Air Force One buzzes Daytona Speedway, a hulking shadow against the Florida sky, before Donald Trump—then President, now the 47th once more—hops into “The Beast” to lead the 2020 Daytona 500 field. It was peak NASCAR theater: roaring engines, waving flags, and a fanbase that lives for that patriotic rush. Fast forward to 2025, and Trump’s back, fresh off a historic re-election, turning Daytona into a red-hot crucible of racing and rallying.

The crowd’s wild, the vibe’s electric, and Ricky Stenhouse Jr.—of all people—is laughing his way to the bank, cashing in on a fluke that’s got fans buzzing and hats flying off the shelves. Stenhouse’s No. 47 car has always been his calling card, and his patriotic “47” hats—stars, stripes, the works—have been a hit for years. But Trump’s return as the 47th President? That’s flipped the script into overdrive.

Ricky Stenhouse is soaking in his Shark Tank moment

“We are making a killing on the 47 hats,” Stenhouse chuckled, barely keeping a straight face. “Madison’s been busy shipping out a lot of hats, so it’s been cool. Stenhousejr.com, go get yours.” What was once just slick racer swag is now a political lightning rod. Fans—NASCAR diehards and Trump boosters alike—are snagging them like hotcakes, turning a simple cap into a dual-purpose banner for speed and swagger.

“It’s always been our best-selling hat,” Stenhouse said, “and now it’s selling a lot. It’s good. It’s good.” That’s the understatement of the season. Madison’s drowning in orders, and the hat’s double meaning—47 for the car, 47 for the prez—has fans at races and rallies sporting it like a badge of honor. “It’s cool,” he shrugged. “I guess it’s got double meanings now.” Social media’s a circus: tailgate warriors and political firebrands flexing their 47s, calling it the ultimate crossover merch. RSJ didn’t plan this—he just got lucky, and he’s riding the wave.

For context, Agenda 47 has been at the heart of President Trump’s 2024 campaign. It outlined the policies and plans he had once he came into office. Thus, once he was sworn in, the number 47 would become synonymous with him.

Trump’s 2025 Daytona drop didn’t just juice the crowd—it lit Stenhouse’s brand on fire. The president’s larger-than-life strut, mashed up with NASCAR’s high-octane soul, birthed a perfect storm. “We’ve had them for two or three years,” Stenhouse said, still marveling at the timing. His team’s scrambling to keep the hats stocked, feeding a frenzy that’s equal parts racing pride and political flex. Fans aren’t just buying—they’re proclaiming, and Stenhouse is happy to oblige. “It’s cool,” he repeated, the grin saying what words won’t: this is nuts, and I love it.

In a sport where split seconds rule, Stenhouse struck gold without turning a wheel. The 47 hat’s gone from pit-row staple to cultural juggernaut, a cash cow born of cosmic coincidence. Trump’s win turned heads; Stenhouse turned it into profit. Patriotism, racing, politics—it’s a trifecta paying off big. Grab yours before they’re gone, because this fluke’s too good to last.

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RSJ has put the Daytona crash in the back mirror

The 2025 Daytona 500 was barreling toward its climax—14 laps to go, tension thick enough to choke on—when chaos erupted, swallowing Joey Logano and Ricky Stenhouse Jr. in a superspeedway shredder. Daytona’s a beast, a 2.5-mile circus where split-second calls can crown you king or send you spinning into infamy. This wreck? A brutal cocktail of tight racing, raw aggression, and that unpredictable Daytona voodoo.

Logano, a cagey vet, saw it unfold like a slow-motion nightmare. “The move was right,” he said, replaying his dart to the middle lane—a slick bid to lock down position. Stenhouse, though? His block came late, a half-beat off, and Logano hit the brakes. “I checked up for that,” he recounted, figuring Stenhouse would slide back to the third lane. Nope. Stenhouse doubled down, staking his claim in the middle. Logano, pinned by a shove from Noah Gragson’s bumper, was a sitting duck. “I’m getting pushed at that point—I couldn’t get out, couldn’t line back up,” he said. Boom. Metal crunched, dreams torched.

Stenhouse, meanwhile, was running on instinct and a bitter memory. “Not taking the block lost me the race last year,” he growled, hell-bent on not repeating 2024’s heartbreak. He clocked Logano’s move and matched it, eyeing Corey LaJoie’s No. 01 for a draft down the backstretch. “I thought Joey was just in line,” he said. But the field accordion-folded, a swarm of cars collapsing in tight. Stenhouse eased down—too late. Logano, juiced by that rear-end push, was already there. “We just all kind of ran out of room,” Stenhouse admitted, rueful but resigned.

It was a chain reaction of carnage. Logano tagged Kyle Busch first, then the dominoes fell—Stenhouse and a pack of others swallowed in the melee. “It all happened so fast,” Stenhouse said, tipping his cap to Logano’s effort to dodge. Too little, too late. The draft’s relentless shove and Daytona’s claustrophobic lanes left no escape hatch. “That’s what caused the wreck,” Logano sighed, summing up the chaos.

This wasn’t just a crash—it was Daytona’s cruel arithmetic at work. Aggression’s the name of the game, but the margin’s a razor’s edge. One twitch, one misfire, and the field’s a junkyard. For Logano and Stenhouse, it was a gut-punch reminder: at 200 mph, with glory on the line, even the sharpest moves can end in a fireball of what-ifs. That’s racing. That’s Daytona.