Ron Washington ran me through his famous infield drills. It was … incredibly hard

New York Times

12-05-2025

ANAHEIM, Calif. — You know that scene in the movie 'Whiplash'? The one from the 2014 Academy Award-winning drama, where an intimidating band teacher, played by J.K. Simmons, berates a young drummer, played by Miles Teller? Eventually, Simmons' character hurls a chair at Teller's head and screams in his face, spittle flying everywhere.
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As I stood on the grass at Angel Stadium earlier this month, I couldn't help but fear I was about to end up like the drummer. I had an infielder's glove on my right hand but little idea how to use it; my main concern was trying to not make a fool of myself while an intense, legendary instructor oversaw my every move.
A few days before, I'd asked Los Angeles Angels manager and renowned fielding coach Ron Washington to go through his patented infield drills. I wanted a more hands-on perspective on him and his team.
He agreed, on one condition: I must take it seriously. That was no problem, but my ability might be. I am 31, but my baseball experience ended after Little League.
Washington is no Simmons. He's not nearly as mean. But he does demand the same level of pinpoint precision. And his vocabulary is equally blue.
'You've got things in your mind that you think about the way s—'s supposed to go,' Washington told me. 'What you're doing right now is, you're with a f—in' expert. I'm a mother—-ing expert.'
There's no denying that. He coached the Braves infield that won a World Series in 2021. He taught six-time Gold Glove winner Eric Chavez, who actually gifted him his third trophy as a thank you.
And it all stems from this routine, one that Angels players go through before every game. It's designed to create instinctive habits for fielding ground balls from every possible angle.
It couldn't be that hard, I'd thought. And yes, I am aware of the line most famously associated with Washington, from a different Academy Award-nominated movie, one that exposed him to a non-baseball audience: 'Moneyball.'
And I should have known that it would, in fact, be incredibly hard.
There was a towel set up on the grass, folded on the ends to give a little extra padding where my knees were supposed to go. There were three baseballs sitting in front of me.
'What is your idea of what those three balls are for?' Washington asked.
Immediately, I was flustered. We hadn't even started.
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'Reaction time,' I guessed, praying he'd quickly correct me without further prodding.
Instead, he let me continue. I filled the silence: 'I imagine I'm supposed to field them in some capacity.'
'What they do is they line your hands up,' he said, having heard enough.
That is, in essence, the entire purpose of the drill. To work on mechanics for backhands, glove hands and up the middle. The drill forces you to take the most direct route to the ball, field it in the center of your glove and follow through properly to finish the play. Eventually the drill transitions to fungos, where footwork becomes paramount.
I was a mess from the start. Using two hands to field, when back-hands and glove hands only require the glove. Then using one hand to field balls up the middle, when two hands are required.
'Just relax, Sam, you're good, just me and you,' Washington told me. 'Anything you do that's wrong, I'm going to correct it.'
When I got it right, Washington's positive reinforcement was off the charts. Every rep done correctly was met with increasingly loud words of affirmation. 'There you go,' he'd say every time, his inflection rising and rising. 'Woah!' 'Beautiful.' After one stretch of strong plays he ran over and gave me a hug.
The exact opposite, however, occurred just 14 minutes in. I'd been flipping the ball back to him with my glove, a huge no-no that I was unaware violated a key unwritten rule. Suddenly, he'd had enough and decided to enforce it.
'Don't be flipping that motherf—er to me out of that glove,' he said, noting that it was disrespectful. 'Put your hand in that mothef—er and flip it to me.'
The intensity (both positive and negative), the cursing, the cackling laughter — it's all part of how he operates.
You know that his compliments are not patronizing, because he's happy to let you know when you're doing it wrong.
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'This is the way I work,' he said. 'And I'm not demeaning you or downing you. This is just the way I teach.'
Washington is a manager, yes — but he is a teacher first. Over the offseason, he'll open his doors to players from all levels, from high school to the big leagues, to go through a seven-day lesson. Often, for amateurs, he'll do it pro bono, knowing the family already paid for travel and a hotel.
Washington's mettle has been tested in this job. After a decade out of the managerial chair, he took this position because he wanted one more shot. The Angels were the only team willing to give it. He captained the worst team in franchise history last season, finishing 63-99. The start of 2025 hasn't been any better: our drills came just hours after his team blew a two-run lead in the eighth inning the night before, the sixth straight loss in what would become a seven-game streak.
None of that, however, changes his standing in the sport after 55 years in the game as a player, coach and manager. He came within one out of a World Series championship as manager of the Texas Rangers in 2011. 'Wash' is universally known throughout baseball circles.
Watching Angels infielders perform Washington's fielding routine before games, I've often wondered about the purpose. Over time, it's become clear these drills are about more than fielding mechanics. This speaks to who Washington is, his identity as a coach. However much the Angels might struggle, no one can take this away from him.
After 51 minutes of drills, I found myself in my worst nightmare. I'd intentionally asked to schedule this session long before players arrived at the park. It was set for noon, nearly seven hours before first pitch. I'd gotten there 15 minutes early, and Washington already had it set up, awaiting my arrival.
This was a good thing, I thought. I didn't want living, breathing major-league ballplayers to get a glimpse of me doing this. Especially since I've typed my fair share of words about their poor play over the last five seasons.
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Then Zach Neto appeared. He'd seen me from the press box — up where I normally sit — where he was recording a podcast. The Angels shortstop spotted me doing what he usually does.
'Hi Zach,' I said, ripping the band-aid off about a minute after he'd approached.
'Hi Sam,' he responded with a smile on his face.
I told him I was tired, and that this was for a story I was working on.
'You gotta get it done first,' he countered, clearly enjoying this.
With Neto watching, something interesting happened: the dynamic changed. Washington's positive reinforcement and understanding evaporated.
'You're writing about baseball, and you don't know what a f—n' backhand is,' he said as I struggled to line my feet up properly.
Neto's presence also meant that everyone else would find out. Mike Trout, who had been placed on the IL a day earlier, made sure to let me know he'd acquired video of the excursion. 'Infield drills, I don't know about that,' he said with a chuckle. Logan O'Hoppe said that I should have to catch the ceremonial first pitch instead of him.
'How are your legs feeling?' Neto joked after the game ended. It wasn't until I woke up hours later that I realized why he'd asked. I've run five marathons, but soreness from just more than an hour of these drills rivaled next-day pain.
'That means you did it right,' Washington would tell me. Cold comfort. At least the players feel it too. Neto said it takes a few days into spring training for the aches to subside.
After the drills ended, Washington went back to where he was sitting when I arrived. The seat where he's perched for every pitch of every game.
He started talking about the difference between symptoms and causes. A bad play, he said, that's a symptom. That's what we see. But Washington believes he can spot the cause almost immediately.
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'You have to be able to listen, you have to be able to learn, and you have to be able to apply,' he said. 'If you can't listen, how the f— you gonna learn? And if you can't learn, how the f— are you going to apply?'
This is what we on the Angels beat refer to as the 'Wash Cycle.' A de facto vent session that can go on for a while, the topics zig-zagging between anything on his mind — his team, the game at large or his life's story.
Today, it was defense. And at this point, it was clear that he was no longer talking about me or our drills. His focus was on his ballclub, though he didn't say so.
He pulled out a cigarette and began to smoke.
I was ready for a nap. For Washington, the day was just getting started. Soon, more of his players would arrive. Everything we'd done for the last 75 minutes would be repeated many times over.
The Angels might not be a winning team. Heck, they might be one of the worst teams in baseball. A 162-game season has a way of letting you know.
But good, bad or somewhere in between, it won't change who Wash is. And what I came to understand on that early afternoon at Angel Stadium, as I was rushing, dragging, and bumbling the ball around, is that these drills are what define him.
(Illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; Courtesy of the Los Angeles Angels)