Photo: Gage Skidmore via Wikimedia Commons.

The Cubs season has come to an end after a tough loss to the Brewers in the NLDS. The final out brought that familiar ache to Chicago fans, the kind that lingers just long enough to remind us why we care so deeply. But Cubs talk hasn’t ended with the close of the series. In fact, it’s taken a far more personal turn, as former Cubs catcher and manager David Ross has opened up about the darkest time in his life—a time long before the champagne showers and championship parades. His story isn’t about wins and losses on the field. It’s about perseverance when the world gives you no reason to keep going. It’s about finding light in the kind of darkness most of us never see.

Imagine being fifteen. A teenager whose life should be shaped by home, by guardians, by someone watching over you. But one day the doors close. The people who were supposed to carry your fears, your dreams, your daily needs vanish. You don’t get explanations or goodbyes. You’re left with a word echoing in your head: abandoned.

That was David Ross’s reality. As a teenager, his adoptive parents left him. No safety net, no stability, no one to sign permission slips or to tuck him in at night. Some nights he stayed at friends’ homes. More nights he stayed awake fighting the ache of emptiness. The isolation wasn’t just outside him, it was inside him, like a dark current pulling at his confidence. When you’re that old, you don’t ask why me. You ask instead, what do I do now.

In the absence of certainty, Ross found something he could control: the crack of a baseball against the wall. The sharp pop. The rebound. The rhythm. The repetition. That sound became his companion and his anchor. It was physical proof that he could make something happen, even if the world wasn’t showing up. That ball, thrown again and again, was both therapy and promise. He threw until his hands bled, until the noise drowned out the doubts. In that ritual he began to rebuild a belief. Maybe he was worth as much as any other kid. Maybe someone would see that. Baseball became more than a game. It became structure, refuge, and a vehicle for proving that he mattered.

David Ross’s climb to success was never linear. He wasn’t the top draft pick, the headline superstar, or the guaranteed starter. He was the grinder, the journeyman catcher, the backup, the veteran voice in the locker room. But his impact was never small. Sometimes the most important contributions are the ones behind the scenes, the ones that hold a team together when the seams threaten to tear. Every trade, every demotion, every cut became echoes from the past. He felt rejections as personal, like someone leaving him again. But this time he had built internal muscles to absorb the shock. Instead of folding, he leaned in. He showed up. He remained steady.

When the Cubs signed him in 2015, many believed it was a ceremonial nod to a veteran’s career winding down. But fate had other ideas. In 2016, in Game 7 of the World Series, in a moment charged with pressure and legacy, Ross stepped up and hit a home run. One swing. In that instant, all the pain, all the lonely nights, all the doubt converged. Every rejection, every lost night, every moment of feeling unwanted had led him there. That swing was more than a run scored. It was proof that broken beginnings don’t necessarily lead to broken endings.

Ross retired, but he didn’t step away. He became a coach, a manager, a mentor. These roles were not just about strategy but about seeing the person behind the uniform. He knew pain. He knew what it was to want someone to believe in you. And so he tried to be that person for others. He spoke openly about therapy, faith, and emotional healing. He said that toughness is not the absence of weakness, but getting up when no one is there while knowing when to ask for help. He talked about vulnerability as part of the journey, not the enemy of strength. He carried forward a mission that no player under his watch should feel unseen, unheard, or abandoned. His legacy isn’t just in statistics or championships. It’s in people who feel valued, included, and held.

We underestimate how much perseverance costs. It isn’t glamorous or always visible. It is the dozens of mornings you drag your heart out of bed, the times you speak your truth when your voice trembles, the nights you keep going when you feel empty. David Ross’s journey didn’t erase the abandonment. It didn’t pretend it never happened. But he showed what happens when you refuse to let it be the final word. You stay. You build. You lean in. You become the person your younger self needed. In doing so, you give others the home you never had.

If today you feel unseen, unmoored, or on shaky ground, remember this. Your story is still being written. Keep the pitch coming. Keep showing up. Keep throwing the ball. Through persistence, your greatest chapters may still be ahead.

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