Super Bowl Turns Political: Trump and RFK Jr. Dominate America’s Game

Paul Riverbank, 2/9/2026Super Bowl spotlights political debates, health warnings, and Trump-inspired investment accounts for newborns.

Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr.—a figure never far from a food controversy—landed in the headlines, not for a halftime mishap or a political gaffe, but for admitting that while others tucked into loaded nachos and chicken wings, he’d treat himself to… yogurt. “I am on a carnivore diet, so I just eat meat and ferments, and I’m very happy with that,” Kennedy mentioned on Fox’s “The Sunday Briefing,” letting slip a quick smile as he confessed his game-day indulgence would probably be yogurt. The contrast with the usual Super Bowl snack spread was, frankly, hard to miss.

Kennedy didn’t wag his finger at others’ plates, but he did offer a nudge—more conversation-starter than commandment: “People can eat what they want. You can eat buffalo wings. But you should check the ingredients.” As he rattled off a blacklist—seed oils, corn syrup, artificial flavors—it was hard not to hear a note of warning hidden in the casual tone.

If Kennedy’s health push seemed unusually timely, that was no coincidence. Mike Tyson—yes, the former heavyweight champ—starred in a Super Bowl commercial that set tongues wagging. Kennedy was quick to rank it as “the most important ad in Super Bowl history,” homing in on Tyson’s personal transformation to spotlight a mounting crisis: obesity, especially among the young. He didn’t sugarcoat things. “Obesity is off the charts. 38% of American teens are diabetic or pre-diabetic, and the cost to our country is ruinous,” Kennedy said, the gravity hanging in the air even after the broadcast cut away to flashy car ads.

Kennedy’s own culinary quirks have become internet fodder. It wasn't long ago that he was pictured beside Donald Trump, both within arm’s reach of McDonald’s, though only one of the two looked remotely pleased. He’s ribbed Trump often for his fast-food fondness, once marveling—half in jest, half in awe—that “he has the constitution of a deity. I don’t know how he is alive,” after recounting the former president’s daily orders of Big Macs and Diet Cokes.

Away from the snack table, the Super Bowl played out its usual side drama of off-field controversies. President Trump took firm issue with Bill Belichick’s exclusion from the Pro Football Hall of Fame—a snub for the Patriots’ legendary coach, despite his dominance on the playoff stage. Trump called the decision “terrible,” arguing, as do many, that Belichick’s trophy case outweighs earlier scandals. But voters, pressured by competing claims from long-waiting senior players, saw matters differently. Only Roger Craig, a veteran running back better known for his 49ers days, earned entry this time—an outcome that felt oddly disconnected from the game’s big-stage glitz.

Then came perhaps the most talked-about commercial of the night, one that managed to startle parents and policy wonks alike. It wasn't hawking chips or beer but promising, in bold type, a $1,000 investment account for every baby born between January 1, 2025, and December 31, 2028. The nonprofit Invest America orchestrated the spot, splashing “Trump Accounts” across the screen and declaring “That’s free money.” The pitch sounded almost too generous to be believed.

As with many things attached to a politician’s name, the fine print told a subtler story. These accounts, established by a law signed under President Trump, will automatically seed newborns’ futures with government cash. Parents can top them up—if they’re able or willing—but aren’t obliged to. Older kids aren’t left out, though they start without the initial windfall.

Come July 4th, the country’s semiquincentennial, parents will be able to open Trump accounts for anyone under 18 with a Social Security number. Contributions may climb as high as $5,000 a year, with employers allowed to chip in up to $2,500. Billionaire Michael Dell even tossed in a $6.25 billion pledge to help jumpstart accounts in struggling ZIP codes. To seasoned policy analysts, the numbers quickly grew more modest. Madeline Brown, weighing estimates at the Urban Institute, cautioned that “the pilot money alone will not be enough to cover college or a down payment in the vast majority of places,” despite upbeat headlines. The Cato Institute’s Adam Michel, meanwhile, pointed out that $1,000 left untouched until retirement would likely grow to somewhere between $8,000 and $46,000, depending on the wild swings of Wall Street and future inflation—a sum nice to have, but not life-altering. Yes, some families could see six figures… if they max out annual contributions for three decades and markets behave favorably. It's theoretically possible, but rare.

So what did this year’s Super Bowl, with its overlapping tales of health, Hall of Fame woes, and government-sponsored nest eggs, actually reveal about the American mood? Perhaps just this: In a country at once hungry for tradition and anxious for a better future, even our biggest game has become an arena for wrestling with questions of fairness, freedom, and what we owe the next generation. Choices made on the field, at the snack table, and in the ledgers of public policy all point to a nation impatient for improvement—willing to argue over everything from yogurt to Hall of Fame ballots if it means keeping faith in a more promising tomorrow.

Gathering for the Super Bowl, Americans do far more than root for touchdowns and fumble recoveries. The annual spectacle in many ways holds up a mirror, not just to our sports culture, but to the health, hopes, and habits of the country itself. This year, that mirror caught a few unexpected angles.Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr.—a figure never far from a food controversy—landed in the headlines, not for a halftime mishap or a political gaffe, but for admitting that while others tucked into loaded nachos and chicken wings, he’d treat himself to… yogurt. “I am on a carnivore diet, so I just eat meat and ferments, and I’m very happy with that,” Kennedy mentioned on Fox’s “The Sunday Briefing,” letting slip a quick smile as he confessed his game-day indulgence would probably be yogurt. The contrast with the usual Super Bowl snack spread was, frankly, hard to miss.Kennedy didn’t wag his finger at others’ plates, but he did offer a nudge—more conversation-starter than commandment: “People can eat what they want. You can eat buffalo wings. But you should check the ingredients.” As he rattled off a blacklist—seed oils, corn syrup, artificial flavors—it was hard not to hear a note of warning hidden in the casual tone.If Kennedy’s health push seemed unusually timely, that was no coincidence. Mike Tyson—yes, the former heavyweight champ—starred in a Super Bowl commercial that set tongues wagging. Kennedy was quick to rank it as “the most important ad in Super Bowl history,” homing in on Tyson’s personal transformation to spotlight a mounting crisis: obesity, especially among the young. He didn’t sugarcoat things. “Obesity is off the charts. 38% of American teens are diabetic or pre-diabetic, and the cost to our country is ruinous,” Kennedy said, the gravity hanging in the air even after the broadcast cut away to flashy car ads.Kennedy’s own culinary quirks have become internet fodder. It wasn't long ago that he was pictured beside Donald Trump, both within arm’s reach of McDonald’s, though only one of the two looked remotely pleased. He’s ribbed Trump often for his fast-food fondness, once marveling—half in jest, half in awe—that “he has the constitution of a deity. I don’t know how he is alive,” after recounting the former president’s daily orders of Big Macs and Diet Cokes.Away from the snack table, the Super Bowl played out its usual side drama of off-field controversies. President Trump took firm issue with Bill Belichick’s exclusion from the Pro Football Hall of Fame—a snub for the Patriots’ legendary coach, despite his dominance on the playoff stage. Trump called the decision “terrible,” arguing, as do many, that Belichick’s trophy case outweighs earlier scandals. But voters, pressured by competing claims from long-waiting senior players, saw matters differently. Only Roger Craig, a veteran running back better known for his 49ers days, earned entry this time—an outcome that felt oddly disconnected from the game’s big-stage glitz.Then came perhaps the most talked-about commercial of the night, one that managed to startle parents and policy wonks alike. It wasn't hawking chips or beer but promising, in bold type, a $1,000 investment account for every baby born between January 1, 2025, and December 31, 2028. The nonprofit Invest America orchestrated the spot, splashing “Trump Accounts” across the screen and declaring “That’s free money.” The pitch sounded almost too generous to be believed.As with many things attached to a politician’s name, the fine print told a subtler story. These accounts, established by a law signed under President Trump, will automatically seed newborns’ futures with government cash. Parents can top them up—if they’re able or willing—but aren’t obliged to. Older kids aren’t left out, though they start without the initial windfall.Come July 4th, the country’s semiquincentennial, parents will be able to open Trump accounts for anyone under 18 with a Social Security number. Contributions may climb as high as $5,000 a year, with employers allowed to chip in up to $2,500. Billionaire Michael Dell even tossed in a $6.25 billion pledge to help jumpstart accounts in struggling ZIP codes. To seasoned policy analysts, the numbers quickly grew more modest. Madeline Brown, weighing estimates at the Urban Institute, cautioned that “the pilot money alone will not be enough to cover college or a down payment in the vast majority of places,” despite upbeat headlines. The Cato Institute’s Adam Michel, meanwhile, pointed out that $1,000 left untouched until retirement would likely grow to somewhere between $8,000 and $46,000, depending on the wild swings of Wall Street and future inflation—a sum nice to have, but not life-altering. Yes, some families could see six figures… if they max out annual contributions for three decades and markets behave favorably. It's theoretically possible, but rare.So what did this year’s Super Bowl, with its overlapping tales of health, Hall of Fame woes, and government-sponsored nest eggs, actually reveal about the American mood? Perhaps just this: In a country at once hungry for tradition and anxious for a better future, even our biggest game has become an arena for wrestling with questions of fairness, freedom, and what we owe the next generation. Choices made on the field, at the snack table, and in the ledgers of public policy all point to a nation impatient for improvement—willing to argue over everything from yogurt to Hall of Fame ballots if it means keeping faith in a more promising tomorrow.