The Angels are stuck. Stuck with an aging Mike Trout, signed through 2030 with nearly $200 million left on his 12-year contract he signed in 2019. Stuck with paying out nearly $40 million on Anthony Rendon’s disaster of a free agent contract signed in 2020. Stuck with an owner who doesn’t even recognize that winning should be a priority for the franchise. Stuck with the consequences of short-sighted, win-now decisions over the last decade when the need for a complete tear down and rebuild was so
obvious from the outside.
Los Angeles is essentially running things back this year, though at least the moves they made have the potential for some higher rewards if things break their way. Gambling on guys like Grayson Rodriguez and Alek Manoah could have some solid payoffs if they’re healthy, though bringing in four high-leverage relievers with an average age of 36 is a lot less defensible. There are a handful of bright spots to cling to: Zach Neto is one of the best young shortstops in baseball and Jo Adell finally broke out in his sixth big league season. Still, just look at the table below and you’ll get a sense for how bleak things are for the Angels.
The only position the Angels have an advantage over the Mariners is at shortstop, where Neto projects to be third best in the American League at that position. Everywhere else is below league average and not in a “the sum is greater than it’s parts” kind of way. Nearly every part of this roster needs an overhaul, and if you read John’s summary of Los Angeles’ farm system, it’s pretty clear that future improvement isn’t present in the organization yet. It feels like you can boil down the Angels approach to roster building to “make it 2019 by science or magic,” which wouldn’t be so sad if you didn’t know that the last time they made a playoff appearance was 2015.
So here they are, caught in no man’s land, neither competing for even a Wild Card spot nor tearing things down to build for the future. Just existing in the cellar of the AL West. Stuck.
2026 FanGraphs Depth Charts projections: 72.5-89.5, 5th in AL West, 5.4% playoff odds
2026 PECOTA projections: 66.4-95.6, 5th in AL West, 0.5% playoff odds
If it all goes right
As he stepped into the Rate Field batter’s box on March 27, 2025, Mike Trout took a deep breath and said to himself, “Fuck it. This one’s for me.” Knowing that his (still mystifyingly) beloved Angels were going nowhere, he spent the year chasing his lost ceiling, but it cost him something. To stay healthy, he spent 106 games at DH and the mere 22 games he played in the field came in right. To chase his old batting line, he sold out for power, whiffing and striking out at unprecedented rates.
So when he picked up a baseball for the first time over the offseason, he looked at it, tossed it in the air, caught it, and said to himself, “This time, for the real me.”
And that’s what we saw from wire to wire over 2026. Gone was the 2016-2023 version of himself that was trying to drag his team to the promised land. And gone was the 2024-2025 version of himself that was trying to etch his name more firmly into the record books. Returned again was the 2014-2015 version of Mike Trout who played simply for the love of the game. No longer playing like he was trying to prevent an injury, he just let himself go, leaving his status up to the baseball gods that once shined on him so brightly. And that turned out to be exactly the sacrifice they’d asked for.
Trout once again played with a preternatural ease and a too-simple-to-have-other-interests joie de vivre. At the plate, he hadn’t lost a step with his skills last year—the bat speed, the eye, the swing path, they were all still clearly there in the peripherals. He’d just made a bad change in approach. No longer selling out for power, he was able, ironically, to access more of it. And a vintage Mike Trout in the 2026 Angels lineup resulted in opponents intentionally walking him at a rate not seen in MLB since Barry Bonds. So he ended up hitting .288/.430/.575, the best hitter in baseball for the first time since 2019.
His speed was never coming back, but he’d clearly learned a thing or two about baserunning and pitcher tells across his 2,900 times on base, so he still stole 29 bases, just shy of a second 30-30 season.
He asked to get put back in centerfield, where he always belonged. He’d lost his range to the ravages of time, but no longer caring about whether he was going to be sore tomorrow, he made a few high-effort web-gem plays that made his youth, and our youth, flash before our eyes. When he robbed Julio of a home run at T-Mobile Park on September 25th, even the Mariners fans—in a forgiving mood after clinching a playoff spot the night before—gave him a standing ovation in tribute.
All told, his 9.1 fWAR took him past Wade Boggs, Al Kaline, Albert Pujols, Cap Anson, Cal Ripken Jr., Carl Yastrzemski, and Eddie Matthews to get to 22nd all-time.
The Angels finished 80-82. —ZAM
If it all goes wrong
The real battle over the past six years hasn’t been him vs. Verlander, or Price, or Iwakuma, even. Not even the WBC matchup with Ohtani that’s been analyzed from every angle, replayed in YouTube videos and TikToks through tiny, tinny speakers. No, the battle he fights every day is older, Biblical: spirit vs. flesh. The sense memory of gliding across outfield grass, thick and springy beneath his feet as he chases after a ball, easily picking out the small white orb from the California sky. The reality of how his knee protests every sharp turn and slide, the fifteen minutes he puts in every morning rolling his back out, the lingering ache in his thumb that worsens in the rain. He always knows when it’s going to rain.
For so long, he’s kept watch in the garden. He’s been the steady heartbeat at the center of this lineup, attempted to keep his teammates alert, drag them kicking and screaming over the precipice of the playoffs. He’s been a faithful servant to this team, this fanbase, this city. It’s all he knows: faith and family, showing up for people, doing the right thing.
And in exchange, management brought in…some players who should have worked, actually. Talented guys who maybe just needed some new scenery, a little sunshine. Grayson Rodriguez, Alek Manoah, Vaughn Grissom, Matthew Lugo, Oswald Peraza – all promising players who went by the wayside somehow. Diamonds in the rough, some rougher than others. As a plan, it left a lot to be desired. But he’s learned how to live with not getting what he wants.
Initially, it’s great. Manoah, a burly bear of a man he likes quite a bit, declares the squad Misfit Island, a reference that he’s not sure most of the clubhouse understands but makes a good t-shirt anyway. He’s not sure when Mike Trout, the Mike Trout, became a misfit, an underdog, an afterthought, but he puts those thoughts out of his mind. Maybe, just this once, someone else can take over the watch.
It starts small — a delayed start to the season for Grayson, which stretches into a missed month, then two. Then the injuries come for the pitchers in the bullpen whose birthdates have an 8 as the third digit. Offensively, the health is better, but the strikeouts gradually stack up, alongside the losses. You don’t get the reward without the risk, but sometimes buying low just means you paid less, got less.
It happens at the end of April, towards the end of a Midwest road swing. Chicago is cold and miserable that spring, the streets still pockmarked by mounds of fossilized snow, the field soggy after weeks of heavy rain-snow mix. They’re on a good run early in the season, even not at full strength due to some injuries, and he’s getting to play right field – a compromise between himself and his new skipper, who still remembers him in his golden era, a not-misfit.
The ball jumps off Mongtomery’s bat with a crack but hangs up in the wind, suspended, before plummeting downwards like someone shot it out of the air. There’s no way he’ll get there in time. In his prime, he probably couldn’t have gotten there in time. But he has to try. He’s wired for loyalty, the flesh mortal but the spirit indomitable, ever-vigilant.
He feels it in his plant leg immediately, his foot sinking too deep in the spongy grass, the knee joint catching like an old lock; can picture the cartilage shearing back, but it’s too late, he’s already in motion, chasing, one last time, a quickly disappearing dream, an angel falling out of the sky. —KP
