"2025:" A Brutal Attack on Workers and Unions

Chapter 7 Explores Project 2025's Repeal of Child Labor Laws and Its Attack on Workers

One aspect of “Project 2025” getting far too little attention is its brutal attack on workers and unions. And one shocking element should be a headline in every paper—a proposed return to the days of “teen” labor in some of America’s most dangerous lines of work.

Very little of what’s proposed for workers or unions has gotten broad attention.

So Chapter Seven of “2025” tries to capture what would happen to workers and Main St., USA if many of the new rules proposed and discussed in Project 2025 happened:

Introduction and Chapter 1: Protester Deportations

Chapter 2: Banning Abortion and IVF

Chapter 3: Gutting Civil Service (Schedule F)

Chapter 4: No Vaccines in Schools

Chapter 5: “Revenge” and a Weaponized DOJ

Chapter 6: Mass Deportation

Onto Chapter 7…

July

Capitol Monthly

“Bruce Lipton”

By Calvin Stegman

BEDMINSTER, NEW JERSEY

“Shit!” Bruce Lipton yelled out as his ball sailed off to the right and into the deepest part of the sand trap.

He strolled back to the golf cart, where bespectacled Dudley Brennan waited in the driver’s seat.

“I can’t catch a break today,” Bruce muttered as Dudley pulled away.

They were on the fifth hole of the Bedminster, NJ course where they played every Saturday morning. It was a working golf game, and Bruce’s score often depended on the news Dudley delivered over their 18 holes together.

Dudley laughed. “Yeah, I think I may be distracting you.”

Bruce looked over at him, grinning. “Nah. With all the cost savings you’re telling me about, you’d think I’d be playing better, not worse.”

Bedminster was rarefied air for a kid who’d grown up in a small mining town in Western Pennsylvania. Back home, football was king, golf was a rich person’s sport, and no one knew any rich people. So Bruce only picked up golf later in life, when a mentor in his first banking job told him big deals often got done on the links. An old O-lineman, Bruce would never be more than a fair golfer. And now a private equity titan, he no longer needed the sport to get ahead. Still, the competitor in him obsessed about getting better.

Growing up in Greenwich, son of a banker, Dudley Brennan was the scratch golfer of the two. As he usually did, he’d outdriven his boss on the fifth hole. He now pulled up to his ball, which lay smack in the middle of the fairway, and took out his 7-iron. After two warm-up swings, he arced it perfectly onto the green, the ball stopping 8 feet from the hole.

“Jesus, Dudley.” Bruce yelled out. “You really want to show up the boss this way?”

“With the news I’m giving you today,” Dudley said as he returned the club to his bag, “I’m not worried about that.”

Dudley sat back down in the driver’s seat and headed to the sand trap to the right of the green.

“Well it needs to keep getting better or I may fire you for insubordination.”

Bruce’s ticket out of Western PA had been getting into Wharton, which put him on the fast-track and introduced him to an elite, monied world he’d only seen in movies.  His blue-collar work ethic, a fierce competitiveness  and a knack for finance landed him his first job on Wall Street. After that, he’d skyrocketed—striking some big deals and being plucked by headhunters to higher jobs. At 42 years old, he got the call to run Bald Eagle Capital, one of the fastest growing private equity firms on Wall Street. It now stood at $60 billion and growing, with direct control over 92 businesses employing tens of thousands of workers across America.

Bruce was an old man next to Dudley. Only 35–six years out of Harvard’s B-school—Dudley was already a Bald Eagle vice president. Talent rose quickly in private equity.

“Here you go,” Dudley said as he pulled up to the trap. “Good luck getting out of that mess.”

Bruce groaned as he lifted his 6’1, 230 pound frame out of the cart. He’d let his youthful muscle atrophy over time, and now the weight in his mid-section was taking a toll on his lower spine. His most recent steroid shot was starting to wear off.

He grabbed his sand wedge and lumbered down into the bunker.

It was a terrible lie, with half the ball buried under sand. If it stayed that way, his next shot would be another disaster.

He glanced up. Dudley was looking toward the green, and not down. Bruce moved quickly, tapping the ball with the end of his wedge to free it from the sand.  Seconds later, he hit the ball comfortably onto the green, clutching both fists as he walked back to the cart.

“Best shot of the day,” Dudley said. “My good news is finally seeping through.”

Bruce sat back in the cart and gave Dudley a high five.

“Keep it coming!” he said as they drove off.

The two met for golf every Saturday not because they’d have a competitive round. They wouldn’t.

They met because Dudley was the HR and regulatory guru of Bald Eagle. And no job mattered more for a firm like Bald Eagle, or the man scoring millions to run it.

The irony was that back in the day, when workers spent entire careers at the same corporation, that old HR job was largely about trying to find the best you could out of each employee. It was viewed as a “soft” job—not someone Bruce would waste his time golfing with.

But in the age of private equity, the HR role was the opposite of soft. As crucial as it got. Because when Bald Eagle oversaw 92 private companies and assured investors big returns on those investments, they had to squeeze every penny possible out of that portfolio. And often the lowest hanging fruit to pluck was in the collective workforce of all those companies. Before they scooped up these businesses, the workers usually made too much, worked too little, earned too many benefits, and required too much in pension payments—all of which took away from the bottom line and the best interests of their new owners.

Sure, if you were a small-town executive and ran that business amid neighbors who worked for you, squeezing out all those costs would be too difficult. Unsustainable.  You were too close to it all.

But from the safe distance of the Big Apple, across 92 companies and thousands of workers?

Endless opportunities presented themselves. In fact, unlocking those personnel savings and inefficiencies, and converting assets such as pensions for investor benefit, were the key tactics to success. Lately, the only way to win at the private equity game.

And nobody better mastered how to squeeze out all those savings than Dudley Brennan, Bald Eagle’s HR genius. From pensions to overtime rules to health care, to the tax impact of it all, to worker safety rules, the guy was a cost-cutting whiz. Along the way, he’d made Bruce look like a genius. And that was why Bruce tolerated getting his ass kicked weekly by a Greenwich and Harvard nerd who stood four inches shorter and weighed fifty pounds less.

Dudley holed his ball in one putt, Bruce needed two, and the two drove off to the sixth hole. A foursome in front of them was just teeing off, so they sat and waited.

“So we’re going to save that much, huh?

“The new administration is a gift that just keeps on giving. The truth is, it’s a matter of how much we want to save. It’s totally up to us, and how aggressive we want to be.”

Bruce gripped his putter with both hands.

“I feel like this is what everyone said eight years ago. And not much changed.”

Dudley laughed. “Oh, its changed now. Trust me.”

“Getting rid of diversity requirements? What does that even get us?”

Dudley had spent the prior hole filling Bruce in on how, to accommodate the push from Washington, they’d eliminated any trace of DEI up and down the Bald Eagle totem pole. Bruce shrugged it off, knowing he’d always hired the best of the best, and that the wide diversity in the company reflected that.

“Well, it saves us a few jobs, but also reduces lability if any of our companies discriminate. But I agree, that’s not one of the biggies when it comes to saving money.”

“Well, what is a biggie?”

“I sent you that memo on the unions.”

“Yeah, I saw that. So you really think unions are in danger across the board? C’mon. I’ve heard all that before as well.”

A healthy share of Bald Eagle’s portfolio comprised private manufacturing companies in mid-size towns across the country—many in the midwest. Some hospitals and health centers too. They also owned staffing companies that gave them flexibility to plug in low-cost people to their various businesses.

Among these holdings, there were huge savings to be gained by slashing wages and healthcare in these places. Most of these older businesses were also fat in full-time workers when independent contractors were so much cheaper. Huge gains could also be made through more efficient scheduling, including making a lot more workers part-time.

There was one other benefit to being in smaller towns: the jobs Bald Eagle controlled were the best around. So even if workers had to take a hit, most would stay—largely because they had nowhere else to go.

In the South, where political friends had destroyed the unions, that’s how it had played out. And they’d struck gold on numerous investments. But in the midwest and east, the damn unions kept getting in the way, gumming up many of their best strategies.

For four years, Dudley had hired the nation’s best law firms to boot the unions, but it had only sparked backlash and tougher negotiations. Several strikes and their tactics to block new unions had generated horrible press, along with hefty fines from the National Labor Relations Board. Bruce was livid about all the legal bills they’d been paying with so little progress.

“This time is different.” Dudley grinned as he answered. “The new laws just crush unions. They’re talking about just eliminating public sector unions entirely. And they’re watering down private sector ones that are such a thorn in our side.”

The last of the foursome in front of them stepped up to the tee, taking a few practice swings.

“What do they call them again?” Bruce asked, remembering the memo’s description of new worker organizations.

“EIOs—‘employee involvement organizations.’ But they have no teeth. They can’t even collectively bargain.”

“So what’s the point of them?” Bruce asked, confused.

He’d actually grown up in a union household back in PA. His dad was a miner, so collective bargaining was a cherished term in their home. And their town. If a politician dared mess with it, they’d be tossed in the next election.

“The point?” Dudley asked, grinning. “The point is that we will set the terms of their employment, and they have no real power to push back.”

Bruce’s stomach quivered. He could hear his dad cussing like a sailor in his mind—at Dudley’s words, and at Bruce for not pushing back. But as he had throughout his career, he had to keep his private equity hat on. Being the son of a coal miner had shaped him in so many ways, but he couldn’t let Dad’s conscience sway his decisions now. If he had, he’d never made it here in the first place. And if he did now, he’d be out on the street in months. The era of conscience-driven business was gone. Holding back meant you lost.

“It’s that good?” he asked, looking forward.

“It really is. Outside of the name itself,” Dudley chuckled, holding up his fingers as quotation marks. “‘Employee involvement organizations’ sound like something Orwell would’ve come up with.”

“They really do,” Bruce said, standing up and pulling his driver out.

“But just as good, once we free a workplace of a union, they’re gone for good. The new rules make it harder to start unions in the first place. And easier for us to crack down on workers when they try to.”

Bruce clenched his jaw.

When he was 11, dad had spent almost every hour above ground convincing his fellow workers to form a new union. Dad and his work buddies would cram in their small living room to plan things out, while Mom handed out hot dogs and pop. Dad was tense for what felt like a year, some of his living room guests lost their jobs, and others even got beat up. But they’d won. After the big victory, things got better for him and his two brothers. A couple years later, they moved into a bigger house. For the first time, they began to take yearly vacations. He would have never gotten to Wharton without the union job dad fought for.

Done with their drives, the group in front carted down the trail. Bruce and Dudley stepped up to the tee.  Both hit solid drives, then got back in the cart. Dudley hit the gas and drove them onto the trail.

“So that takes care of the unions,” Bruce said. “Do you really think we can “1099” a quarter of our workforce?”

Converting employees to independent contractors generated instant savings. Lower wages. Less liability. Far more leverage over these workers on everything, including hours. No more health benefits or pension payments. And the workers themselves shouldered all the taxes.

“At least!” Dudley said. “Like everything else, we can go as far as we want to go. Pretty soon, the entire workforce is going to run like Uber and Door Dash. Y’know, the gig economy.”

“That’s like a revolution,” Bruce said.

“Told ya!” Dudley said, pulling up to Bruce’s ball. “Wait until you hear about our options for young workers?”

Bruce shook his head, getting out his 5-wood. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

Seconds later, he shanked his shot, the ball careening off into deep rough well to the right of the green.

“Shit!” he yelled, then walked back to the cart and sat down.

“So what’s the story?” he asked.

“Well, you know how we’ve struggled to get people to work in our food processing facilities?”

“You mean the ones we shut down because of the immigration crackdown?” Bruce asked, a look of disgust on his face.

“I wouldn’t say shut down. We just eliminated some shifts.”

“Whatever you call it, it’s killing us.”

“Well, the new rules say that in facilities like our’s—where it’s dangerous and there are worker shortages—we can start to bring in young adults.”

Bruce turned toward Dudley.

“Young adults? Like how young is young?”

“It says teenagers, so looks like as young as 13.”

Bruce cringed. His oldest son was 13.

“13 years old? In a meatpacking plant?”

In his later years, dad told stories of when he and his friends left school to work in the mines. Just kids. It started as shifts after school. But as they got older, most of them left school outright. The only kids who made it out of Western PA were the ones who were lucky enough to stay in school, dad used to say. Which for generations, was very few of them.

“Especially in meatpacking plants. Slaughterhouses too, and places like that. Y’know, where we’re having trouble finding workers. For jobs that are deemed dangerous for adults.”

Dudley stopped the cart at his ball. Stepped out with an iron.

Bruce, still seated, squinted. He reached for a towel and wiped sweat from his forehead.

Dangerous for adults, but OK for kids?

Back in the day, dad used to explain, the mine bosses liked the kids more than the adults. They did what they were told. Questioned obvious danger less often. Plus, they could fit in smaller places, which helped deep in a cave.

Dudley hit a perfect shot to the green, then returned to the cart, grinning as he patted Bruce on his right shoulder.

“Our plant managers are already out recruiting the parents to sign their kids up for shifts in the fall.  These families will make so much more money when their kids can do real work like this. Think about the work ethic we’ll be giving the next generation.”

A knot grabbed hold of Bruce’s stomach.

“Whoa, tiger. I haven’t signed off on all this yet.”

“Oh, I know. That’s why I’m briefing you…”

He drove in the direction of the deep grass where Bruce’s ball lay.

“..But I’m telling you, everyone’s moving fast. If we don’t keep up, we simply won’t be competing. It’s a new day.”

New day?

Bruce recalled photos of coal-stained teenagers in mines he found in Dad’s boxes after he’d died. Dad in the center of one, arms around two of his buddies—all three victims of black lung disease.

“Sounds pretty risky. Kids amid all that equipment.”

Dudley chuckled again.

“Well, that’s another one of the changes. They’re creating exemptions in how worker safety is enforced. If we structure things right, we think a good number of our companies will fall under those waivers. So no fines even if there is a problem.”

They pulled up to the edge of the long grass.

Dudley pointed to his right.

“I think it went in right around there. About ten feet back.”

“Thanks.”

Bruce trod back into the grass, using his 7-iron to shove away the tall grass. Distracted, he walked past his ball three times before finding it. And once he hit it, it shot far over the green and into a bunker.

He sat back in the cart without saying a word.

“What else?” he asked.

“Hey, Bruce. Don’t let it get to you. That was a tough shot.”

“What’s next?” he asked again.

“As you know, especially with shortages caused by the deportation, we’re getting crushed in overtime costs right now. Across the board.”

“Yes, I’ve seen those reports.”

“Well, that problem’s about to disappear too.”

“How’s that?”

They reached the new bunker.

“Let me count the ways. First off, if you make more than $35,000 a year in a whole lot of places there our companies are, no more overtime. Period. But then there are other, sneakier rule changes that let us cut back overtime costs on the others. Creative scheduling. Handing out vacation time as opposed to pay. You name it.”

Bruce again thought of dad. He’d worked extra hours in the mine to get time-and-a-half to build up his Bruce and his brothers’ college savings accounts.

“I’ve got my people working up different options for you, and we will save millions on this alone.”

“And everyone else is doing the same?”

“Absolutely. At that conference in the Caymans last week, we shared best practices on how to take advantage of these new rules. Insane what people are coming up with. Again, if we don’t keep up, investors will go elsewhere. I’m telling you, they expect it now. We have little room for error.”

Dudley looked over at Bruce, awkwardly.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you going to knock that ball out of the sand or what?”

Bruce had forgotten about the golf game. He stood up, loped into the trap and hit the ball ten feet from the hole.

“Nice,” Dudley said.

“Thanks.”

Instead of riding in the cart, Bruce walked. He two-putted to finish with a bogey. Dudley hit one putt to birdie.

They awaited on the foursome behind the tee of the seventh hole. The clubhouse was not far behind it, so there was a din in the background of golfers wrapping up or starting their day. Mostly bankers and private equity guys like they were, surely enjoying the new era.

“But Bruce, there's one twist on the overtime stuff that might raise an issue.”

“Wait, you mean they didn’t go for broke on something?”

“Actually, they’re going for broke on something else.”

“What’s that?”

“They call it the ‘Sabbath Rest’ exception. If people have to work on a Sunday, then they get time and a half after all.”

“Ok. Well, we can avoid that, I’d think.”

“Sure, and there are some exceptions, so we’re looking into those.”

“Good. Figure it—”

“—Bruce!” a voice called out from behind them. It was a guy from the foursome behind them, finishing up the prior hole.

Bruce stood up as a slim guy with a mustache, white golf shirt and blue slacks walked his way.

Dudley whispered to him. “That’s Max Salmon. Runs Gorilla Capital, and was at the Cayman conference. Huge supporter of the president, even when others were getting cold feet.”

“That’s right,” Bruce said.

Like Bald Eagle, Gorilla was growing fast. Aggressive as hell. He and Max had overlapped at the same investment bank in their 20s.

They shook hands, Bruce applying the iron grip he was famous for.

“How goes it?” Max asked, grimacing, then shook hands with Dudley.

“All good. Dudley here’s been filling me in on all the ways our friend in the White House is helping us cut personnel costs.”

Max grinned from ear to ear.

“Why do you think I went all in on him? He may be a little dark at times. Half of what he says is insane. But what do I care if the guy is making us all a shit ton of money?”

“You do a lot of construction, don’t you?”

“Yes, I had six non-union companies, and picked up three more right after the election. Eliminating prevailing wage has been an absolute Godsend. We’ve won every bid by slashing the shit out of wages.”

He elbowed Dudley.

“It doesn’t hurt to have trained teens on these jobs either. If you pick the right ones, they’re fearless versus the grown-ups. Like little soldiers, but on job sites.”

Bruce looked at Dudley, ignoring the teenager line.

“Prevailing wage is gone too?”

“Oh yeah,” Dudley said. “They got rid of that right away, along with project labor agreements. Union shops and those building trades unions are cratering.”

He looked back at Max.

“Best part is we can 1099 so much at this point. I mean, they’re independent contractors, after all.”

“Of course they are,” Max replied, then looked back at Bruce. “This guy seems like a killer. Careful or I’ll steal him from you.”

Bruce played along.

“Not on my watch.”

The group in front drove off in their cart, leaving the tee open for Bruce and Dudley.

“Looks like we’re up,” Bruce said.

“Enjoy.”

Max looked back at Dudley, winking.

“You know the best part of all this, don’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“But we only talk about it internally, of course.”

“Of course,” Dudley said.

“Half our investors are pension funds. Retired teachers and firefighters, miners and autoworkers.”

Dudley nodded. “Yes, we just landed a major investment from retired Minnesota state employees.”

“Nice. So it’s workers’ like them whose money is being invested in all the stuff we’re talking about. Decades of their money. That’s pretty wild when you think about it.”

For the first time, Bruce felt downright nauseous. Dad paid into his pension fund for decades. When his lungs went south and he had to retire early, the health care from that pension kept him alive a few more years.

“My 90-year old mom still lives off that pension,” Bruce mumbled outloud, unintentionally. Mom’s payments supported a modest lifestyle, and covered her health care. Bruce often offered to help her more, but she refused. She never said why.

Max looked his way.

“That’s great. Thank her for us, will you? And she’s making a killing because of our new president!”

Dudley and Max slapped five.

“Take care guys.”

Bruce stepped up to the tee with his driver, Dudley a step behind him.

“I told ya. Firms like Gorilla are going all in on all this stuff. It’s a new world, and sky’s the limit. But anyone who doesn’t grab these opportunities is going to struggle.”

“I hear ya,” Bruce said. “Take a step back, will ya?”

Bruce stared down at the ball, but struggled to concentrate. Max fucking Salmon laughing about Dad’s pension payments and Mom’s benefits.

Of course Bald Eagle invested a lot of pension dollars as well, in similar ways. But to be so fucking crass about it. Awful.

He took a practice swing, then let out a deep breath.

But Dudley was right. They ran one of Wall Street’s biggest private equity funds. If he didn’t push in all the direction the Ivy League twerp was laying out, they’d go down. It was a new world, and they had to compete.

Bruce stood over the ball, spread his feet, then swung as hard as he could—and shanked the ball completely. It sailed off to the left, flying dangerously close to the clubhouse before rolling onto another fairway.

Bruce slammed the driver to the ground, as Dudley scurried back to the cart and returned with another ball.

“Here you go. We all get one mulligan!”

Bruce waved him off and walked to the cart.

“Dudley, move forward on all you talked about.  Go as far as you need to go…”

“Great, boss. Will do.”

“…But I’m done here. This is just not my day.”

Bruce plucked his bag from the cart, circled around the busy clubhouse, and walked to his car.

Capitol Monthly

“DeAndre McCollum”

By Rose Cunningham

MANHEIM, PENNSYLVANIA

Two legends, baking in the hot sun.

Turk Foster and DeAndre McCollum.

“T & D,” the good people of Manheim, Pennsylvania called them.

Hall of Famers.

GOATs.

People still flocked to T & D in restaurants. Bought them beers in bars. Snapped selfies and grabbed autographs as they worked. And crowded them on Friday nights when the whole town gathered to cheer on the Barons of Manheim Central High School.

For both, the adulation remained an honor. They couldn’t believe it never faded.

But when DeAndre and Turk truly wanted to relive their glory days on the gridiron, they didn’t do it surrounded by admirers.

They sat alone.

Because when alone, they’d relive it in a way only they could. Speaking a language only they understood.   Recalling every formation. Dissecting the theory behind each play, and the execution. And celebrating the magic when they'd executed a play perfectly—triggering the biggest moments of their playing careers.

In their junior year, it was the sweep where Turk sealed off the last defender to spring DeAndre for a 50-yard touchdown. That run clinched their upset win over Reading, the three time-defending champs, in the state semis.

In their senior year, it was DeAndre blocking a blitzing linebacker as Turk’s perfect spiral downfield caught the entire defensive backfield napping. The first touchdown of their 35-7 romp to repeat as state champs.

Beyond the plays, they recalled their teammates from those wonderful years. Their star linebacker and defensive end, both first team all-state. A fullback they all called “The Bus”—funniest guy they’d ever known.  Their stout O-line, who walled off the best that Pennsylvania threw at them for their entire, undefeated senior season.

And Coach Zimmer, may he rest in peace, whose passion and discipline molded them into the men they’d become by the time they co-captained the greatest team in Manheim history. And ever since.

For twenty years, whether huddled in the corner of a dive bar or facing one another in a quiet booth of their favorite diner, they’d swapped these memories. But for the past three years, they’d discovered that the best place to catch up was back at Manheim Central itself, looking out over the field where so much of the glory had happened.

In the heat of late July, Manheim football kicked off its two-a-days. When work allowed it, Turk and DeAndre sat together in the bleachers.  Few could tolerate the 90-degree, humid air, so it was usually just them. And in this setting, they didn’t just relive it all. They watched the practices—with special interest in two particular players.  A quarterback and a running back.

Their sons, Turk Jr. and LeSean.  Sophomores, their two boys were competing for varsity after playing together on JV—and middle school, and grade school.

So on the second practice of the second Monday of two-a-days, the two legends joined up again.

Having switched out of his uniform into black athletic shorts and a crisp white T-shirt, DeAndre jogged up the eight steps to join Turk in the front row. Daily workouts kept DeAndre almost as ripped as he’d been in school, just as the barber he’d gone to for decades kept his hair in the same buzz cut fade he’d sported back in the day. The only difference now was the short boxed beard DeAndre kept nice and trim every day.

Turk had put on some weight since his playing days, now carrying 220 pounds on his 6’1 frame. Always clean-shaven, he wore a Manheim baseball cap to go along with his tan shorts and blue golf shirt.

“LeSean is flying out there, D. Reminds me of your moves back in the day.”

DeAndre let out one his famously loud and joyous laughs.

“Yeah, but his first step is a lot faster than mine ever was.”

Turk clapped his hands together. “I wasn’t gonna say it, but it is, buddy. The kid’s gonna break some ankles.”

DeAndre beamed. Slowed by knee injuries, he’d never broken the starting lineup at Penn State.  His football journey ended as a special teams player who played garbage time after games were decided.  Then he’d come home, married Valerie, his high school sweetheart, and begun his career in the Lancaster County Sheriff’s Department.

LeSean had the speed, skill and fire to take it to a higher level than he ever had. And so far, much better knees.

“Turk Jr.’s got a strong arm himself. T. He could start if he keeps it up.”

He’d picked his words carefully, but still overstated the case. A tall, beefy kid, Turk Jr. had dominated in grade school, but the other kids caught up over time. Now, the son of Manheim’s greatest QB was third string at best. And since another sophomore was both faster and more accurate, Turk Jr. would likely never start.  And if you weren’t starting, you weren’t going anywhere.

DeAndre knew all this going into the year. But in the three practices the prior week, Turk Jr. looked worse than ever.

Turk knew it.  “The kid’s got more heart than I ever did. Works at it every day. But he’s laboring. Just not sure it’s gonna happen for him.”

DeAndre leaned back, absorbing his friend’s somber tone. He’d known Turk Foster since the third grade. Outside of recent months, there was no more relentless optimist about everything. Family. Football. Manheim. Pennsylvania. The country.

But that Turk was gone.

And DeAndre knew why.

A harsh reality was hitting the town hard these days. Like many, the Fosters were struggling well beyond Junior’s woes at QB. And because of those struggles, Turk—along with a number of Manheim families—was weighing a decision that would’ve been unthinkable only a year before.

DeAndre ventured a tiny step into an area they never talked about.

“Did you get the visit?”

Turk let out a long sigh.

“Between us, D., we did. And I’ve gotta say, it’s one of the most humiliating things we’ve ever been through.”

As he spoke, his son took part in a quarterback drill. Four different quarterbacks were taking snaps, dropping back, then hitting receivers crossing the field 15 yards downfield.

Turk watched Junior’s every move as if it was the Super Bowl.

The first two quarterbacks zipped the ball right into the receiver’s hands. Then Turk Jr. took his snap. His drop back looked good, but then he threw behind the receiver, and low. The receiver spun backwards and reached for the errant throw, but the ball bounced off his fingertips and fell to the ground.

Turk shook his head. “C’mon, son. You gotta hit that guy every time.”

DeAndre sat silently. Turk would’ve never missed that throw. Even as a sophomore.

“He’ll get there, Turk. It’s a long pre-season.”

Junior’s next few throws were equally shaky. The problem was of course arm strength and accuracy. But the kid also seemed less focused than ever.

“Did you guys get the visit?” Turk asked.

“Nope. We declined the meeting.”

DeAndre’s voice tailed off as he said it. Declining was a privilege. It meant he and Valerie were on solid enough ground to say no to the deal that was being shopped around town by its largest employer.

It was a tragic irony. DeAndre had warned everyone he knew that the president’s agenda risked all their livelihoods. But with his job as a sheriff’s deputy and Valerie’s as a probation officer, they’d stayed clear of the political and economic firing line. For now.

But many of the people who proudly voted for the president were getting hit the hardest.

And Turk was one of them. Even taking the meeting was an admission of his struggle. And since desperation was something Turk usually never copped to, things must’ve been bad.

“I’m happy for you, D. You’ve made some good choices and they’re paying off. Mine haven’t.”

Rushing drills were now underway. LeSean was cutting left and right at a different speed than everyone else.

“Jesus, D. He’s like Barry Sanders out there.”

But DeAndre wasn’t thinking about his son’s moves. He was stewing over his friend’s words.

“Turk, you’ve made great choices as well. The world’s just turned upside down, and it’s left a lot of people hanging. No fault of your own. Or anyone else’s.”

“Well, you’re nice about it, but I can’t say you didn’t warn us.”

DeAndre tensed up, surprised that Turk dipped a toe in the political water. They’d had two big arguments before last year’s election. Each time, DeAndre had explained the far right’s clear plans to go after unions and workers. But Turk swore the president would look out for the working man. After the second argument grew heated, they’d agreed to stick to football and family until politics settled own.

But politics never did. And faster than he could’ve imagined, DeAndre had been proven right—as one bill after the next kneecapped workers and unions while siding with the billionaires who put the president in office.

Even as the consequences gutted main streets like Manheim across Pennsylvania and the nation, DeAndre hadn’t once brought it up with Turk. Until now.

“He’s done some pretty bad things. And I’m sorry they’re coming down on you.”

“Bad? Families like mine are the bullseye of the entire federal government!  And I’ll never understand it. Who benefits from destroying my family? Or our town?”

LeSean cut right, then left, then broke away for another long run. Manheim’s usually gruff head coach pumped his fist.

People in Manheim didn’t talk about their personal business. But it was a small town. So newspaper stories, Facebook posts, and word of mouth made pretty clear what was happening to workers like Turk, and his wife Susie, a long-time nurse in the county hospital.

A few years back, all the nursing jobs had been shipped over to a private company to save money. Then in February, new workplace rules empowered those private companies, and the private equity firms that owned them, to cut back far more aggressively than before. The company slashed salaries, ripped away benefits, while requiring far more hours—unpredictable hours—to keep the cost of actual doctors down. And those added hours still didn’t come with overtime. And any nurse with a spouse who had health insurance, like Susie, was booted off their old, robust county health care plan.

“I feel ya, man. It was already hard enough to raise three kids before.”

Turk’s job as a union electrician had long been one of the better gigs in town. A skilled electrician made good money, and stayed busy whenever the economy was doing well—as it had been for three years straight, and most of the past twenty. Turk was one of the most well-trained and experienced electricians around, so he was always busy—taking on project after project within an hour or two of town.

But Washington’s attack on the building and construction unions had decimated workers across the entire industry. A ban on prevailing wage pulled the rug out from under the contractors that used high-quality, union workers like Turk. Amid the race to the bottom that ensued, those contractors could no longer compete for bids, so they were either converting into non-union shops, or just shutting down.

And that was crushing the livelihoods of guys like Turk. Their go-to companies for solid hours weren’t landing the jobs—and fly-by-night bottom feeders now winning the bids didn’t want to hire union guys. The few jobs they’d get were as independent contractors, making far less hourly than just months before.

Turk was in the bullseye.

“We were solid, D. My work. Her work. Good health care. Now we’re making half of what we did, and I can’t make it up through overtime.”

He paused, sighing.

“The union’s collapsing. Guys I’ve worked with for years—truly skilled people who have families to feed—are giving up. Some are looking for retail jobs or doing Uber or Door Dash on the side. And the hospital’s fucking around with Valerie’s hours so much to avoid overtime, we can’t even plan the most basic things as a family anymore.”

DeAndre nodded. He’d heard the same thing from other friends in construction. Wages were down and hours were plummeting. And steady hours were the key to their livelihoods.

The quarterbacks came back on the field now, throwing deep passes this time. Junior lagged even worse than on the crosses.

“Damn,” Turk uttered, as Junior underthrew a speedy receiver. “He’s just not cutting it.”

DeAndre cringed. This field was Turk’s escape from all he was dealing with, so Junior’s woes made it doubly worse.

Turk returned to their plight. He’d never opened up like this before.

“And we’re getting killed on the cost of everything. Killed.”

DeAndre nodded. Between the disruptions to the economy caused by mass deportation, and tariffs spiking the cost of so many goods, sticker shock hit on a daily basis.

“We feel that too, man,” DeAndre said. “Hell, just to keep these guys on that field is out of control. You’d think we were attending some fancy country club and not a public high school.”

All the Manheim parents were grousing about it. Federal money that used to flow Manheim’s way was being converted into vouchers for private schools. While this helped wealthy families pay for fancy schools in the suburbs of Philly and Pittsburgh—where most of the private schools were—federal funds for schools like Manheim were drying up.

A big levy would be on the ballot in November, but no one thought it would pass. Either way, the school board had to find other revenue streams. So they opted for sky-high fees for football and other popular sports. The payment was due the first of August.

“They’re still operating under the old days where most of us could pay it,” Turk said. “But that extra $1,500 to play a game feels like a luxury. What the hell are we supposed to do with our two other boys?”

Middle school football cost $750 per player, and Turk had twin seventh graders who looked to be stars in the making.

DeAndre didn’t have an answer. The fees would be a stretch, but he and Valerie could handle it.

“You still have your health care, right?”

Turk looked at his friend, shaking his head.

“I couldn’t get enough hours in June to qualify for my coverage. July’s looking even worse. And the cost of my drugs keeps going up. Trey’s insulin shots too.…”

The players now lined up for wind sprints between the end zone and the fifty.

“…And would you believe it? The new Medicaid rules say we still make too much to be eligible.”

The first wave of sprints started. LeSean left nine other players in his dust.

“Man he’s fast,” Turk said.

“That he is,” DeAndre said, grinning.

Junior ran in the next wave, finishing ahead of only the linemen. He looked gassed after one run.

Loud clangs sounded in DeAndre’s ears as the metal bleachers shook. He turned back to see Earl Chambers, a mid-level manager at Manheim Foods. Earl charged down the stairs two at a time, a shit-eating grin across his face. He’d been smiling that way ever since some big Wall Street firm had bought the long-time family business a few years back.

Earl stopped in the row behind them and sat down. He rested a hand on each of their shoulders, huffing heavily from his short run. Sweat darkened the armpits and upper chest of his blue, button-down shirt.

“T & D together again!”

Earl had been a scrawny freshman when they were seniors, and wasn’t much bigger now. One of the smarter kids in the school. After Lehigh, he’d come home to be an accountant for Manheim Foods. He also had a freshman in the school.

“Hey Earl,” DeAndre said, not thrilled by his bad timing.

Turk looked straight ahead even though the players were wrapping up a water break.

“How’s the team looking this year, fellas? I hear LeSean is a beast.”

“That he is,” DeAndre said.

“Where’s young Turk?”

Turk pointed to his son, now tossing with another kid on the sideline as the starters walked back on the field for a scrimmage.

“Wow. He’s really filled out. Starting to look like his old man.”

DeAndre and Turk largely ignored Earl as they watched the offense line up, then run a few plays.

“Hey Turk, we were wondering if you’d had a chance—”

Turk ripped his shoulder away from Earl’s small hand, then waved him off.

“—I told ya this once before. We will not be pressured on this. We’re weighing all the pluses and minuses, and will make the best decision for our family. Until then, do me a favor and back off.”

DeAndre glared at Earl.

“You got a lot of nerve interrupting us to talk your business. Get the hell out of here.”

Earl didn’t flinch from the harsh words. He had the power now, especially over Turk.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. We’re just trying to help folks.”

He stood up from his crouch as another play in the scrimmage unfolded. LeSean charged into the line, then broke free on the other side.

“Nice!” Earl yelled out, before looking at Turk, grin gone.

“We need to know by end of the week. These are by far the best offers in the region, and most of the slots are now spoken for.”

He scampered back up the bleacher stairs.

Turk lowered his head. Shook it slowly back and forth.

“Did I tell ya?”

“You sure did. He has no shame. What are you going to do?”

Turk took in a deep breath.

“Susie and I have cut back so much. And we’ve already pulled the trigger on the reverse mortgage, which helps some.”

“That’s good.”

“But when we run the numbers, it still doesn’t add up. We’ve lost too much income, and have no way to make it up on our current salaries. And if the union collapses entirely, we’ll be out of the house and our pension may crater with it.”

The head coach blew his whistle. Practice ended.

Turk stood up, DeAndre following him. They walked along the row where they’d been sitting, then down the eight steps to ground level. Turk was aging worse than DeAndre, walking with a pronounced limp versus DeAndre’s slight hitch. His broad shoulders sagged forward, and his head hung down. He looked nothing like the Turk Foster of his first 42 years.

DeAndre put his arm around his friend as they crossed the track to get to the football sideline. Turk’s upper body tremored, and he turned his face the other way.

“D., I feel like such a failure,” he said, close to a sob. “Think of you and me, back in the day. Ripping it up on this field. But we had it good—our only concern was winning games, and impressing girls. But kids like Junior. They’re out here trying to make throws and blocks while their whole household is crashing all around them. I can see the pressure weighing on Junior on every play. It’s just not right. I’m failing my own son.”

DeAndre nodded. His family had struggled mightily in his youth, but Turk wouldn’t have seen that. And DeAndre had kept all that to himself.

“Turk, you’re not a failure. You were kicking ass. Susie too. Doing great work, important work, and doing anything a family could ask for. This is bigger than you and me. It’s national. The country is failing you—not the other way around.”

“Well it sure doesn’t feel that way. I’ve failed my family.”

DeAndre knew Turk too well.

His tone and words gave him away.

He’d already made up his mind. Accepting the meeting with Earl Chambers of Manheim Foods showed he was looking for options to make more money. No doubt squeezing in hours in the afternoon and weekends.

And he was watching these practices not for the conversation, but to help make a big decision.

Was Junior good enough to justify paying the fee and sticking out the season? Or were the Fosters so desperate they’d have to pull him from the team and pursue a different direction?

As Earl had said, a lot of other families had already committed to take up the offer from Manheim Foods.

“Don’t let that little pipsqueak pressure you, Turk. You’ve still got time to decide.”

“A few days, sure. But I don’t see a way out. We need to make more and pay less—not the other way around. And this is our only current option that does both.”

His voice caught as he said it. He was done talking about it.

“See you tomorrow, D.”

DeAndre patted him on the back.

“Love ya, brother.”

LeSean was huddled with Coach on the far end of the field, so DeAndre headed that way. Turk Jr. was standing at midfield, helmet in hand, sweating. DeAndre watched as Turk approached him. Father and son exchanged some words, both of them frowning. Junior’s head hung down like his dad’s had earlier.

DeAndre’s chest ached at the sight. That kid had spent his entire life living in his dad’s footsteps—of course wanting to make him proud.  But it was an impossible task. His dad was the greatest quarterback in the history of Manheim. No son should have to live up to that.

But DeAndre knew their grim looks were driven by a far more painful conversation the family was having. Words so painful Turk couldn’t even utter them directly to DeAndre, as close as they were.

DeAndre understood the strain they were enduring. His dad, who’d grown up in Eastern Ohio, had once told him about the families who’d sent their kids into the mines so they could get by. DeAndre had seen the old photos, capturing a world long ago. A history he’d always assumed would never be repeated.

But it was back, perfectly captured by the somber image of a father and son gathered at Manheim’s 50-yard line.

Manheim Foods was struggling to fill dangerous jobs in their processing plant that no adults were willing to take. But new federal rules allowed them to bring in teenagers to fill those gaps. And they’d spent recent weeks going door to door, offering those jobs to the town’s newly struggling families.

And everything about today's conversation made clear—Turk Junior was about to give up football to take one of the last teen jobs available.

DeAndre reached LeSean, shook Coach’s hand, and hugged his son tightly.

“Great practice, son. Great practice. I’m so proud of you.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The Facts

The 30-something pages on Project 2025’s Chapter on the Department of Labor are so chock-full of dramatic changes and open-ended repeal or undermining of laws that have been in place for decades, it’s hard to know where to begin and where the damage would end.

But since Chapter 7 of “2025” focused on the repeal of child labor laws, let’s start there:

Under the topic “Hazard-Order Regulations,” (page 595), Project 2025 just comes right out and says “teenagers” should take up hazardous jobs, suggesting that this is what teenagers:

“Hazard-Order Regulations. Some young adults show an interest in inherently dangerous jobs. Current rules forbid many young people, even if their family is running the business, from working in such jobs. This results in worker shortages in dangerous fields and often discourages otherwise interested young workers from trying the more dangerous job. With parental consent and proper training, certain young adults should be allowed to learn and work in more dangerous occupations. This would give a green light to training programs and build skills in teenagers who may want to work in these fields.”

And again:

“DOL should amend its hazard-order regulations to permit teenage workers access to work in regulated jobs with proper training and parental consent.”

This proposal parallels states across the country which have also been repealing child-labor laws of late: “In states like Iowa, Missouri, Ohio, and Arkansas, newly passed or pending laws allow companies to hire children without work permits and allow children to work longer hours under more dangerous conditions in places like construction sites, meat packing plants, and automobile factories.”

A special investigation found that “[t]he number of children working illegally has skyrocketed across all industries, according to the Labor Department, nearly doubling since 2019. More than 800 child labor investigations in 47 states are ongoing across industries, according to the agency.” No surprise, injuries and deaths are resulting, including a 16-year old in a poultry processing plant in Mississippi.

Of course, Project 2025’s solution to this crisis is to render "legal” activity which has up to now been illegal.

Beyond that stunning part of the plan, every policy addressed in this chapter emerges front and center in Project 2025’s Chapter on the Department of Labor. I’ll detail all that in tomorrow newsletter.