Keep the Politics Out of the End Zone*
In the fall of 2020, amid a pandemic, a contentious election, and nationwide protests, President Donald Trump did something that surprised even some of his most loyal supporters—he declared war, in a manner of speaking, on college football. It wasn’t a war in the traditional sense, of course. There were no tanks or missiles involved—just tweets, press conferences, and a strange obsession with who was or wasn’t playing on Saturdays. And while it might’ve looked like a rallying cry for fans desperate for a slice of normalcy, many saw it for what it was: another political play.
President Trump had always been a showman first and politician second. He knew the power of symbols and spectacle. To his base, football was more than a game—it was a culture, a Saturday ritual, a final holdout of tradition in an increasingly complicated America. So when some conferences, like the Big Ten and Pac-12, postponed their seasons due to COVID-19, Trump pounced. He called for the sport’s return with the kind of fervor usually reserved for State of the Union addresses. “Let them play!” he tweeted. He called up university presidents, leaned on governors, and framed the cancellations as some kind of liberal conspiracy to destroy American values.
To be clear: this isn’t about the legitimacy of loving college football. I love college football. The way the sun hits the field at a 3:30 p.m. kickoff. The passion of student sections shaking stadiums built like temples. The smell of barbecue in the parking lot. College football is stitched into the cultural fabric of many regions. But what it isn’t—what it should never be—is a pawn on a politician’s chessboard.
Trump’s meddling was not rooted in concern for the players, many of whom were expressing deep fears about playing during a pandemic. Nor was it rooted in a respect for the institutions, who were facing complex public health decisions. It was rooted in optics. “If the SEC plays, that’s Trump Country,” one commentator observed. The idea was that, by framing the continuation of football as an act of defiance against liberal elites and bureaucrats, Trump could stir his base, dominate headlines, and recast himself as the champion of American normalcy.
But the damage of politicizing the sport goes beyond just one election cycle. College football, like all college sports, is built on trust—between players and coaches, fans and schools, communities and traditions. When politics gets injected into the locker room, it creates fissures. Suddenly, whether or not your team takes the field becomes a litmus test for your political identity. A fourth-and-one decision isn’t just about yardage; it’s about who you voted for.
Of course, Trump wasn’t the first president to mention sports. Teddy Roosevelt stepped in to clean up the brutality of early football, pushing for reforms that would eventually lead to the NCAA’s creation. Barack Obama occasionally weighed in on bracket predictions during March Madness. But what Trump did was fundamentally different—he didn’t just comment on sports; he made them a political cudgel.
At a rally in the South, he once declared, “We want to see college football. These young, strong guys—they’re not going to get sick!” Ignoring the medical experts, the coaches, and yes, the players themselves, he positioned the game not as a sport to be handled carefully in a health crisis, but as a symbol of rebellion against the so-called “deep state” and the media. The health of student-athletes was secondary to the image of a full stadium.
That kind of thinking is dangerous.
Because here’s the truth: players aren’t just avatars on a screen. They’re not just names on a jersey. They are young men—some barely out of high school—navigating the most intense years of their lives under immense scrutiny. When you turn their game into a political billboard, you force them into positions they didn’t ask for. You co-opt their effort and passion to score points in a game they’re not even playing.
It’s not about being anti-Trump. It’s about being pro-football, pro-student, and pro-reality. The reality is that politics already seeps into college athletics in complicated ways—from funding and public university policies to NIL deals and racial justice protests. What we don’t need is a President grandstanding in cleats he’s never earned, turning ESPN segments into campaign ads.
Imagine a world where presidents kept their hands off the playbook. Where the decisions about postponing or proceeding with seasons were made solely by health experts, university officials, and coaches—those actually tasked with the well-being of the students involved. Imagine a fall without the noise of political rallies masquerading as pep rallies. Imagine the purity of the game, preserved not because it’s apolitical, but because it’s bigger than politics.
To those who say “Trump was just standing up for the fans,” I ask: which fans? Because for every person waving a flag and demanding games resume, there were others—doctors, parents, athletes—begging for caution. Fans deserve football, yes. But not at the expense of players’ health, or the integrity of the game. Not as a campaign stunt.
Trump’s presidency was many things: chaotic, divisive, historic. He broke every rule in the political playbook and wrote his own. But one rule he never understood—one boundary he never respected—was the line between leadership and spectacle. College football was never supposed to be a stage for political theater. It was supposed to be about rivalry, passion, tradition, and heart.
Let it stay that way.
As we move into another election season, there will be new candidates, new crises, new attempts to co-opt whatever cultural juggernaut still holds meaning for a divided country. My plea—to leaders, fans, and even future presidents—is simple: keep your hands off college football. Let the game breathe. Let the athletes own their moment. And let Saturday afternoons belong not to politics, but to the game we love.