SATURDAY, MARCH 7, 2026
Let's call the whole thing off: According to the leading authority on the practice, the practice started like this:
State of the Union
The State of the Union address is an annual message delivered by the president of the United States to a joint session of the United States Congress near the beginning of most calendar years on the current condition of the nation. The speech generally includes reports on the nation's budget, economy, news, agenda, progress, achievements and the president's priorities and legislative proposals.
The address fulfills the requirement in Article II, Section 3, Clause 1 of the U.S. Constitution that the president "shall from time to time give to the Congress Information of the State of the Union, and recommend to their Consideration such Measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient." During most of the country's first century, the president primarily submitted only a written report to Congress. After 1913, Woodrow Wilson, the 28th U.S. president, began the regular practice of delivering the address to Congress in person as a way to rally support for the president's agenda, while also submitting a more detailed report. With the advent of radio and television, the address is now broadcast live in all United States time zones on many networks.
The speech is generally held in January or February, and an invitation to the president is extended to use the chamber of the House by the speaker of the House.
[...]
Because the address is made to a joint session of Congress, the House and Senate must each pass a resolution setting a date and time for the joint session. Then, a formal invitation is made by the speaker of the House to the president typically several weeks before the appointed date.
The practice dates to 1913. By tradition, an invitation is extended to the president.
The president is invited to come to the House. He's invited to deliver a speech to members of the House and the Senate.
This year, the war in Iran was three days away as the president spoke. Moments after he began his address, he brought in the men's hockey team.
What follows isn't a comment on the men's hockey team, which had recently vanquished Canada.
With respect to the players on that hockey team, we'll assume that they're good, decent people, though possibly still a bit short of perfect. We think of the words from the Hank Williams song:
I was just a lad, nearly twenty-two.
Neither good nor bad—just a kid like you.
Did Williams actually write those lyrics? The leading authority says no. To us, they're deeply insightful, sacred words—but, at any rate, this:
The president called the players in, as was apparently part of his right under terms of his invitation.
It wasn't the worst thing he could have done. But by the time the evening was done, Peggy Noonan—President Reagan's brilliant speechwriter—was discovered to have written this for the Wall Street Journal:
The Oprah State of the Union
The president’s State of the Union address came straight from the heart of Crazytown. It had everything—tears, cheers, spectacle. They handed out medals and honors like Oprah in the early 2000s: “You get a car! Everybody gets a car!” At one point I thought he was going to pull out a ceremonial sword and knight Kristi Noem. There was yelling and booing and people crying, it was big and rousing, boring and absurd. And important in some things it revealed.
Ten years in, and Democrats still don’t know how to handle Donald Trump. He used them as foils and they allowed it, sitting there snarling, at points screaming. Part of how to handle him is if he tries to manipulate you into doing the right thing—if, for instance, he challenges you to stand in respect for a mother mourning the murder of her daughter—you put aside that you’re being manipulated and stand. Because it is right to show human sympathy and regard. The thing to do is look better than Mr. Trump, not worse. You say: My base demands coldness. Then get a new base. If you can’t, leave before you are reduced to a soulless husk of the eager, happy person who walked into that chamber a decade ago.
It had everything—tears, cheers, spectacle, awards. Democrats still haven’t figured Trump out.
When the gallery doors swung open and the triumphant U.S. Olympic men’s hockey team marched in, it was vulgar and fabulous. They were wearing their medals and their Ralph Lauren sweaters and smiling and laughing like good young men. We all think we’re above theatrics. Perhaps you had a moment like this: You were home on the couch and you saw the guys bounding in and thought, “I am sophisticated, I know what they’re doing, they’re manipulating me, but I’m not some rube, I’ll watch clinically. Oh Jeez, Jack Hughes’s tooth is still broken, God bless him. The goalie’s chewing gum like some 1945 GI.” And your throat hitched up against your will and your eyes moistened and when they started with “USA! USA!” you gave up, gave in, and pumped your fist. It is a damnable fact of life that great propaganda works even when you know it’s propaganda.
Was it "vulgar" when the team came in? We wouldn't have used that word.
Did the event come to us the people "straight from the heart of Crazytown?" That's tough language too!
We'd avoid blaming Oprah Winfrey for any of this. If she once gave away fleets of cars, that was her prerogative. Meanwhile, let it be said, perhaps in search of basic fairness, that President Trump has basically handled the southern border, while possibly making a giant mess of other parts of his spectacularly muddled MASS DEPORTATION versus "Worst of The Worst" presidential campaign brief.
Noonan is a much better wordsmith than we are. That said, we almost might have gone with words like "bread and circuses"—and that seems to be, in substantial part, akin to some of what Noonan said.
She also referred in that passage to the president's gotcha games that night, though not in those exact words. More on that topic below.
Based on what happened that Tuesday night, we'd say that the State of the Union event has possibly run its course. With all the medals and honors and spectacle and of course with all the theatrics, we'd have to say that it might be time to say this:
Let's call the whole thing off.
A major war was three nights away. Perhaps in service to military strategy, that topic was barely mentioned.
Instead, we the people were asked to cheer the men's hockey team, which had recently defeated their Canadian teammates—in overtime, no less. Noonan, who's a good, decent person, seemed to say that she had reacted like this:
Despite her sophistication, her throat hitched up against her will and her eyes moistened, and when they started with “USA! USA!” she gave up and pumped her fist.
There's no reason why she shouldn't have reacted that way—large numbers of people did.
"Great propaganda works," she then said. There Noonan went again!
As we recently noted, we were lucky enough to have attended the so-called "Greatest Track Meet of All Time"—the spectacular U.S. / Soviet Union meet in July 1962. It was held at Stanford Stadium, maybe ten miles from our family's front door
We saw Bob Hayes win the men's 100. We saw Wilma Rudolph run away from the field in the corresponding women's event.
That event took place at the heart of the nuclear-tinged Cold War. Starting in the first grade, we kids had practiced hiding under our desks to defeat the possible bomb blast.
As the two-day meet took place, the Bay of Pigs had disastrously failed one year before. The so-called "Cuban Missile Crisis"—more on that event below—was now just three months off.
The U.S. men outpointed their Soviet rivals that weekend. The Soviet women won their half of the meet.
We saw Valery Brumel set a world record in the high jump. But the part of that meet which has lasted longest occurred when the athletic events were all done.
Many years later, Red Shannon chronicled the meet in fascinating detail for The Bleacher Report. We'll give you two bites of the apple:
USA vs. USSR, 1962: The Greatest Track Meet of All Time
[...]
While negotiations in Washington and Moscow intended to diffuse a ticking time bomb were falling apart, the few days in Palo Alto leading up to the competition were a demonstration of the very best humanity has to offer.
Private homes were opened up to the Soviets. Spontaneous cross-culture pickup games of basketball and baseball broke out in parking lots and streets. Host families organized informal tours of the many attractions in the San Francisco area. Banquets and press conferences were characterized by levity and mutual respect.
The charming Soviet world-record high jumper, Valery Brumel, entertained the press by doing his famous high-kick, touching a basketball rim with his toe, ten feet above ground.
Not one protest or demonstration marred the entire week.
On Saturday, July 21, 1962, 72,500 track fans filed through the gates of Stanford Stadium. The following day, another 81,000 filled the seats. It was the greatest two-day crowd to ever witness a non-Olympic track meet.
While the enthusiastic fans were indeed partisan, any superb effort was rewarded with cheers, regardless of nationality. The Americans were especially curious to get a look at Brumel and long jumper Igor Ter-ovanesyan who had recently eclipsed Ralph Boston's world record—and of course the famous Press sisters, Tamara and Irina.
In a manner typical of those days, the Americans dominated the sprints, middle distance, and pole vault. The Soviets ruled the longer distance races and jumping events.
The crowd got its money's worth. "Bullet" Bob Hayes, who went on to a second career with the Dallas Cowboys, won the men's 100 meters. His female counterpart, the great Wilma Rudolph, noted for her childhood battle with infantile paralysis, won the women's 100 meters and, through a gutsy anchor leg, secured a dramatic come-from-behind win in the 400-meter relay.
[...]
Perhaps the most symbolic and heart-gripping moment came as the athletes prepared to exit the stadium. The plan was to exit directly through the south end, in two columns. At the head of the columns, American [high jumper] John Thomas and Soviet javelinist Viktor Tsybulenko held a mini summit meeting of their own and decided instead to make a final victory lap.
All the athletes followed in unison, holding hands, embracing, waving their national colors. The fans stood and cheered as the entire formation of American and Soviet athletes completed their lap, then disappeared through the south gate.
The press would report that the American men won, 128-107 and the Soviet women prevailed, 66-41. No one really cared.
And no one wanted to leave. The Marine Corps Band continued to play for nearly an hour. Tears came easily for most of the record crowd as a cleansing torrent of emotion washed over them.
Ralph Boston would later recall, "I can't remember if the Cold War ever came into my mind at any time. All I was thinking was 'here was this super track and field team from the other side of the world...'"
In our view, the wordsmith Shannon got one word wrong. That word—see above—was "perhaps."
Citizen Shannon, please! Perhaps the most heart-gripping moment came as the athletes exited?
We were physically present that day, and emotion swallowed the stadium as the athletes themselves, but surely the spectators, entertained thoughts of "something higher. Something more enduring," to return to Shannon's words.
The Soviet athletes joined in that long, slow farewell march. They circled the stadium, arm in arm with their American counterparts.
It wasn't the worst thing to see that occur. Three months later, the thirteen days of the Cuban missile crisis took place.
We ourselves were just a lad, nearly 15—a mere high school sophomore. One day, the spirited junior who would later be Aragon High's head cheerleader approached us and said these words:
"I'm afraid I won't get the chance to grow up."
If film existed of what she said, we think those might be her exact words. And of course, a lot of kids, this very day, don't get the chance to grow up.
Will our political culture ever grow up? The president has handled the southern border, but at that State of the Union event, he responded to his invitation to speak by playing the usual games.
Noonan didn't use the word gotcha. We'll offer that word on our own.
Responding to an invitation, the president formed a gotcha game aimed at the chamber's Democrats. We'll spare you an extended discussion of his most vaunted gotcha game, but we will remind you of this:
Under terms of their oath to the Constitution, members have obligations to American citizens. But under terms of that same oath, they also have obligations to people who are "illegal immigrants"—to people who are in the country without authorization.
In theory, they're required to honor both sets of obligations. But the president, playing an increasingly familiar game, seemed to be working from this silly old football cheer that night:
Lean to the left, lean to the right.
Stand up, sit down—Fight fight fight!
Offered an invitation to speak, he responded by playing games with one set of his hosts. We're living in two (2) Americas now, and some of us seem to want to keep pushing farther on.
For ourselves, we didn't care all that much about that U.S. / Canada hockey match. We watched the third period and the overtime, but we didn't much care who won.
Other people very much did—and there was no reason why they shouldn't have! Unless you were watching the agitprop on "cable news," there was also no reason why anyone should feel they had to.
We rooted for the Yanks at that 1962 track meet, but it ended with something larger. We were lucky that we got to attend. As the current war in Iran drew near, the gotcha game the president almost might perhaps have staged was part of the cultural surroundings.
We can still see Wilma Rudolph as she pulled away from the field. Also, we're still able to recall what that high school junior said.
