FOREWORD

If his story had been submitted as a Hollywood script, it would have been rejected immediately as too corny, too unlikely, too impossible to believe. An aging backup catcher, in the final year of his career, wins over an entire fan base with the force of his personality and helps mold a young team into the very best in baseball. He hits a home run in Game Seven of the World Series and gets carried off the field by his teammates, a retiring hero on top of the world. Impossible to believe? Perhaps, but not for those lucky enough to know David Ross.

I first got to know David in August 2008 at what was likely the nadir of his career. He had just been released by the Cincinnati Reds despite being in the middle of a multiyear contract. He was hitting just .231, but that’s not the entire reason the Reds had decided to let David go. There were whispers out of Cincinnati that he was not a good teammate—that he was having a hard time accepting a diminished role and had become a bit of a headache for management. Others I trusted swore by David as “a great guy and a really smart player,” but the whispers grew louder and David was released.

At the time we were looking to add catching depth to a Red Sox roster that featured veteran backstops Jason Varitek and Kevin Cash and was on the way to its fifth postseason appearance in six years. We had traded Manny Ramirez for Jason Bay weeks earlier to improve the unity in the clubhouse and had a good, solid, talented, professional club. Comforted by those who vouched for him and in need of a veteran “break glass in case of emergency” third catcher, we ignored the whispers and signed David. In full candor, I didn’t expect much from him. I thought he would catch a game or two over the remainder of the season, sit on the bench during the postseason, and move on to the next stop of his career without making much of an impression or impact.

Well, I was right on the first two points. David had just eight at-bats over the final six weeks of the regular season and none in the playoffs. But, man, was I wrong about David not making an impact. Despite being the new guy on the team, despite hardly playing, despite suffering through a tough season, David was adored by his teammates and somehow found his way into the middle of our clubhouse dynamic.

By the time the playoffs came around, he was respected enough that we invited him into our advance scouting meetings along with Varitek and Cash. Again, I didn’t expect much from David. These are big, important meetings with the front office, manager Terry Francona, and the whole coaching staff. Typically, advance scout Dana LeVangie and Varitek—both expert in this role—would take the lead breaking down opposing hitters, and pitching coach John Farrell, Tito, and a few of us in the front office would chime in. The third-string catcher was not usually present, let alone vocal. Except for David. He spoke up early and often, in a strong and authoritative voice, making insightful points about every opposing hitter. He wasn’t afraid to disagree, even with Varitek, and quickly won over the room. By the third or fourth hitter we discussed, others were deferring to Ross, the backup’s backup who up until the last six weeks had spent his entire career in the other league.

“That was impressive,” I remember telling Assistant General Manager Jed Hoyer. “We should keep an eye on him… might make a good scout or coach when he’s done playing.” A couple of weeks later, the day after our demoralizing season-ending loss to the Tampa Bay Rays in Game Seven of the American League Championship Series, David and his teammates were cleaning out their lockers at Fenway Park. I asked to speak to him in private.

“Look, David, you were terrific on this team; everyone loved having you around. I don’t know exactly what went down in Cincinnati, but there are some things you should know. You were getting a bit of a bad reputation over there—not the greatest teammate, not accepting of your role, a bit of a pain in the ass for everybody. That doesn’t sound like you, but it wasn’t from just one person and I thought you would want to know. You can still do a lot of things on the field: you have power, you can hit left-handed pitching, you can catch and throw, you can break down hitters. You can play a long time, but you profile best as a backup at this point and you have to accept that. And that means being a great teammate and doing whatever is necessary to help the team win. You’re a free agent; I just thought you would want to hear what’s being said about you. Thanks for what you did for us.”

And that was that. I’ve had many similar conversations with other players over the years; it was nothing remarkable. I expected David to kick around as a backup for a few more years before retiring. Maybe then we would make the call to see if he was ready to try scouting or coaching. Yet again, I made the mistake of underestimating David Ross.

Six years later, I was looking for a catcher again. Besides that, everything had changed. I was in Chicago, not Boston, and we had just signed Jon Lester to help turn a young, talented team into a contender. David had spent four years as a prolific backup catcher with the Atlanta Braves, making real contributions as a fine two-way player and becoming one of manager Bobby Cox’s go-to veteran leaders in the clubhouse. Then, in a two-year stint back with the Red Sox, he was at the epicenter of the band of bearded brothers who galvanized a region after the Boston Marathon Bombing and won the 2013 World Series. David only caught 36 games during the season, but, remarkably, his manager and his teammates demanded that he be on the field when things mattered most during the Fall Classic. David caught all four of Boston’s wins in the World Series. By this point he was well established as a great teammate and leader, someone thoughtful about winning and willing to put in the work to make it happen. With Lester’s urging, we signed David despite having two productive catchers on the roster.

What is there to say about David’s time with the Cubs? Some of it happened in plain sight. The tough year with the bat in 2015 that had many talk-show callers seeking his release. The tremendous job he did handling Lester and neutralizing the running game. The bounce-back offensive season in 2016 and the clutch home runs in October. Game Seven disaster and Game Seven triumph. The unconditional love of his teammates and the ride on their shoulders off the field for the last time.

But so much of David’s impact on the Cubs went unseen. The late-night conversations with struggling teammates. The team dinners on the road to build morale and connection. The kind gestures to teammates who were new or didn’t feel like part of the group. The thorough physical, mental, fundamental, and strategic preparation for each game. The expectation that his teammates do the same. The watchful eye from the dugout to make sure we respected the game and played the Cub Way—unselfish, team-first, winning-first baseball. The glare when someone did something that wasn’t Cub. The rare harsh word when it happened again. The high-fives and pats on the rear when it got fixed. The instinct to know when to create levity and when to get guys locked in. Reminding the young players how good they are. Reminding them they can get better. Words to keep the team grounded when winning seemed easy. Words to lift up the team when losing just one more would end the season.

Unselfishness. Accountability. Connectedness. David was the catalyst for these winning ingredients because he studied them and went out of his way to cultivate them for his teammates. In some ways he was born for the role. He was friendly, funny, caring, and magnetic, so everyone wanted to be around him. But he could also be edgy, stubborn, and authoritative, so nobody dared question him. In other ways David grew into the responsibility. He studied the winning teams he played for and the ways the manager and veterans handled the clubhouse. He never wanted to be called a bad teammate again and prioritized winning and the group above all else.

Getting to know David and witnessing his evolution was one of the joys of my career. I will never forget sitting forward in my seat in 2008 when he took over the playoff meeting as a newcomer. Nor will I forget reveling in his storybook farewell season and the look on his face as his teammates carried him off the field a champion. With his character and commitment, Rossy helped take the team and me to great places. I am confident he will do the same for you as you read about his journey on these pages. You will find lessons for sports and for life, including one he helped teach me long ago: Never underestimate the power of a great teammate.

Especially when it’s David Ross.

Theo Epstein

President of Baseball Operations, Chicago Cubs

February 2017