solo. I can’t imagine that for a long period of time. I am excited/nervous about the first game tomorrow. Will be fun to see how much more (work) I need.
Atlanta was such a special place for me. We averaged 90 wins over my four seasons with the Braves. In July 2010, the Braves signed me to another two-year extension for $3.25 million. Fredi Gonzalez replaced Bobby Cox, who retired following the 2010 season, as the manager.
We had a special group of guys there. Brian McCann, Eric Hinske, Eric O’Flaherty, and I formed a unique bond. We all spent many nights in each other’s hotel rooms, talking about the game, about strategies, about getting the most out of our pitchers, about life. I was nicknamed “Sensei” by my Braves teammates because, well, if they ever needed an answer or an opinion, they’d get it from me. (When McCann added my contact information to his cell phone, he labeled it “Sensei.”) I was brutally honest, too, and probably said some things to my teammates that might have resulted in a right cross to the chin from guys who didn’t know me. But I cared about everyone and tried to get the best out of them, Brian included.
Every half inning in my four years in Atlanta, I greeted Brian with a high-five from the top step of the dugout as he came off the field. Brian did the same for me, with one exception. He missed the start of one game and wasn’t at the top of the step to greet me when I came in from the top of the first inning. Well, I lit into him. “I meet you at the top step before every game and you can’t come out when I play?” I said. Brian felt terrible. “Dude, I’m sorry. It won’t ever happen again.” And it never did.
I never was a player who did well when I competed with a teammate. I always looked at it like the catching corps should be the tightest group on the team. And it was that way in Atlanta.
When I went into a backup role in Atlanta, it was easier for me to focus on what the group needed rather than think only of myself. And the feeling wasn’t limited to my role with the Braves. I never thought of myself as a bad person, or a bad teammate or a bad guy. But the switch flipped in Atlanta and I consciously wanted to be a better husband, a better friend, a better teammate, a better man. Being around guys like Brian made me a better man.
Not playing every day helped me, too. I could spend more time with my family, spend more time with the kids in the pool, and be a better dad and not worry about being tired later that night.
As I said, winning is about everyone pulling on the same end of the rope. In the Braves’ 2012 play-in game (the winner advanced into the division series) against the St. Louis Cardinals, Fredi benched Brian in favor of me. Slowed by a shoulder injury, Brian batted just .230 with 20 home runs and 67 RBIs, numbers well below his All-Star average. Fredi said he made the move for defense, saying I had the better chance of keeping the Cardinals from attempting to steal. Brian and I talked about it. I know it hurt him but he wanted what was best for the team. Brian wanted to catch in that game, but he said it didn’t take long for him to get over it—maybe ten minutes—because he knew I was behind the plate. I appreciated his support.
Kris Medlen was scheduled to start the game against the Cardinals, and I had been behind the plate for two of his best performances that year—a 12-strikeout effort against Colorado on September 3 and a career-high 13 strikeouts against Washington on September 14. I made an immediate impact in the game when I hit a two-run home run to center in the second inning on a 1-2 count from Cardinals starter Kyle Lohse. But the Cardinals quickly rallied and led 6–2 in the fifth inning. We eventually lost the game 6–3. The game also marked the end of the Hall of Fame career of Braves third baseman Chipper Jones, who had spent his entire nineteen years in Atlanta. While news of my departure two months later didn’t garner the same headlines (imagine that!), I had established myself as one of the best backup catchers in Major League Baseball during my four years with the Braves.
More important, I had evolved into a valuable teammate.
During the 2015 National League playoffs, Dusty Baker and I had the chance to talk. He told me he’d listened too much to people who influenced his decision to cut my playing time in Cincinnati. And I told him I’d realized I’d made mistakes and didn’t handle the situation well. We talked things out and all is good between us today.
Looking back on it, 2008 was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. It was then that I learned what the word teammate really meant.