Dale Denton | The Legacy | Rookie Year

[The JZA]

[The JZA]

Chapter X: Diamonds Or Dust

The scoreboard didn’t lie: 27-17.

Scott’s Branch on top. Manning High humbled.

The final whistle was like a gunshot to the chest. And just like that, Clarendon County got flipped on its head.

Scott’s Branch fans stormed the field like they was reclaiming the throne. Flags waved, folks screamed like it was Mardi Gras. Meanwhile, the Monarchs moved slow, helmets low, jaws tight. You couldn’t tell if the sweat on their faces was from the game or from swallowing their pride.

That bus ride back? Silent as a morgue. Nine miles never felt longer.

Dale slumped in his seat by the window, hood over his head, headphones in but no music playing. Just static. Just thoughts. He couldn’t shut his brain off. Couldn’t run from that pick. That one throw. That one mistake that swung the game.

Not that the game meant much to him in terms of rivalry. He wasn’t born into the blood feud like some of his teammates. He wasn’t raised to hate Scott’s Branch.

But loss? Yeah, Dale hated that. And this one? It cut deeper than he expected.

Back at the school, Coach Kennedy stood tall at the front of the bus as they rolled in. His voice didn’t boom—it landed.

“Gentlemen. We lost tonight,” he said, pausing like he was choosing his next words from the heart, not a playbook. “But every scar tells a story. Relish in it, learn from it, and harbor it. Use it next week. Because next week? We start a new chapter in the playoffs. Monday, we grind harder.”

Nobody clapped. Nobody cheered. But they heard him.

The hut cleared out quick. No post-game jokes. No wild laughter. Just dudes trying to erase the night. Dale, though? He stayed behind, like always. Respecting the space. Respecting the brotherhood.

He started stacking pads, bagging jerseys for cleaning—same way he did every week. Coach Kennedy joined him, silence thick between them until—

“Tough night throwing the ball,” Coach finally said, not accusing, not consoling. Just real. “But you still balled. Don’t forget that.”

Dale nodded, but the words bounced off him. He knew he could’ve done more. He was supposed to do more. “Thanks, Coach. Just one of them nights,” Dale said, his voice quiet but strong.

“Yeah,” Coach said. “But I seen it in your eyes. That loss ain’t just about football for you. You’re carrying more than that.”

Coach wasn’t wrong. Dale had carried pressure all season—from recruiters, from his teammates, from himself.

Then the question came.

“You make a decision yet? About school?”

Dale let out a breath, heavy like it’d been trapped in his lungs for days. “I don’t know, Coach. After tonight... I started questioning if I’m really built for a big program. That kind of pressure? It’s different.”

Coach leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Son... college is gonna come with pressure. Life will too. But pressure don’t mean you ain’t ready—it means you’re about to level up. I’ve seen how you lead out there. That ain’t something you teach. You built for this.”

Dale said nothing, but his shoulders relaxed.

“Remember what I always tell you,” Coach continued. “D.I.R.T. Defend. Inspire. Respect. Trust. Not just for your team—but for you. Believe in yourself. Believe in your grind. Trust your growth. It may have been just for one year, but you're one of the brighter students I've ever coached. Intelligent, on and off the field, you're about the team, whether they follow you or you follow them. You adapt to situations and recover or thrive. You have all the markings for a future star, son. Just don't give up on yourself.”

That part hit different.

Dale stuck out his hand, dap strong, locked with respect. “Appreciate you, Coach. I needed that. And I'ma make up for tonight's loss. There's still the playoffs, and we're going to bring home that championship.”

“Then I only have one thing to tell you: Go get it...”

That promise Dale made? He branded it in his chest like a soldier getting ready for war. He woke up early. Stayed late. Watched film like a quarterback-turned-scientist.

The sweet-sixteen round? Whale Branch got washed: 45-0. Statement made.

The Elite Eight? Mullins got steamrolled: 36-10. No brakes.

The Final Four? Edisto? Smoked: 41-3. Manning High was marching.

The Monarchs looked like a whole different squad. Hungry. Tight. No egos—just execution. Now came the real test.

East Clarendon Wolverines. Undefeated. Untouched. Unbothered. 12-0. The last perfect team in Class AAA. And now, they were coming to Manning.

The stakes? Nothing light.

Manning haven't won a state championship since 1988. It's been thirty-five long years of what-ifs and almosts. Now, Manning had a shot to rectify that. As much as it was about the trophy, it was about resurrection. It was about putting some hardware in the glass cabinet for the future student-athletes to see why Manning High was a dominant force in the county.

Dale felt it in his bones. In his lungs. Every breath was filled with urgency. This wasn’t just a game—it was a legacy.

The morning of the game, Dale didn’t speak much. He was locked in. Zoned. Even Mark noticed it over breakfast.

“You good?” he asked.

“I’m better than good,” Dale said. “I’m ready.”

The whole town pulled up to the stadium like it was Sunday service that evening. Everyone and their Mamas were out, mayor and all. Seats filled to the top. Lights lit. Grass sharp like it knew something big was about to happen.

In the locker room, the energy was thick. No long speeches. No banter. No music. Just breath and heartbeat. Before heading out, Dale and Coach Kennedy stood in the back, just them.

“Remember what you told me?” Coach asked.

Dale cracked his knuckles. His eyes didn’t blink. “I said we going all the way. I meant it.”

Coach smirked, slapped his shoulder pad. “Then let’s go get it.”

Together, they jogged onto the field as the crowd erupted. Pom poms waved. Crowd cheering. The support of the fans nearly sent chills down Dale's back. They knew just as well as Dale did, about how much this game meant, how important it was.

Manning High Monarchs vs. East Clarendon Wolverines.

Championship night. Legacy night. Diamonds or dust.

Dale stepped onto the field not just as a quarterback, but as a young man stepping into his purpose.

And as the first whistle blew, he knew—he wasn’t running from the pressure anymore... He was becoming it.

[The JZA]

[djp73]

EC looks like a buzzsaw. Gonna be a tough one!

[six7]

can’t lose again… but these dudes look tough

[redsox907]

Dale and Manning have been on a mission since that loss. But EC looks like a monster.

Eli & Giants vs Brady vibes

[The JZA]

EC looks like a buzzsaw. Gonna be a tough one!

can’t lose again… but these dudes look tough

Dale and Manning have been on a mission since that loss. But EC looks like a monster.

Eli & Giants vs Brady vibes

djp73, Google[Bot], redsox907, The time is nigh, we separate the boys from the men

[The JZA]

[The JZA]

Chapter XI: The Path To A New Road To Glory Pt. I

The final sixty seconds felt like sixty years.

Dale Denton knelt down at the forty-three-yard line, both hands wrapped around the ball like it was a crown jewel. The cold November wind swept across the field, but he didn’t feel it. Didn’t hear the roaring crowd. Didn’t hear the whistle blow. All he heard was silence.

Until the sideline erupted.

Helmets flew, players hollered, folks in the stands cried like their baby had just graduated from Harvard. The scoreboard flashed like a beacon:

Final score: Manning High: 7. East Clarendon: 3

Finally. After thirty-seven damn years...

Dale didn’t even get a chance to stand before his teammates swarmed him, lifting him out of his final kneel like he was the chosen one. The field turned into a scene out of a movie—everybody crying, hugging, jumping like the grass was lava. It was chaos—but beautiful chaos.

Dale was numb to it. Floating. A part of everything and nothing at the same time. He knew this win was big. Knew it meant something to the city. But as he looked around—old heads screaming from the bleachers, alumni players who couldn't finish their story, little kids hanging on the fence, coaches with tears in their eyes—he realized he didn’t even know the half of it. This wasn’t just about football. It was about resurrection for the whole city.

Out the corner of his eye, Dale caught Emil smiling, cheesing hard. He was the man of the hour in Dale's eyes. Emil caught the ball and got it in the end zone. To Dale, that was his MVP.

“WE DID IT!” Emil screamed, grabbing Dale by the pads and shaking him like a bobblehead. “WE MADE IT, DALE!”

Dale smiled, tried to speak, but Emil was already on one. “Nah, bruh! We didn’t make it… WE. ARE. HERE!” he roared, slapping Dale’s chest over and over. “STATE CHAMPIONS, BABY! WE HERE!”

That word—here—hit different.

Here... Here... Here…

The echo of it got louder in Dale’s head until everything around him melted away and—he woke up. Eyes wide. Heart doing suicides in his chest. Sweat hugging his body like a second skin. He looked around. Dark. Silent. Safe.

Just his bedroom. No field. No roar. No Emil. Just… reality.

Dale blinked and turned toward his nightstand. There it was. Still standing. Still real.

The MVP trophy.

The metal gleamed in the moonlight slipping through his blinds like God was blessing it. Like it knew the moment was bigger than just some hardware. He picked it up, ran his fingers along the engraving: DALE DENTON – 2025 STATE CHAMPIONSHIP MVP

No dream. No déjà vu. No cap. Facts.

He leaned back, laying the trophy against his chest like it was a newborn. A heavy silence filled the room, the kind that don’t beg for music or words. Just reflection.

He checked his smartwatch: 4:57 a.m.

Almost five. Most cats would’ve rolled back over and drifted into another hour or two of sleep. But Dale couldn't afford that luxury, state champion or not.

The season might’ve been over. The title won. The MVP earned. But the grind don’t ever end.

Because while the rest of the world slept, Dale Denton was up, he had to be up. Already thinking about the next level. College. Bigger stages. Brighter lights. Stronger competition. Coaches already watching film, already whispering his name in boardrooms.

And he knew… This wasn’t the end. It was the beginning. But before that chapter can begin, he had ten schools written down on a sticky note, propped on the mirror where can see it everyday. One of those ten schools were going to be heavily featured in the next volume series.

He got up, stretched, washed the sleep off his face, dressed up in his usual hoodie and track pants now that winter was coming, got his running shoes and got to cooking up his morning jog.

No cameras, no lights, no crowd. Just him, his will and that promise he made back when no one knew his name.

Here. Not in Manning. Not in the state, but on the map.

Dale Denton. The kid from Harlem, New York to Manning, South Carolina's savior. Funny how life works...

[Agent]

Well I know he’s not a wildcat