On Jo Adell

I know this is an OC political site. But a moment, please ...

Jo Adell

Not sure whether most readers know this, but when I’m not offering reheated political commentary, my main job involves chronicling sports (This is me). I actually started as a baseball writer at Sports Illustrated, where for much of my six years at the magazine I traveled America, hopping from ballpark to ballpark.

And … it’s weird. I grew up a huge baseball fan, but the job sort of beat it out of me. The flights. The juiced players. The endless hours inside a clubhouse. Sitting through a four-hour snoozer between Pittsburgh and Milwaukee. Boring men speaking about boring topics. It wound up feeling painfully stale, and by the time I bolted the magazine in 2003, I was pretty much done with America’s Pastime. I’d watch, but only casually, and without concern or rooting interest. Baseball became beige carpet to me. Just … meh.

Enter: 2026.

I cannot tell you how or why, but I’ve been attending a lot of Angels games this year. And, by “a lot,” I mean, oh, nine or 10. Maybe 11. It’s peculiar, because the team is absolutely brutal (they’re about to lose 100 games for the first time in franchise history) and Mike Trout’s bat has slowed significantly and Arte Moreno, the owner, is a victory-allergic sack of greed dung. The stadium is dated, the uniforms are dull, the food offerings are brutal (Jesus Christ, what is Oggi, and why does it exist?), the giveaways are cheesy. It is, by all measures, a bad Major League experience.

That said—I’ve loved it. Like, really, really, really loved it. As a lifelong New York Jets fan, I know a thing or two about watching bad operations. And while losing stinks, it’s also a powerful bonding elixir. To see players fail and fail and fail is to develop empathy, compassion, kindness. The Angels players don’t want to lose. They’re just not good enough to win. Which is no fault of their own.

The Dodgers have Mookie Betts and Freddie Freeman and Shohei and, now, Tarik Skubal.

The Angels have Nolan Schanuel.

It’s not a fair fight.

•••

I digress.

As we speak, Major League Baseball’s trade deadline approaches, and the Angels are getting busy. Thus far they’ve sent Jose Soriano to Toronto, Logan O’Hoppe and Chase Silseth to Texas, Brent Suter to Atlanta. I suspect, within a few hours of you reading this, shortstop Zach Neto will be gone, too.

The deal that got me, however, happened a few hours ago, when the Angels dealt outfielder Jo Adell to Cleveland for Jacob Cozart, a catching prospect.

When I first saw the news, my heart sank. Jo Adell? Gone? To Cleveland? Noooooo. If you don’t know, Adell is a 27-year-old corner outfielder from Kentucky. He was drafted by the Angels out of high school in 2017, and turned down a scholarship from Louisville to pursue a dream. Like almost every member of the Angels, Adell was a flawed player—a defensively mediocre, offensively limited gamer whose breakout 2026 season (37 homers, 98 RBI) feels like something of a mirage. Truth be told, Adell is fairly dime a dozen: A solid ballplayer, but far from spectacular.

That being said, I loved the guy. He played hard. Played loose. Connected with the fans. Felt engaging, energetic, peppy. To watch Jo Adell in right was to see someone who appeared to be present in the moment and locked in on the game. He also sports a dope beard, wears neon sleeves, jogs with a unique pep. There’s a style there. A Jo Adell style.

Now, alas, he is gone—off the Cleveland; off to join a Guardians team that plays in a beautiful downtown stadium, in front of fans who care, for an organization that prioritizes winning.

Like all ballplayers, he will be replaced in Anaheim, and the Angels will find a new No. 7 to wear his old No. 7.

For me, however, Jo Adell symbolizes more than just another ballplayer.

In the summer of 2026, I rediscovered my love of baseball.

I discovered Jo Adell.