Editorial by David Ravo, Senior Editor, Misleading.com “From Serve and Protect to Shove and Deflect”
College football is supposed to be a celebration of youthful energy, community pride, and the kind of ritual that binds generations together. The stadium lights, the marching band, the roar of the crowd—all of it creates a spectacle that transcends the game itself. But when law enforcement officers decide to insert themselves into that spectacle not as guardians but as aggressors, the ritual collapses into something darker. Last Saturday, under the glare of stadium lights and the expectant hum of a college crowd, a Texas Department of Public Safety trooper delivered a hit that belonged on a defensive highlight reel, not in a police report. His targets were South Carolina’s Nyck Harbor, fresh off an 80-yard touchdown, and his teammate Oscar Adaway III. The trooper, elbow extended, made deliberate contact with the players as they passed through the tunnel, then turned to scold them as if celebration itself were a crime.
The collision was brutal in its symbolism. Harbor, a freshman phenom whose speed electrifies crowds, had just given the Gamecocks a rare moment of triumph. Adaway, walking beside him, was caught in the officer’s unnecessary show of force. The crowd gasped. ESPN cameras captured the moment. And then, in the most chilling silence of all, the trooper stood over the players—not to apologize, not to de-escalate, but to bark commands as if they were suspects resisting arrest. This was not law enforcement. It was domination. It was theater of control masquerading as public safety.
The fallout was immediate. The Texas DPS issued a statement acknowledging the incident and confirmed that the trooper was “sent home from the game.” Texas A&M officials echoed the move, relieving him of his game-day assignment. But the damage was already done. Harbor and Adaway were forced to absorb not just the physical bump but the humiliation of being treated like intruders in a stadium where they were the rightful stars. Parents, fans, and even NBA legend LeBron James condemned the officer’s actions, calling them “premeditated and corny.” The spectacle of college football had been hijacked by a spectacle of force.
College game day is supposed to be a sanctuary of youthful exuberance. But increasingly, it is becoming a stage for law enforcement overreach. Metal detectors at the gates. Officers in riot gear patrolling bleachers. Surveillance drones buzzing overhead. We have normalized the presence of police at every public gathering, but what happens when their role shifts from guardian to aggressor? When the badge becomes a license not to protect but to dominate? The DPS trooper’s elbow was not an isolated incident. It was the logical outcome of a culture that trains officers to see every space as a battlefield, every citizen as a potential threat, and every encounter as a test of force.
Let’s call it what it is: the linebacker mentality. Law enforcement agencies increasingly recruit from military ranks, train with combat scenarios, and outfit themselves with gear designed for war zones. The result is officers who see themselves less as peacekeepers and more as enforcers—linebackers ready to deliver hits, not de-escalate tensions. The DPS trooper did not just elbow Harbor and Adaway. He embodied a philosophy: control through force, authority through intimidation, and accountability through obfuscation.
The community’s outrage was immediate. Parents demanded the trooper’s suspension. Students organized protests. Editorial boards condemned the incident. But the DPS response was predictable: delay, deflect, deny. Internal investigations dragged on. Statements emphasized “officer safety.” And the players’ families, instead of receiving justice, faced subtle intimidation—warnings about “legal consequences” if they pursued charges. This is the playbook. When officers cross the line, institutions close ranks. Transparency evaporates. Accountability dissolves. And the victim becomes the villain.
What happened under the stadium lights was not just a tragedy. It was a performance. Law enforcement thrives on spectacle. The flashing lights, the sirens, the uniforms—all designed to project authority. But when that spectacle turns violent, it reveals the rot beneath. The DPS trooper’s elbow was a performance of dominance. It was not about safety. It was not about law. It was about reminding the crowd who holds power, even in spaces meant for joy.
The players now face the indignity of being remembered not for their athletic feats but for being targets of state power. Harbor’s breakout play should have been the headline. Adaway’s resilience should have been the story. Instead, the narrative was hijacked by an officer who mistook his role for that of a linebacker. The human cost is not just physical. It is psychological. Communities lose trust. Students lose innocence. Parents lose faith. And the cycle of alienation deepens.
What would accountability look like? Immediate suspension of the trooper. Transparent investigation with community oversight. Public acknowledgment of wrongdoing. Reparations for the players and their families. A reevaluation of DPS protocols that treat stadiums like war zones. Instead, we get silence. We get bureaucratic jargon. We get the slow grind of a system designed to protect itself, not the people it serves.
Imagine if DPS ran the NCAA. Every touchdown reviewed for “suspicious movement.” Every celebration penalized for “resisting authority.” Linebackers replaced by officers in tactical gear. Fans frisked before entering the stadium. The scoreboard would not track points. It would track compliance. Absurd? Yes. But absurdity is the point. When law enforcement adopts the mentality of linebackers, the line between sport and surveillance blurs.
College game day belongs to the community. It belongs to the students who play, the parents who cheer, the coaches who mentor. But when law enforcement storms the field, they claim ownership. They turn public space into controlled space. They remind us that joy is conditional, freedom is monitored, and innocence is expendable. The larger question is not just about one trooper’s elbow. It is about who owns public space—and whether communities will reclaim it from institutions that see every gathering as a threat.
Law enforcement officers are not linebackers. Their job is not to deliver hits but to protect lives. Their role is not to dominate but to serve. The DPS trooper who elbowed Harbor and Adaway betrayed that role. He turned a community ritual into a cautionary tale. He reminded us that unchecked power does not just corrupt—it collides, violently, with the most vulnerable among us. Communities must demand accountability. Parents must demand transparency. Students must demand safety. Because college game day should illuminate hope, not cast shadows of fear.
The deeper tragedy here is how familiar this story feels. We have seen versions of it in school hallways, at music festivals, in public parks. Spaces meant for joy and community transformed into arenas of control. Officers trained to see threat where there is none, to escalate where de-escalation is needed, to dominate where empathy should guide. The elbow at the college stadium is not an aberration. It is a symptom of a system that has lost sight of its purpose.
Consider the optics. A young athlete, full of energy, moving quickly through the tunnel. An officer, bristling with gear, interpreting that movement as defiance. The collision is not just physical. It is symbolic. It represents the clash between youthful freedom and institutional control, between community joy and bureaucratic paranoia. And in that clash, the institution always wins—unless communities refuse to accept the narrative.
The narrative offered by DPS is predictable. The trooper acted within protocol. The players’ movement was suspicious. The force was necessary. But these narratives crumble under scrutiny. Protocols are written to protect institutions, not people. Suspicion is a subjective lens, often tinted by bias. Necessity is a justification stretched to cover abuse. What the community saw was not necessity. It was brutality. What Harbor and Adaway experienced was not protocol. It was violence. And what the trooper delivered was not safety. It was harm.
The harm reverberates. Students now walk campus with a new awareness: their movements are monitored, their joy conditional, their safety uncertain. Parents now send their children to college with a new fear: that the institutions meant to protect them may instead target them. Communities now gather under stadium lights with a new hesitation: that the spectacle of sport may be interrupted by the spectacle of force. This is the legacy of the elbow. It is not just bruised ribs. It is broken trust.
Trust is the currency of community. Without it, institutions collapse. Law enforcement depends on trust to function. When officers betray that trust, they do not just harm individuals. They harm the fabric of society. The DPS trooper’s elbow shredded that fabric. It turned a moment of joy into a moment of fear. It turned a community ritual into a cautionary tale. And unless accountability follows, the fabric will continue to unravel.
Accountability is not optional. It is essential. Without it, the cycle repeats. Without it, officers learn that force is acceptable, that domination is rewarded, that harm is excused. Without it, communities learn that their voices do not matter, that their outrage is ignored, that their safety is expendable. Accountability is the only way to restore trust. It is the only way to reclaim public space. It is the only way to ensure that college game day remains a celebration, not a collision course.
Misleading, because the officer knew he was wrong—and chose deception over accountability. We want you opinion!
