Power, Politics, and the Fall of Scott Woodward

The battle that brought down LSU Athletic Director Scott Woodward was never just about football. It was political from the start.

Woodward wasn’t simply the athletic face of Louisiana’s flagship university — he was a fixture in Baton Rouge’s old political guard. A registered Democrat and protégé of James Carville, Woodward was handpicked for the LSU job in 2019 by then-Governor John Bel Edwards. His arrival symbolized the continuation of a familiar order — one where the upper ranks of LSU operated as an extension of the state’s entrenched political establishment rather than a reflection of its people.

For a time, that arrangement worked. The state’s legacy donors, Carville’s inner circle, and the Baton Rouge media elite all celebrated Woodward’s return as a “homecoming.” But the truth is, Woodward’s career has always been defined less by athletics than by politics and public relations. He’s a PR expert first — someone who understands message control, media access, and narrative management better than almost anyone in Louisiana public life.

And now, as the political tide turns against him, those same skills are back in motion. Woodward’s allies are already working overtime to spin his firing as reckless and politically motivated — seeding sympathetic stories, shaping friendly coverage, and casting himself as a victim of government overreach rather than the author of his own downfall. It’s vintage Baton Rouge: when accountability arrives, change the storyline.

Governor Jeff Landry represents the opposite tradition — a leader who views LSU as a public institution, not a private fiefdom of connected elites. His clash with Woodward was inevitable. Landry’s brand of populist conservatism prizes accountability, restraint, and transparency. Woodward’s brand of Baton Rouge liberalism prizes autonomy, image, and control. The two were always destined to collide.

Under Woodward’s leadership, LSU athletics reflected the cultural priorities of national media, not the values of most Louisianans. He presided over high-profile, divisive gestures of support for the Black Lives Matter movement and implemented one of the most heavy-handed COVID policies in the South: requiring proof of vaccination or a negative PCR test to enter Tiger Stadium. Fans who “preverified” their vaccine status were given wristbands granting them access to special “fast pass” entry lanes — a symbol, to many, of the bureaucratic elitism that had seeped into LSU’s culture.

Meanwhile, Woodward’s calling card — his high-dollar coaching contracts — became cautionary tales in excess. He left Texas A&M with the $75 million Jimbo Fisher buyout still hanging over the program, then recreated the same problem at LSU with Brian Kelly’s $95 million deal. Now, LSU is staring down the barrel of another multi-decade financial liability for a failed hire.

When Governor Landry moved to block Woodward from selecting LSU’s next football coach, he wasn’t just flexing political muscle — he was asserting principle. For the first time in decades, a Louisiana governor said out loud what taxpayers have long thought: LSU’s leadership must answer to the public, not to the Baton Rouge cocktail circuit. The move enraged the state’s old political class, who saw it as heresy — an elected conservative daring to challenge the university’s insulated network of donors, consultants, and PR men. But to many Louisianans, it was refreshing. Someone was finally asking why public money and public institutions had been allowed to operate without public accountability.

Woodward’s defenders point to LSU’s recent national titles in baseball and women’s basketball as proof of success. But an athletic director’s chief responsibility is measured not by trophies, but by judgment — especially in hiring, firing, and contract management. By that standard, Woodward failed spectacularly. He leaves behind ballooning buyouts, fractured trust with the state’s leadership, and an athletic department more politically divisive than ever. And now, even in his exit, he’s deploying the same tactics that defined his career: a carefully orchestrated media narrative, well-placed quotes, and strategic silence where it matters most.

At its core, this was not a sports story — it was a political one. The fall of Scott Woodward marks the end of an era in which Baton Rouge insiders could run LSU as their personal brand engine while the public footed the bill. Governor Landry’s message was unmistakable: the people of Louisiana, not a handful of political operatives, will decide the future of their flagship university.

For years, LSU’s athletic department operated like a blue-blood fiefdom of old Louisiana politics — where image mattered more than principle, and power changed hands quietly among friends. That era is over. The politics of LSU have finally caught up to the politics of Louisiana itself.