You can make great money without a college degree, but the odds are never in your favor; those with degrees still earn, on average, twice as much as people without one. Unfortunately, this key component of upward mobility has become very, very expensive. Tuition skyrocketed for three decades, then stabilized at obscenely high rates from 2018 to 2024. Now, under Trump’s careful stewardship, the cost of a college degree is spiking once again: students saw increases of as much as 10 percent in 2025. Tuition aside, students have to eat. A study by Temple University found that 59 percent of college students have experienced food or housing insecurity. Fourteen percent have experienced homelessness. Black and indigenous students experienced these problems at 75 percent. It’s hard to do well in classes when you’re hungry.
Thankfully, Our President is taking decisive action to help kids attain the kind of education that will allow them to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.
I am, of course, referring to the Patriot Games.
The Patriot Games, for those who do not obsessively follow the Trump administration’s every move, was an athletic competition in which 100 kids between the ages of 14 and 17 competed for two $125k scholarships—one for each of the two state-approved genders—courtesy of Trump’s Freedom 250 bribe pool. To volunteer as tribute, all these kids had to do was fill out an application with their social media handles and a video submission that answered questions like “What does being an American mean to you?” and “Describe a moment when you felt especially grateful to be American.” Those selected then travelled to Geneva, Ohio for three days of games at the Spire Olympic Training Facility, which is where I found myself on Tuesday, August 11th, a few hours before the finale took place.
A word about tickets to this finale, which were free and which I applied for immediately after receiving their first offer on July 30th. The administration would send six more messages about tickets over the next 12 days, with increasing frequency as time went on. “URGENT: 2026 Patriot Games Finale Registration Closes Soon,” an August 5th email blared. Two days later, they made a surprise announcement: Trump himself would make an appearance at the Games. What more incentive could you need to fly into Cleveland, Ohio and then drive an hour to Geneva to watch high-schoolers duke it out for a college scholarship?
Throughout this entire period, the Patriot Games schedule remained static: doors open at 3:00 PM and close at 6:00, event starts an hour later. At 9:40 AM on the day of the finale, however, we received a dramatically revised schedule. Doors would open at 10:00 AM—20 minutes after this schedule hit our inboxes—and close at 4:00 PM. Those who arrived before 2:00 PM would have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to tour the facilities where the rest of the competition took place. First come, first served. Entrance not guaranteed.
I received this letter somewhere in Iowa while fueling up a car stuffed to the gills with boxes, bags, and a table that absolutely should not fit in the back of a Toyota Corolla and which took me half an hour to tetris in there. I’m driving a bunch of stuff from Portland, Oregon to New York City and I had the trip planned down to the minute. If everything went well, I would hit Geneva at exactly 3:00 PM. Since there’s no way to move that timeline up without triple-digit speeds, I figure one of two things is about to happen:
I'm not going to get in
So few people have signed up for tickets that they're trying to create false urgency, then get a head count at 4 to see if they need to recruit bleacher fillers
As I pull into Spire Academy several hours later, it becomes immediately clear that Scenario #2 is the winner. The ticket lists two overflow lots for latecomers, but the main one is half-empty. All I have to do is get past the bomb-sniffing German Shepherd inspecting every vehicle: something I have never encountered in five years of attending right-wing events. MAGA is having a very chill time, folks. They’re fine.
I park and walk to the entrance—which, one hour before doors allegedly close, looks like this:
I walk through security and follow the directions of a cheerful young volunteer to the enormous rectangular Olympic Training Center, where I am not asked to present my ticket and where I park myself on the mostly-empty bleachers to gaze upon the American Ninja Warrior training course that would determine which of eight finalists would receive a scholarship and which would go home with a participation medal.
We’d been told to wear jerseys and shirts from our home state, but most people opted for MAGAware or TPUSA shirts instead. Of those in state shirts, nearly all were repping the Ohio State Buckeyes, which makes sense, since who other than Ohioans would travel to Geneva for such a dubious competition? As with most Trumpy events, the vast majority of attendees were Gen X. They were also—and you are going to be shocked to learn this—almost entirely white.
I settled in for three long hours of waiting. The reception was abysmal, but Spire Academy had wifi, which you could use if you agreed to content surveillance. In the name of live-posting the event, and against my better judgment, I accepted. The people behind me declined. What if some foreign country had infiltrated the event and set up this wifi to gather information on American patriots? This logic boggles the mind, but I put it to you: who’s stupider, the people who declined surveillance for a silly reason or the fool who clicked yes for a mediocre one?
Bored, I asked the people next to me to watch my seat and went to grab some snacks from the merch/concessions area at the entrance. I passed on a Chick-Fil-A sandwich and popcorn in favor of something caffeinated or at least full of sugar. For some reason, Trump events exclusively have Pepsi products, and I’m sorry to be this person but I would rather drink bleach than a goddamn Pepsi, so I contented myself with a root beer and a bottle of water.
The merch area next to the concessions was shockingly barren for a Trump event. The man at the display rack told us we could get our state flag custom-printed on the sleeve of the beige sweatshirt unless we wanted Ohio or California. I asked him about this, and he told me the logistics people just ordered 40 of every state. For an event in Geneva, Ohio. Of course.
Behind the bleachers, an astro-turf field stretched from end to end of the enormous rectangular building, half-shrouded in darkness. As I cracked my root bear, the kids began running onto the field, each in a patriotic jersey numbered between 1 and 100, which did not remind me of Squid Game at all. They sat in a semicircle around a folding table loaded with treats and several adults in white track suits. One of them issued some sort of instruction, then began asking questions and tossing treats to whichever kid answered correctly.
People continued to trickle in well after the doors allegedly closed until, by showtime, the stands looked mostly full if you squinted and didn’t look at the half-empty bleachers just behind the beginning of the course—and I do mean half-empty; the event coordinators herded the audience into the right half only for the cameras. Several people from my section were recruited to move to the VIP bleachers at the middle of the course so the place didn’t look so desolate. With creative editing and camera-work, this event might actually look packed.
I was very skeptical as to whether the big man himself would show up, but I was wrong; as the thrum of a helicopter filled the stadium, the man next to me told me Trump was supposed to arrive by chopper. A few minutes later, the announcers confirmed the rumor: Trump was in the building and would lead the eight finalists onto the field himself. “I guess that means they won’t be running,” I posted: the last thing to get past those infernal metal beams before the wifi gave out completely. I turned my attention to the monitors above our heads, which began to play footage from earlier in the event: a bizarre mishmash of sports that included a T-ball bunt and throwing footballs at moving targets. The kids went all-out. $125K is a lot of money.
At last the event began. The 92 non-finalists marched onto the field, state flags held aloft, then ditched them and marched past TPUSA-style pyrotechnics1 to take their seats inside the Presidential box and above it. Shortly thereafter, Trump himself walked onto the field, followed by eight kids like so many ducklings. All eight finalists were white. Five of them were blonde.
Trump walked to the large platform at the middle and surveilled the applauding crowd, then saluted as the National Anthem began to play. What he was saluting, I could not tell you: not a single American flag in the place, not even the monitors above my head. I guess the Star-Spangled Banner does not yet wave o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave. Then again, I think we knew that already.
The Ninja Warrior course had two tracks; the semi-finals for each state-approved gender would consist of two side-by-side races, followed by a final run between the victors to determine the winner. At the end of it, two of these kids would walk away with something every kid should get: an education that won’t bankrupt them or leave them battling food insecurity. A game against hunger, if you will.
All the kids did well. Three fell off the course, but got up and finished anyway—not Ninja Warriors rules, but I respect the commitment. At the top of the final obstacle (the infamous 14-foot Warp Wall, but with rock climbing holds to make it easier), the two contestants hugged it out, every single time. They’d been on the same team for the tug-of-war event that secured their place in the finals, one of the girls told the announcer. They all wanted the best for each other.
The girl’s final was close. The final race for the boys—spoiler alert—was not. This clean-cut blonde boy from Utah (whose name, I kid you not, is Rockwell) pulled ahead of the Florida boy early and widened the gap until his opponent fell off an obstacle in his haste to catch up. Rockwell reached the top, slammed the buzzer, and celebrated…but by the time his opponent reached the top, his smile was gone. Florida was grinning and tearing up as they hugged but Utah looked serious, nervous. It’s dangerous to project emotions onto someone from a bleacher seat, but it sure looked like the weight of the thing that had just happened was bearing down hard on Rockwell’s shoulders. Because he’d won, someone else had lost.
I found the Patriot Games somewhat hard to watch. There was no second place; if you ain’t first, you’re last. Crueler things have happened, of course, than falling just a few seconds short of a college education. Maybe these kids have families who can afford it, I don’t know. It still got to me. I wish there’d at least been second place.
When interviewed, the winners of the semi-finals and finals almost all thanked God for their victory—not in an Oscars way, but an “all glory to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ” kind of way. The crowd liked this very much, and one suspects the powers that be selected for this specific genre of religiosity.
Trump spoke during halftime and again just after the finals: two brief interviews with an ESPN host in high gold heels and a red dress. Doubtless the whole thing was a welcome change of pace for our President: no questions about Iran, or Israel, or the economy, or the reflecting pool, or the $900 million ballroom: just sports and sycophancy. “What teams do you think will do well in the NFL this year?” Trump lists off a few teams—the Patriots, the Rams, the Giants. “Great analysis, Mr. President.”
When all was over, the eight finalists stood up on the platform and Trump presented the two winners with an enormous gold trophy and a novelty check, which the announcer instructed them to hold aloft for the cameras. Pyrotechnics and confetti erupted as the crowd cheered, YMCA played, Trump did his little dance…and it was over.
Other articles—the kind that actually feature quotes from attendees instead of vibes and observations—suggest that many spectators came out primarily to see the President, which might explain the tension in the air as everyone filed out. Or maybe that’s just me. I’d driven 38 of the last 51 hours to make this event in time, I was very tired, and malaise was creeping in. Oh well. Nothing that a tall boy, a Chipotle burrito, and 10 hours of sleep can’t cure.
Nothing of great significance happened at Trump’s Patriot Games. Two kids got what the announcer correctly described as “life-changing money,” 98 kids got medals and memories that were hopefully good, a couple thousand people sat in some bleachers and listened to Trump talk about football for a few minutes, no one got seriously injured—at least, as far as I know. The corruption was garden-variety, the Christian Nationalist overtones no worse than usual. Just another day in dystopian America.
The thing that disquieted me the most, oddly enough, was a trash can—the one in the picture at the beginning of this article. Beneath large print that reads TRASH ONLY, an AI-generated picture of a girl looking nobly to the side with a background that appeared to be a colosseum on fire and the words “2026 Patriot Games.”
And maybe I’m reading too much into things but idk, you tell me:
The Hunger Games jokes came in thick and fast from the moment the administration announced this event, and you could dismiss the Hunger-Games-inspired trash can as a troll….but for whose eyes to see? Not the press: there was no way to apply for credentials, which implies an invite-only situation. Not the attendees, (almost) all of whom presumably support Trump.
It really feels like the administration watched the Hunger Games movies and was like, “this is cool. We should do this.”
Desperation as entertainment. Then again, what isn’t? Gambling addiction is skyrocketing thanks to legalized sports betting and online casinos and total ad saturation, and you would not believe how many cannabis billboards I saw driving cross-country to this event—or maybe you would, since every state that’s legalized it has pot shops on every corner now. I smoke up and play poker and think these things should be legal….but not on your phone, and not as a soporific in this era of increasing economic despair. We had UFC on the White House lawn and Hunger Games in Ohio and maybe we’ll get our own colosseum someday, but is there really a need for it when we’ve all become gladiators on social media? We’re angry, we’re strung out, and over 40 percent of Americans believe the future will be even worse. The American dream of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps was always out of reach for most people, but at least it was a good dream. Now, the dream is: get lucky. Win big. Escape the Matrix and exploit everyone beneath you. No one’s going from grocery clerk to CEO in 21st century America. Those days, to the extent they ever existed, are over.
Desperate people make for good entertainment. They make good subjects too. People barely hanging on aren’t going to take risks, speak out, or unionize, especially if they’ve become convinced that AI can replace them. It’s hard to think straight when your cortisol is high, when you spend so much of your time worrying about making rent or staying out of the hospital. Desperation is good business, and business is booming.
As an aside: people were shocked at the use of pyrotechnics at Charlie Kirk’s funeral, but what you have to understand is that these things are MAGA culture, like sequins and novelty flags. The higher the sparks, the closer to God.
The most shocking thing about this is that Trump didn't take the trophies and checks for himself at the end.
Every time I read an in-the-field-of-MAGA report from Laura Jedeed, it is better than the last one (which is a high bar). Great work, thank you!