TEMPE, Arizona — On a strikingly sunny Friday afternoon, you can hear one word all over the Los Angeles Angels spring training facility: yes. Manager Ron Washington is hitting fungoes on the half field and his voice is so loud that it carries over the music playing on the loudspeaker: Lil’ Wayne’s “Go DJ.” He’s working with a minor league infielder, ensuring that his prep step on fielding ground balls to his left is correct. The better the execution, the louder the affirmations.
“Yes. YES. YES!” Washington yells, while a few fans stand outside the gates, getting their first look at the new Halos manager, who was named to the position on Nov. 8, 2023. The big leaguers have yet to report to camp yet, so most of them have no idea who they’re looking at working on their footwork.
But Washington’s booming voice and rapid-fire cadence are unmistakable. Not only because you wouldn’t be able to broadcast his instructions on TV from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m., but because for the past six decades of baseball, the man they call Wash has etched his voice in the brains of more players than even he can remember.
“So, Wash can be kind of colorful. He would be like, come on, man, you can do this. I know you can. I know it’s in you. You gotta get in the s—, you gotta get your nose down in that motherf—er, trust me,” Preston Wilson said. He played for Washington in the New York Mets system for the Capital City Bombers where he was the manager. “Every day, man, he was the most positive. Most like caring. Like, you felt like you could do it. He was that guy that you never felt the energy was gone out of the room.”
A first-round draft pick out of high school, Single-A baseball isn’t the first time Wilson met Washington, who loved Zubaz pants at the time. Not even close. Since he was a kid, Wilson has known Washington, when he was his dad Mookie’s AAA roommate for the Tidewater Tides.
Having spent years in the minors as a player, coupled with his time in the bigs as a coach or manager, a true statistical and roster readout of all the Black players who’ve been a part of Washington’s life borders on the fantastical. Since former MLB manager Dusty Baker retired, not only is Washington the last of a certain generation who still leads a team, he’s one of the few who have seen what he’s seen in the game.
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The Six Degrees of Ron Washington is a game you really could play if you wanted to. While the current state of the Angels is a curious one in terms of roster construction and who they are in a post-Shohei Ohtani world, in the meantime, the lore of Wash is legendary.
“Outside of Dusty Baker — I would take Bobby Cox, I’ll even throw Joe Torre in there — Ron Washington would be up there with those guys if he had got an opportunity to manage as much as they had,” David Justice, two-time World Series champion and three-time All-Star said of his old Athletics third base coach. “I love Washington, and I could be around Wash every day of my life. I would have ran through walls for Wash if he was our manager. He’s fair. He’s honest. But his knowledge of the game is on another level.”
Kenny Lofton played for him in Texas. Ask any Rangers fan about a certain misplayed ball in right field during the World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals in 2011. If right fielder Nelson Cruz makes that play, the Rangers’ 2023 World Series win may have been the third or fourth title in franchise history instead of their first.
He remembers Washington as a guy who knew how to handle veterans and young players with equal depth and aplomb, not to mention someone who represents a larger struggle.
“I think the toughest part about the game is that you have to show success before you keep getting a job consistently. And also, if you are Black manager, to be honest, you don’t get those opportunities often,” Lofton said. He stole 622 bases with 2,428 hits in his career, on top of being a six-time All-Star, five-time stolen base leader, and four-time Gold Glove winner. “I just said ’bout time’ [when the Angels hired him]. We have a lot of ex-players or coaches who’ve played the game who have the knowledge and just need that opportunity. We got to keep looking at the way things are rolling for you to understand the reason why. You don’t want to say exactly what it is, but just read between the lines, you can tell why some guys don’t get a job.”
Anecdotally, the number of Black players from multiple generations who believe they are capable of managing a team is extremely high. It isn’t due to lack of interest. So when it came to putting together a staff for this season’s Halos campaign, that wasn’t just a perfunctory part of the hiring process.
Washington automatically has the Blackest coaching staff in the league with hitting coach Johnny Washington and two base coaches, Eric Young Sr., who came with him from the Atlanta Braves, and former Astros manager Bo Porter.
Porter played for those Moneyball A’s teams, too and remembers when he first met Wash.
“My first impression was one, just the passion and love that he had for the game. Yeah, it’s contagious. It’s authentic,” Porter said before a spring training game against the Dodgers. “And you recognize it right away whether you’re in a clubhouse or you’re on the field with him, his desire to just do things right. And that was noticeable from the first day I ever met him.
“Because he loves people in general, when you love people the way Wash loves people, he don’t see a problem. He’s looking for a solution. So even when, you know, there are some coaches that may run from coaching, Ron Washington is a coach that runs to coaching.”
“Wash wasn’t a very big guy. He’s not a very big guy now. So, imagine how he was as a player with his little skinny butt running around. But he played the game seriously, man, he played the game at 100%. He didn’t cheat himself, not one day, when he took that baseball field.”
— Dave Stewart
Washington was never a star. He wasn’t even drafted into pro ball. When people in the sport explain what he’s made of his talent and brilliance, it’s immediately understandable why everyone respects him.
“I think when you look back at people like Ron Washington, who knew how hard they had to fight just to get the opportunity that they were given, it’s almost like when they look at other people, they want them to have that same fight,” Porter explained.
Of course, with that many days and hours spent in dugouts, clubhouses and infield, you’re going to get a funny story or nine. My favorite comes from Lofton, who absolutely delights in retelling it.
“I was stealing second. It was blatantly that I was safe. They call me out and Wash went out to dispute the call,” the Cleveland Guardians Hall of Famer started, barely able to keep his laughter in. “And he pulled a hamstring. And he had to go back. He couldn’t even come back down to second base. He had to turn back around and go back to the dugout. Bro. We had the biggest laugh ever. He couldn’t even get across the line.”
For all the funny stories and delightful memories other people have, Washington’s story told in his own words is the most potent.
Deep in the bowels of the Gaylord Opryland Resort & Convention Center, about 100 professionals are sitting in a conference room listening to Washington speak, a day after he first spoke to media as the manager of the Angels. MLB’s Advancing Bases held a two-day event at the winter meetings in Nashville, Tennessee, that are designed to “provide a platform for diverse talent across the spectrum of baseball operations to receive continuing education and engagement with Club and League personnel through panels, breakout sessions, and professional development workshops,” according to the league.
A fun reunion of some familiar faces, everyone was happy to give their time. Cubs manager Craig Counsell talked about being born into the game, Guardians assistant general manager James Harris talked about coming from a football background as a former Oregon Duck, and so on.
But Washington stood out.
“It all started at a trial camp in 1970,” Washington explained. “I went to a trial camp with 156 kids, and I was a catcher at the time. I swung the bat one time, up to down to second base one time, around the 60-yard dash one time. They put me on the side, they sent me home.
“Two weeks later, I got a phone call. They wanted me to come back again. And when I came back, it was one more guy out of 155 that was left and he was a catcher also. I threw down to second base, ran the 60-yard dash and almost decapitated two pitchers at the plate. They put me on the side. After that was over, I went home. The next night I got a phone call. Out of the 156 Ron Washington was the only kid that made that trial count to go into the Kansas City Royals Baseball Academy. First time I’ve ever left my city.”
Many of the attendees were floored. Here was a guy who was a big-league skipper who made it all the way there from a random tryout in Louisiana when he was 18? If he could do that, certainly those invited could pursue their Major League dreams. The point was made, even if there was a whole ‘nother hour or so of panels and workshops.
That hometown, New Orleans, is still where Washington lives in the offseason and is a big part of who he is.
“When I was playing with the Dodgers, we started a nonprofit called Giving Back to the Hood. And you know, it’s pretty much what the academy is today, you know? We used to do free camps, clinics, things of that nature,” said Eddie Davis, director of the MLB Urban Youth Academy in New Orleans. “And Washington stuff, you know, he’s in town, he’d always just come out. A lot of guys he played with when he was with the Dodgers happened to be my managers when I kind of came through the system, sort of philosophies, or, you know, similar, you know, his peers actually, you know, taught me helped shape me and develop me and, of course, increase my knowledge of that kind of game.”
Davis is not just some random dude who runs a baseball academy. Before his pro career, he played at Long Beach State in the 1990s. He hit a homer in the College World Series. He’s more than grateful that Washington continues to rep the place that once he left, had no idea where baseball would take him.
“Now, a lot of people don’t know that he’s bringing big leaguers here [to work] with youngsters,” Davis said. “He always carved out at least two weeks over the last, I will say, five, six years of running in big leaguers that want to train with him, also training our top guys, and then also training us as a staff. We’ve spent hours in the conference room, just talking baseball. The success we have with our kids, when we take our kids nationwide on these showcases, they’re always amazed, like, ‘how [are] your kids so fundamentally sound?’ ”
Unbeknownst to me as to why at the time, watching the New Orleans team defeat the Rangers youth team at MLB Commissioner’s Cup in Seattle during All-Star Game weekend, working with Washington was definitely a big part of why they won. On a cold rainy morning at Husky Field on the University of Washington campus, Davis’ academy took home the trophy.
“For one, giving back to the kids when he comes here, but more importantly it’s like he’s teaching the teachers because that’s the biggest impact. You know, that’s the future, that’s gonna keep that legacy going and keep that knowledge going. It’s the right way. And that’s a huge impact.”
“I thought I was headed to Kansas City. We landed in Sarasota.” he said. “OK, I was not going to be denied. And that’s the mindset that each and every one of you should have out there about not being denied. I learned about baseball on a chalkboard. We went and we did all the fundamentals on the chalkboard. We went to the field, and we worked on the fundamentals that we did on the chalkboard. The moral of this story is, I was from a city that was hidden. I knew nothing about professional baseball. I really thought when you got to professional baseball, you went right to the top.”
That Kansas City Royals academy eventually turned out only three players who made it to the bigs: Washington, Frank White and U.L. Washington, who died March 3. There are no shortcuts in baseball if you’re a Black person. In the 1970s, at that? Not even close.
You survived one way: by looking out for yourself and each other.
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Until 2008, Vero Beach, Florida, was home to Dodgertown, a sprawling facility that the Los Angeles Dodgers used for decades before moving to Arizona. Those who went through the Dodgers system spent a good amount of time in Indian River County, where if you got too much attention from a certain part of the population, they’d have no problem ending your life perhaps, never mind your career.
You don’t have to go back to the Negro Leagues to find examples of how the playing on the field was just half the battle for making it in baseball.
“We were a group. We had very few areas that we could go and be accepted and feel comfortable for that matter,” said Dave Stewart, three-time World Series champion and 1989 World Series MVP. The two were in the system at the same time, although Washington was older. “There’s a little town in Vero Beach called Gifford that we all used to hang out in. Gifford was where all of the Black help was in Dodgertown, the maids and the cooks. They were all from Gifford. You know, obviously, [there were] Black people connecting you [to] where you need to be, what you should be doing and where everybody is at — something that always remains the same, at least in Black communities. If there’s a park, barbecue, music and us, then we’re gonna find out where it is, and that’s where we’re gonna be.”
Forged in that kind of environment, Stewart remembers just how committed Washington was to the game. Standing out in an organization like the Dodgers as a Black middle infielder is not easy, for obvious reasons.
“Wash on the field was one person and Wash off the field was another person. Wash off the field man, he loves to laugh, he loved to have a good time,” Stewart reminisced with a chuckle. Their families are both from Louisiana, so they had a natural bond, and they played together in the Mexican league for Venados de Mazatlán.
Matthew Grimes Jr./Atlanta Braves/Getty Images
“Playing cards, shooting craps, whatever we’re doing, man knew how to laugh and have a good time. But when it came time to get on that baseball field, Wash was no joke, man. He took care of his business. He could hit. He could run. Wash wasn’t a very big guy. He’s not a very big guy now. So, imagine how he was as a player with his little skinny butt running around. But he played the game seriously, man, he played the game at 100%. He didn’t cheat himself, not one day, when he took that baseball field.
“Ron Washington could play every aspect, every phase, of the game. And he was a smart player. You saw him very seldom do stupid things on the field. And when he did, he was extremely hard on himself. And that is an impression on everybody else that plays around him.”
The feeling of dispensability is one that a lot of ballplayers deal with. When race is thrown into the equation, another element is created. For all of the superstars the African American community may or may not have in the sport, the true test of meritocracy comes in who is allowed to be mediocre or just useful without being the best.
All these years later — when it is no easier — Gary Ward is dead serious about the matter. Ward and Washington played together for the Minnesota Twins in the bigs and eventually coached against each other down the line.
“You know, back in them days it was it was tough on Black players. It wasn’t as easy as it is today. You know, what, nothing handed to you. They always wanted to push the white player ahead of us all the time. You know?” Ward said. “He always put in a lot of time on himself to understand what he needed to do. Laughter and enjoying yourself was part of keeping your sanity where you could go out there every day and perform.”
They found a bit of a haven in Minneapolis, a time Ward greatly enjoyed.
“Minnesota was a great place to play, now,” Ward said, with the exact tone of an elder making sure you don’t get it twisted. “Everybody was nice to one another. Everybody treated everybody like human beings.”
I often wonder if another type like Washington will ever come along — if there’s some brotha who is not giving up on his MLB dream or who will eventually become the kind of leader who makes everyone feel better about themselves.
Ideally, nobody else will have to do the kinds of things Washington had to do to stay relevant in the game. In a different world, there are tons of Ron Washingtons ready to be discovered. But I know that’s not true, and in an earnest, frank moment, Washington knows there won’t be another like him either.
“There’s not one out there, And I say that because none of them has been through what I’ve been through,” Washington said, looking me right in the face, sitting in the stands behind home plate at Tempe Diablo Stadium this month. “My first year in A ball, I lived in a basement and living in that basement, the family that gave me that basement, they gave me the basement, and I never seen or heard from ’em again.
“I was catching the transit to the ballpark. I was going into places like the IHOP, talking to the manager, trying to get ’em to feed me, and I pay him on payday. Every now and then, one of the guys that got an automobile would drop me off, but they never dropped me off at my house. They dropped me off somewhere near my house and I would walk. You see what I’m saying? People don’t know that. There was many a years I had an apartment with no furniture in it. I could afford to pay the rent, but I couldn’t go rent furniture. You see what I’m saying? Yeah. I got an apartment, but there ain’t nothing in it. Just apartment. And I would put a blanket on the floor” to sleep.
It all sounds very “uphill both ways to school” if you can’t see the conviction in his face, hear the strength and pain in his voice, and feel the truth of that reputation that precedes him no matter which room, field, clubhouse, batting cage or bullpen he’s in. And everyone knows it.
“If it wasn’t for my mama, I would’ve quit. ’75 in Jacksonville, Florida. First time that I had been on a team where I wasn’t playing every day, and the manager had already told me that I’m not going to get any higher than AA. He made me cry,” Washington said, with no hint of a smile. “Then I called my mama and I told her to send me a bus ticket. She said, ‘OK, baby.’ Hung up the phone. Week passed. I called her back. ‘Mom, I thought you were sending me a bus ticket.’ She said, ‘keep your so-and-so and so there,’ and slammed the phone down. And guess what I did? I kept my so-and-so and so there.”
Beyond her son, the list of people who have her to thank for what came of Washington sticking around is vast, but impossible to measure in heart.
