Tom Cruise Plots Times Square Stunt as Ball Goes Rogue for America’s 250th

Max Sterling, 12/27/2025Join Tom Cruise in a thrilling Times Square stunt as the iconic Ball celebrates America's 250th birthday! Expect dazzling displays, a unique second drop on July 3, 2026, and quirky small-town traditions echoing national pride. This isn't just a party—it's a celebration of unity and reflection on America’s journey.

This year, though, the Ball isn’t content to simply usher in 2026 and call it quits. Instead, it’s gearing up for a double act—think of it as Sinatra coming back for an encore, not because anyone asked, but because the moment demands something bigger.

America’s 250th birthday is arriving, and if the congressional brain trust behind America250 has its way, the calendar will not be allowed a single quiet moment. One Times Square is getting dressed up not once, but twice, as both the launchpad and the grand finale for what’s being hyped as the party of the decade. Rosie Rios, at the helm of America250, has put it bluntly: this isn’t just about throwing a massive bash, it’s a national roll call—a reminder that “unity” isn’t just something politicians whisper about every fourth November.

With the Ball’s usual drop serving as a starting whistle, the schedule kicks into high gear right after the big moment. Forget the fade to black; instead, just after midnight, lights erupt in synchronized red, white, and blue, while the numbers "2026" glow like a digital tattoo over Broadway. Then comes the confetti—mountainous, unfiltered, the sort of blitz that might leave at least one unlucky subway entrance looking like a papier-mâché volcano.

And as if that weren’t enough, Ray Charles’ “America the Beautiful” is piped into Times Square—which, for a few minutes at least, transforms Midtown Manhattan into a kind of sentimental fever dream. Normally, this is when the Ball heads backstage, perhaps to hang out with whatever’s left of Dick Clark’s wardrobe. But for 2026, the Ball does something different: it rises, phoenix-like, above the crowds, donned in America250 regalia, announcing that the Semiquincentennial is officially open for business.

The plan, on paper, feels like the Super Bowl halftime show and the 4th of July fireworks had a child—and Times Square’s playing midwife. Michael Phillips, who has the dubious prestige of owning the ground beneath the glitter, reminds everyone that this is “where the world comes together.” And if that means more drones than in a Marvel finale, so be it.

Though, it’s never just about Manhattan. America250 appears determined to wring every possible ounce of celebration from coast to coast—and that includes a second, unprecedented Ball drop. On July 3, 2026, Times Square will light up yet again to ring in Independence Day’s eve. Rumor has it, there’ll be fireworks, a military flyover, possibly even a White House UFC bout—because apparently, nothing says “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” quite like a heavyweight slugfest beside the Rose Garden. If that's not enough, the “Great American State Fair” lands on the National Mall, each state and territory hosting its own booth—a real-world sprawl of carnival rides, fried foods, and, inevitably, some debate over who really invented chili.

That’s the big picture. But here’s where things get delightfully weird. Every monumental occasion, American-style, finds its reflection in small-town rituals experienced with equal sincerity (and, sometimes, twice the popcorn). Out in Chagrin Falls, Ohio—a place where “quaint” is practically an official title—the centerpiece isn’t a glittering sphere, but “Miss Sally,” a popcorn ball that might be more at home in a David Lynch fever dream than at city hall. Dreamed up by the late, legendary Sally Florkiewicz and Dewey Forward, Miss Sally is what happens when community spirit finds sugar and a sense of humor. They hoist the six-foot, 240-pound monument skywards, fire the village cannon, and, just for good measure, rocket 400 popcorn balls out to an audience eager to claim their piece of edible Americana. The whole thing smacks of a gentle absurdity that makes it, peculiarly, perfect.

It’s hardly the only offbeat tradition. Indiana claims the “watermelon drop,” which manages to be both spectacularly messy and committedly Midwestern. Bethlehem, Pennsylvania flings a giant light-up Peeps chick, which, fair enough, feels a bit more spring than winter. And then there’s Plymouth, Wisconsin’s Big Cheese drop, which—true to form—smells exactly as you’d expect something named “Big Cheese” to smell at midnight.

All this... pageantry, for lack of a better word, is designed to be a mirror. On one side, the multimillion-dollar flash of Times Square and Washington’s Mall; on the other, the heart-of-the-village strangeness that gives Americana its lasting charm. Maybe there’s something to be said for this insistence on celebration, even if it’s occasionally more confetti than connection.

Underneath all the fireworks and flyovers, the main event isn’t strictly about spectacle. If anything, it’s an unspoken search for a shared national heartbeat—stubborn optimism, the kind that tosses popcorn and hope together with the expectation that, eventually, the confetti will settle into meaning. After 250 years, America’s got more chapters to write. Perhaps the only truly radical act left is to keep showing up for the next one, hats askew, confetti in hand, popcorn in pockets. The nation waits, the Ball rises (and falls), and there’s always another midnight on the horizon.

There’s something almost cinematic about those last few seconds before midnight on New Year’s Eve—Times Square transforms into an electric cathedral, neon casting long shadows over the crowd as the Ball begins its measured descent. For more than a hundred years, that jeweled sphere has been America’s unofficial hourglass; a peculiar relic, perhaps, but one that gathers Wall Street bankers, Midwest grandmas, and sleep-deprived teenagers alike under a single glittering spectacle.This year, though, the Ball isn’t content to simply usher in 2026 and call it quits. Instead, it’s gearing up for a double act—think of it as Sinatra coming back for an encore, not because anyone asked, but because the moment demands something bigger.America’s 250th birthday is arriving, and if the congressional brain trust behind America250 has its way, the calendar will not be allowed a single quiet moment. One Times Square is getting dressed up not once, but twice, as both the launchpad and the grand finale for what’s being hyped as the party of the decade. Rosie Rios, at the helm of America250, has put it bluntly: this isn’t just about throwing a massive bash, it’s a national roll call—a reminder that “unity” isn’t just something politicians whisper about every fourth November.With the Ball’s usual drop serving as a starting whistle, the schedule kicks into high gear right after the big moment. Forget the fade to black; instead, just after midnight, lights erupt in synchronized red, white, and blue, while the numbers "2026" glow like a digital tattoo over Broadway. Then comes the confetti—mountainous, unfiltered, the sort of blitz that might leave at least one unlucky subway entrance looking like a papier-mâché volcano.And as if that weren’t enough, Ray Charles’ “America the Beautiful” is piped into Times Square—which, for a few minutes at least, transforms Midtown Manhattan into a kind of sentimental fever dream. Normally, this is when the Ball heads backstage, perhaps to hang out with whatever’s left of Dick Clark’s wardrobe. But for 2026, the Ball does something different: it rises, phoenix-like, above the crowds, donned in America250 regalia, announcing that the Semiquincentennial is officially open for business.The plan, on paper, feels like the Super Bowl halftime show and the 4th of July fireworks had a child—and Times Square’s playing midwife. Michael Phillips, who has the dubious prestige of owning the ground beneath the glitter, reminds everyone that this is “where the world comes together.” And if that means more drones than in a Marvel finale, so be it.Though, it’s never just about Manhattan. America250 appears determined to wring every possible ounce of celebration from coast to coast—and that includes a second, unprecedented Ball drop. On July 3, 2026, Times Square will light up yet again to ring in Independence Day’s eve. Rumor has it, there’ll be fireworks, a military flyover, possibly even a White House UFC bout—because apparently, nothing says “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” quite like a heavyweight slugfest beside the Rose Garden. If that's not enough, the “Great American State Fair” lands on the National Mall, each state and territory hosting its own booth—a real-world sprawl of carnival rides, fried foods, and, inevitably, some debate over who really invented chili.That’s the big picture. But here’s where things get delightfully weird. Every monumental occasion, American-style, finds its reflection in small-town rituals experienced with equal sincerity (and, sometimes, twice the popcorn). Out in Chagrin Falls, Ohio—a place where “quaint” is practically an official title—the centerpiece isn’t a glittering sphere, but “Miss Sally,” a popcorn ball that might be more at home in a David Lynch fever dream than at city hall. Dreamed up by the late, legendary Sally Florkiewicz and Dewey Forward, Miss Sally is what happens when community spirit finds sugar and a sense of humor. They hoist the six-foot, 240-pound monument skywards, fire the village cannon, and, just for good measure, rocket 400 popcorn balls out to an audience eager to claim their piece of edible Americana. The whole thing smacks of a gentle absurdity that makes it, peculiarly, perfect.It’s hardly the only offbeat tradition. Indiana claims the “watermelon drop,” which manages to be both spectacularly messy and committedly Midwestern. Bethlehem, Pennsylvania flings a giant light-up Peeps chick, which, fair enough, feels a bit more spring than winter. And then there’s Plymouth, Wisconsin’s Big Cheese drop, which—true to form—smells exactly as you’d expect something named “Big Cheese” to smell at midnight.All this... pageantry, for lack of a better word, is designed to be a mirror. On one side, the multimillion-dollar flash of Times Square and Washington’s Mall; on the other, the heart-of-the-village strangeness that gives Americana its lasting charm. Maybe there’s something to be said for this insistence on celebration, even if it’s occasionally more confetti than connection.Underneath all the fireworks and flyovers, the main event isn’t strictly about spectacle. If anything, it’s an unspoken search for a shared national heartbeat—stubborn optimism, the kind that tosses popcorn and hope together with the expectation that, eventually, the confetti will settle into meaning. After 250 years, America’s got more chapters to write. Perhaps the only truly radical act left is to keep showing up for the next one, hats askew, confetti in hand, popcorn in pockets. The nation waits, the Ball rises (and falls), and there’s always another midnight on the horizon.