Trump to TV Networks: Hands Off Army-Navy Tradition!

Paul Riverbank, 1/18/2026Trump vows to shield Army-Navy Game tradition, sparking debate on sports, money, and heritage.

Yet the familiar rhythms faced an unusual interruption this year. Trump’s appearance wasn’t merely ceremonial; he stood, hand aloft, announcing a rather unprecedented pledge: an executive order, if he returns to office, that would lock down an undisturbed window for the Army-Navy Game—four hours, unrivaled, shielded from college football’s ever-expanding postseason. “This day,” Trump posted, “belongs to Army-Navy, not to anyone else. No other game will intrude. Not on my watch.”

His declaration wasn’t just tough talk or a Truth Social flourish. At the heart of this move is a pushback against the wave of television money swirling around college football. CBS Sports, the game’s longtime broadcast partner, has staked its claim through 2038. But as postseason ambitions balloon—whispers of a 16- or even 24-team playoff—longstanding traditions suddenly find themselves standing in the path of a juggernaut. No wonder there’s tension. Last year, the Army-Navy face-off overlapped with the LA Bowl—hardly the end of the world, perhaps, but uncomfortable precedent for traditionalists leery of creeping change.

If you ask veterans of the game—coaches, players, alumni—the Army-Navy ceremony is sacred. It is one Saturday a year when, in theory, everything else fades away. What Trump is challenging isn’t just scheduling; it’s the prioritization of heritage in the teeth of unchecked commercial interests. The logistics, of course, get thorny. Can a president declare an exclusive TV window for a college game in the age of ESPN megadeals and streaming upstarts? It’s not entirely clear, and, characteristically, Trump didn’t dwell on legal fine print. “Let this serve as notice,” he warned, “the second Saturday of December is off-limits.”

There’s a whiff of nostalgia here—an effort to pin down a tradition before it slips away, overrun by the “bigger” games clamoring for playoff placement. SEC brass and Big Ten negotiators, each advancing their own frameworks, face a tougher slog than ever to reach consensus. The fate of the 12-team format hangs in the balance. From the outside, it might look like squabbles over airtime, but beneath it all lies a deep anxiety about what gets lost when economics edge out enduring custom.

Trump’s recent forays into the world of collegiate sports extend beyond this battlefield tussle. Over the summer, he lent his signature to an order dubbed “Saving College Sports.” The document waded into the mess of athlete compensation, sought to clarify whether NCAA players are employees, and aimed to safeguard scholarships—the sort of granular, often wonky policy that rarely captures headlines but shapes the real experience of student athletes. “Waves of litigation,” the order warned darkly, threaten the very bones of college athletics.

Regardless of one’s reading of presidential powers (and there are surely legal battles ahead), Trump’s intervention spotlights deeper questions: How far should America go to protect its rituals in a climate where money, innovation, and tradition grind against each other? The Army-Navy Game may be a single Saturday, but it’s a microcosm of broader cultural choices.

This year, Navy edged Army in a tight 17-16 contest, claiming the Commander-in-Chief’s Trophy and, briefly, the undivided gaze of a nation. The stands held as much history as present-day excitement—generals beside first-years, old rivals trading stories and scores with good-natured ribbing. For many, it isn’t so much the result as the gathering itself that matters. In a college football landscape morphing faster than ever, Trump’s proposal kicked off a national conversation about what, exactly, ought to be protected and who gets the privilege of drawing those lines.

The next move—by politicians, broadcasters, and college football’s fractious leadership—remains uncertain. What is certain is this: In preserving a patch of ground for Army-Navy Saturday, the country is again forced to weigh the merits of memory and modernity, and decide just how much space should be left for its oldest, simplest celebrations.

It was a chafed December sky over Baltimore when President Trump strode into M&T Bank Stadium, the Army-Navy Game’s latest stage. For those in attendance—the cadets in stiff uniforms, the shivering alumni recalling past glories—the clash was more than a calendar event. This annual rivalry, a slugfest dating back to 1890, plucks a peculiar chord each winter. Grand pageantry, yes, but also something far older: a shared ritual of seriousness and spirited jibes echoed in every handshake and cheer.Yet the familiar rhythms faced an unusual interruption this year. Trump’s appearance wasn’t merely ceremonial; he stood, hand aloft, announcing a rather unprecedented pledge: an executive order, if he returns to office, that would lock down an undisturbed window for the Army-Navy Game—four hours, unrivaled, shielded from college football’s ever-expanding postseason. “This day,” Trump posted, “belongs to Army-Navy, not to anyone else. No other game will intrude. Not on my watch.”His declaration wasn’t just tough talk or a Truth Social flourish. At the heart of this move is a pushback against the wave of television money swirling around college football. CBS Sports, the game’s longtime broadcast partner, has staked its claim through 2038. But as postseason ambitions balloon—whispers of a 16- or even 24-team playoff—longstanding traditions suddenly find themselves standing in the path of a juggernaut. No wonder there’s tension. Last year, the Army-Navy face-off overlapped with the LA Bowl—hardly the end of the world, perhaps, but uncomfortable precedent for traditionalists leery of creeping change.If you ask veterans of the game—coaches, players, alumni—the Army-Navy ceremony is sacred. It is one Saturday a year when, in theory, everything else fades away. What Trump is challenging isn’t just scheduling; it’s the prioritization of heritage in the teeth of unchecked commercial interests. The logistics, of course, get thorny. Can a president declare an exclusive TV window for a college game in the age of ESPN megadeals and streaming upstarts? It’s not entirely clear, and, characteristically, Trump didn’t dwell on legal fine print. “Let this serve as notice,” he warned, “the second Saturday of December is off-limits.”There’s a whiff of nostalgia here—an effort to pin down a tradition before it slips away, overrun by the “bigger” games clamoring for playoff placement. SEC brass and Big Ten negotiators, each advancing their own frameworks, face a tougher slog than ever to reach consensus. The fate of the 12-team format hangs in the balance. From the outside, it might look like squabbles over airtime, but beneath it all lies a deep anxiety about what gets lost when economics edge out enduring custom.Trump’s recent forays into the world of collegiate sports extend beyond this battlefield tussle. Over the summer, he lent his signature to an order dubbed “Saving College Sports.” The document waded into the mess of athlete compensation, sought to clarify whether NCAA players are employees, and aimed to safeguard scholarships—the sort of granular, often wonky policy that rarely captures headlines but shapes the real experience of student athletes. “Waves of litigation,” the order warned darkly, threaten the very bones of college athletics.Regardless of one’s reading of presidential powers (and there are surely legal battles ahead), Trump’s intervention spotlights deeper questions: How far should America go to protect its rituals in a climate where money, innovation, and tradition grind against each other? The Army-Navy Game may be a single Saturday, but it’s a microcosm of broader cultural choices.This year, Navy edged Army in a tight 17-16 contest, claiming the Commander-in-Chief’s Trophy and, briefly, the undivided gaze of a nation. The stands held as much history as present-day excitement—generals beside first-years, old rivals trading stories and scores with good-natured ribbing. For many, it isn’t so much the result as the gathering itself that matters. In a college football landscape morphing faster than ever, Trump’s proposal kicked off a national conversation about what, exactly, ought to be protected and who gets the privilege of drawing those lines.The next move—by politicians, broadcasters, and college football’s fractious leadership—remains uncertain. What is certain is this: In preserving a patch of ground for Army-Navy Saturday, the country is again forced to weigh the merits of memory and modernity, and decide just how much space should be left for its oldest, simplest celebrations.