Growing up just south of Portland, I had split allegiances. My dad was a Trojan, so watching USC games on TV was a staple in our home. I also remember Saturdays in Oregon — the rumble of the crowd, the smell of damp pine and the relentless, bone-crunching cadence of Pac-12 football.
As a kid sitting in those stands, I used to press myself against the cold bleachers, mesmerized by the sheer violence of the game. Helmets crashed like thunder, bodies flew into the turf, and yet, somehow, the players always popped back up. I’ve always admired the legendary cardinal and gold traditions right alongside Oregon’s green and yellow.
That admiration led me to earn my bachelor’s degree at the University of Oregon, followed by a master’s degree from USC in 2026.
Just months after graduating, I stood on the Coliseum turf once again, with a press pass around my neck and a camera in hand. I looked for that familiar spark of fierce, honorable competition.
Then came junior Desman Stephen II’s hit on Oregon senior quarterback Dante Moore.
It didn’t sound like the usual crisp crack of pads; it was a heavy, unnatural thud that echoed straight into the pit of my stomach. I was crouched near the end zone, positioned just to the left of Moore when he went down. The stadium noise seemed to instantly mute.
When the pile cleared, Moore lay motionless on the turf, framed by the blinding stadium lights. My hands froze on the shutter release. Within seconds, Moore’s body began to tense involuntarily — a terrifying sight I later learned was a fencing response, a distinct neurological reaction to severe head trauma.
Professionalism demanded that I stay detached, but inside I was fighting the urge to cry, yell, or throw up. I pushed back tears, took a knee and bit my tongue — knowing that adding to the panic would only make things worse. Suppressing my reactions in that split second was the toughest challenge of my seven years in sports photography.
But it also lit a fire. I turned to a photographer friend next to me and said, “If Oregon is good at one thing, it’s stepping up when it gets personal. Something tells me this game isn’t over.” Watching the way Oregon rallied with grit and heart over the remaining quarters made me incredibly proud.
It was only after the dust settled that I realized my phone, mounted to the top of my camera rig, had recorded the entire sequence. I usually hit record when I sense a team is driving, wanting to catch that high-stakes touchdown moment from the end zone. Instead, I captured one of the scariest moments in a person’s life.
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What haunted me most wasn’t just the hit itself, but what happened in the immediate aftermath. Sportsmanship was absent from the USC sideline. Instead of turning around to check on Moore, Stephens threw his hands up in the air, facing the crowd — almost as if he thought he did something right. Watching what appeared to be a couple of USC players taunting the Oregon bench while Moore lay still on the 13-yard line brought a wave of profound disappointment.
Rivalries can run as deep as the ocean, but no single victory or title is worth a play that could jeopardize a young athlete’s life. Indiscriminate violence drains the soul out of a game meant to elevate us. Football is inherently physical, but it was never created to be cruel.
While Coach Riley and Stephens expressed remorse, their words felt more like damage control than genuine accountability. No apology can erase the trauma inflicted on Moore, his family, and his teammates, and celebrating during such a vulnerable moment was inexcusable.
A one-game suspension is a mere slap on the wrist. What happened was devastating, but it could have been life-altering — and that is where true accountability must begin. May this serve as a stark learning opportunity for the Trojans and the sport at large:
No hit like this is ever worth the glory.
Edited by Sammie Vassallo and Bennett M. Weinschenk