Trump Picks Up the Louisville Slugger

I warned on MarketWatch that Trump's "America First" gamble might quickly slide into "America Alone," leaving us sitting in an empty bar wondering why everyone else left without saying goodbye.

But there's another side to Trump's poker table, one he'd insist makes perfect sense—provided you're holding the cards. He's betting Americans can stomach some short-term economic pain today for a sturdier economy tomorrow.

Sound familiar? Ronald Reagan made the same wager in the early ’80s when he handed Paul Volcker the keys—and Volcker promptly drove the economy straight into a brick wall of 20-percent interest rates. Unemployment hit double digits, and the stock market sank quicker than a mafia informant wearing cement shoes. "Morning in America"? More like waking up face-down in Vegas.

But Reagan was playing five-dimensional economic chess while everyone else was still figuring out the rules to checkers. When Japan started treating Detroit like a free buffet, Reagan didn’t politely suggest they use smaller plates. He showed up smiling warmly—but carrying a Louisville Slugger clearly labeled "or else." Japan promptly agreed to a “voluntary” cap on car exports—in the same way you'd voluntarily hand your wallet to a guy holding a baseball bat.

Free-market theologians shrieked 'protectionism!' like vegetarians at a steakhouse, but Reagan shrugged them off—probably because most economists couldn't change a tire if their tenure depended on it, let alone build a car anyone would willingly drive.

Instead of losing America's market, Japan opened factories here. Overnight, tens of thousands of jobs popped up in states Detroit had left for dead. Today, your Toyota Camry has more American parts than most Detroit-built trucks.

That wasn't protectionism—it was economic jiu-jitsu.

Americans saw results, liked what they saw, and rewarded Reagan by handing him a landslide in 1984—525 electoral votes to Walter Mondale’s pitiful 13, the highest total ever received by a presidential candidate. Mondale barely held onto his home state of Minnesota, probably because Reagan was too polite to steal his wallet after knocking him unconscious.

Sure, I'm one of those critics who worry Trump's tariffs risk leaving America isolated—drinking alone at the global bar while everyone else finds another party. But even critics can admit Reagan’s tough-love didn’t isolate America—it jolted us out of an economic stupor. Too bad we promptly skipped martial arts practice and spent the next four decades binge-watching globalization instead, leaving us nursing an economic hangover the size of China.

Let’s not sugarcoat globalization’s legacy. It didn’t just give us cheap flat-screens—it gutted entire towns—places that actually built stuff were left shattered, unemployed, and overdosed.

The theory was adorably naïve: swap factories for a post-industrial utopia, where we'd all get rich selling each other insurance, frappuccinos, and therapy. Instead, we got a nation overflowing with financial advisors, baristas, and Uber drivers—importing everything essential and pretending real work was something quaint our grandparents did.

When factories left, they took innovation, know-how, and middle-class dignity with them. Now we’re dangerously dependent on countries we wouldn't trust to babysit our dog—much less supply our semiconductors or antibiotics.

Turns out scooters—like globalization—are fantastic until winter hits and you actually need to haul something heavier than your dignity. Then things got serious.

When COVID hit, America—the country that once cranked out bombers by the thousands—had to beg China for face masks. WWII-era Americans saw us panic-buying toilet paper—it wasn't just embarrassing, it was pathetic. Our grandparents probably wondered why we exported factories instead of economists.

Finally, the tide is turning. "Reindustrialization" isn’t a dirty word anymore—it’s policy. Bringing production home isn’t just about jobs; it’s about economic sanity and national security.

Enter Donald Trump, who took one glance at 40 years of American trade policy, scratched his head, and asked the question every fifth grader wonders but no economist ever does: “Why exactly are we letting everyone else steal our lunch money?”

Trump's new tariffs send the world a clear message: if you want access to America’s wallet, build your next factory in Ohio—not Osaka. We still love free trade—who doesn't?—but balanced trade. No more currency tricks, no more one-way deals. The days of America buying everything and selling nothing are over.

Trump’s tariffs might lack the exhilarating whiplash of Reagan’s interest rates or the theatrical menace of his Louisville Slugger diplomacy, but the principle remains the same: swallow some economic medicine today, get stronger tomorrow.

Of course, Trump’s playing field isn’t Reagan’s—it’s a smoother, friendlier fairway. Reagan had to negotiate uphill, fighting dense Congressional rough and dodging bipartisan sand traps. Trump, meanwhile, tweets out marching orders and Congress lines up at attention. That might actually give Trump a clearer shot at real economic reform than Reagan ever had—provided he aims carefully.

Yesterday, Trump took careful aim—and swung the Louisville Slugger he'd been waving ever since China slapped retaliatory tariffs on U.S. goods. Beijing raised tariffs by 34%; Trump warned them to reconsider, and when they didn't, he went full Babe Ruth, tweeting out an eye-watering 125% tariff aimed at China like a birthday kid swinging for the piñata.

Meanwhile, 75 countries who wisely kept quiet got handed a gentle 10% tariff and a friendly 90-day negotiation pause. Classic Trump diplomacy: swing Reagan’s bat hard enough at one troublemaker, and suddenly everyone else remembers their manners.

Americans love a tough guy—until he actually gets tough. Reagan had to sweet-talk the nation into taking its medicine. Democracy certainly moves faster when everyone stops arguing and follows one leader swinging a baseball bat—but history warns us to pay attention to what he's swinging at.

Trump tackles global trade with all the nuance of a fifth-grader swapping sandwiches for cookies—but damned if it isn't working. Countries accustomed to treating America like a shopping mall without a cashier suddenly discovered Trump installed a checkout lane. Since January 2025, they've been lining up politely and forking over a staggering $1.7 trillion—numbers even Pentagon accountants couldn't lose track of.

• Saudi Arabia tossed in $600 billion, presumably bored buying Ferraris for princes.
• Japan’s SoftBank dropped $500 billion into something called "Stargate"—a name suspiciously Pentagon-like but disappointingly about AI, not aliens.
• Taiwan’s TSMC wrote a $100 billion check for chip factories.
• Hyundai pledged $21 billion in factories after Trump casually waved his tariff stick.
• Even the UAE chipped in $20 billion for data centers—likely mistaking "cloud computing" for actual clouds, but America isn't picky.

Hyundai quickly realized investing billions here beat trying to sell cars nobody could buy. Trump summed it up neatly, like a casino boss eyeballing tourists at the entrance: "The money’s rolling in—let’s keep it coming."

Sure, it’ll be a bumpy ride—but real adventures always are. Reagan drew the map, Trump stomped the gas, and somewhere down this potholed, tariff-paved highway, America might just rediscover the pride of building things again.

Trump's tariffs aren't exactly winning global popularity contests, and yes, the risks are clear. But Reagan proved that a few bruises today could mean real muscle tomorrow—assuming America still remembers how to take a punch.