Dale Denton | The Legacy | Rookie Year

[six7]

i dont get any of the above references but we ready

Dale Denton is the name of Seth Rogans character in Pineapple Express

#boomer

[djp73]

i dont get any of the above references but we ready

Dale Denton is the name of Seth Rogans character in Pineapple Express

#boomer

i've seen that movie but i did not memorize the characters names

[redsox907]

i dont get any of the above references but we ready

[The JZA]

Chapter I: Long Live

Harlem was sweat and attitude in July. The kind of heat that made even the concrete breathe heavy. That old, familiar New York funk hung in the air—hot dog water, weed smoke, piss in alleyways, and the faint scent of someone grilling something on a busted hibachi. Fire hydrants hissed open, spraying out onto the cracked asphalt while little bad-ass kids screamed and danced barefoot in the streams, dodging traffic and curses from their mamas.

It was the kind of day where you could see the heat shimmering like ghosts off the pavement, where the block never stayed quiet long. Cats was on the corner, half-posted on milk crates, half-lost in dice games, and all the way up to no good. The court stayed packed with shirtless hoopers—some with next, some with dreams—talking more shit than they could back up, trying to impress whoever walked by.

And the summer girls? Man, they came out in full bloom. Tight shorts, belly rings, slick lip gloss, and that switch in the hips that said look but don’t touch—unless you worth it. They had the block hypnotized, walking slow like they had nowhere to be, just enjoying the power that came with a sun dress and some confidence.

But this ain’t no fairy tale. Harlem don’t love nobody for too long. The same sun that made her glow also lit up the shadows, and that’s where the real stories lived.

Dale Denton? He was one of those stories.

Star quarterback at East Harlem High, or he was, before he let his mouth catch a check his hands couldn’t cash. Dale had that natural shine—six-foot-something, cocky smile, moves on the field and off. But the boy had a wild tongue, always testing folks, always trying to stay two steps ahead even when he was just running in place.

See, a couple days before homecoming, Dale got into it with his wide receiver, Tyrese—tight dude, short fuse. What started as a little shit-talking during drills turned personal. Real personal. Coaches broke it up before it turned into something, but the damage was done.

Then came that Friday night in the Heights.

No helmets. No whistles. No school spirit.

Just streets, egos, and the kind of heat that makes boys think they men.

Dale thought he was walking into a one-on-one. Handle it like grown folks. But Tyrese? He wasn’t playing by no playbook. Showed up deep, him and his peoples, and by the time Dale realized it, it was already too late. The fight was short, bloody, and uneven.

Dale ain’t run, though. Took his lumps like a man. Pride swallowed, lip split, limped back to the crib on 127th like he’d just lost the championship game of his life.

But the real pain didn’t come from the punches.

It came from his mama’s eyes.

Sharnell Johnson was tired. Not the kind of tired you sleep off. The kind that settles into your bones. She loved her son, no doubt. Raised him solo, held it down through all his mess. But Harlem was changing. Kids dying over nothing. Friends turning ghosts. She wasn’t about to bury her only child. Not if she could help it.

So the decision came hard and quick.

“You movin’ with your daddy,” she said, voice low but final. “South Carolina.”

Dale laughed at first. Thought she was bluffin’. Thought she was mad in the moment. But she wasn’t.

The bags got packed that same weekend.

His pops pulled up in a dusty Ford Explorer with Carolina plates and a face full of regret. Man hadn’t been around much, but he showed when it counted this time. Sharnell didn’t say much to Dale after that. Just looked at him like she was letting go of a part of herself.

The city moved like normal that day. Same block noise, same fire hydrants, same knuckleheads hollering at girls. But to Dale? Everything felt stuck. Like the world was frozen just to watch him leave.

He didn’t cry. Not once. But the silence screamed louder than any goodbye.

As the Explorer pulled off, Harlem disappeared in the rear view.

And just like that, the city spit out another one.

Only difference was, Dale wasn’t coming back the same.

If he came back at all...

The ride was long. One of them soul-searching, silence-so-thick-you-could-cut-it road trips. The kind where every exit sign felt like it mocked you for not turning around. The pavement rolled underneath like an unending gray snake, the heat dancing off the surface like spirits in mourning. The A/C barely put a dent in the Southern sun bleeding through the windshield, but KRS-One played like a heartbeat through the speakers—steady, wise, militant.

Mark kept his eyes on the road, hands at ten and two like he was holding onto something more than just the wheel. Like maybe he was holding the distance between who he was and who he should’ve been.

Dale, though… Dale was in his own head. Harlem still buzzed in his bones. The smell of the corner bodega, the snap of a ball hitting blacktop, the voice of his girl, Keisha, in his ear—“You think you grown now, huh? You ain’t even scratched the surface.” Gone. All of it. Like someone tore a page from a book and burned it before he finished reading.

He wanted to be mad. Was mad. But being mad didn’t fix shit. Never had.

His pops breaking the silence just felt like static interrupting a channel he didn’t want to hear.

“I didn’t expect to see you like this. You movin’ down here with me.”

Dale didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes out the window, watching the white dashed lines race alongside them like they was trying to outrun time.

“I heard all the things that’s been going on with you back in New York. You want to explain to me what all that trouble was about?”

“You want to explain to me where you been all my life?”

That hit. No warm-up. No build. Just bare knuckle to the chin.

Mark swallowed the hurt. The kind of pain that don’t bleed but still leaves a scar.

He didn’t dodge the punch though. He leaned into it.

“I wasn’t ready to be a father. I was going through a lot of failures and I wasn’t in the position to feed you or put clothes on your back. Whatever it was I was missing, I had to find it through reinventing myself. As selfish as it seems, what good was I to you with no money, no roof over my head, no guidance to pull experience from? You were better off without me more than you know.”

To Dale, it was all just well-dressed excuses. Polished words to justify a man’s absence. Sounded good in theory. But theory ain’t tuck you in at night. Theory ain’t teach you how to throw hands when the block started talkin’ slick. Theory ain’t nothing but air.

He tuned it out.

But Mark caught the look. The tight jaw. The crossed arms. That Denton cold shoulder.

Still, he didn’t push it. He knew this wasn't about quick fixes. This was about long roads and slow healing. So he let it ride in silence again.

A pit-stop for gas and several exits later, Dale finally sighed, like the weight was too much for his chest to carry anymore.

“My B' for what I said earlier. I say shit that come off high-strung. It’s just... I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Everything I knew been taken from me. Friends, family, my girl… I’m not ready for all this.”

Mark nodded, eyes never leaving the road.

“I guess you're more like me than you think. Not being ready. I get it. And I’m here to help, and hopefully you'll let me. We both got a lot of work to do... And I won’t lie to you—South Carolina ain’t no fun park. It’s boring, quiet… and yeah, sometimes it feel like the world forgot it exists. But it gave me space to grow. Time to stop runnin’ and start figuring shit out. I’m hopin’ it do the same for you.”

Dale didn’t say nothing back. Not because he didn’t have thoughts. But because he didn’t know how to shape them into words just yet. All he knew was Harlem had pushed him out, and now the country was supposed to be his new classroom.

He wasn't ready for none of it.

He laid his head against the window, watching trees blur by, the sun slowly ducking behind them like it didn’t want to witness the awkward reunion of a boy and his father.

KRS faded out, replaced by some old Curtis Mayfield Mark had queued up. Something about pain and peace and progress.

Dale closed his eyes.

The road stretched ahead like a promise and a punishment all in one.

[djp73]

Great intro
Do the Right Thing vibes

[six7]

[The JZA]

Great intro
Do the Right Thing vibes

djp73, You ain't gotta lie to me big dawg, it was sub-par at best. But I appreciate it fams. Wildly late on the story telling, wasn't sure if I wanted to add it in.

Google[Bot], We gone cook fam, just waiting on the recipe

[djp73]

Great intro
Do the Right Thing vibes

djp73, You ain't gotta lie to me big dawg, it was sub-par at best. But I appreciate it fams. Wildly late on the story telling, wasn't sure if I wanted to add it in.

Google[Bot], We gone cook fam, just waiting on the recipe

painted a picture, I rock with it

[Captain Canada]

Oh he writing writing that was some heat

[The JZA]

Chapter II: The Dream

The roar of the crowd was thunder wrapped in gasoline. It was electric—heavy with tension, with sweat, with years of dreams that led to this one moment.

Dale blinked, slow, steady. The lights from the stadium beams glared down like heaven had opened up its eyes. He looked left, right—teammates all around him, locked in, helmets scratched to hell, eyes wide like warhorses before the final charge. He turned his head to the scoreboard: 17-20, one minute and 29 left to go. Everything was on the line.

Crunch time.

Coach grabbed him by the shoulder pads at the sideline, voice low and sharp like a switchblade.

“Don’t do anything reckless, Denton. Just get us in range. We tie this up and take it to overtime. Let’s go home.”

That word—home—hit Dale harder than any linebacker ever could. It curled up inside his chest and sparked fire. Home? Ain’t no home no more. Harlem was gone, Mama was gone, Keisha, the block, the court, all of it. Only thing left was this moment.

Dale nodded without saying a word and jogged out to the field.

In the huddle, the fellas looked gassed. Jersey collars stretched, mouthguards hanging, dirt smeared across their skin like war paint. But their eyes still had it—that fire. Dale didn’t hesitate.

“Coach want us to play it safe. Force OT. But fuck that—We’re going for it.”

The center gave him a sideways look.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

Dale met every set of eyes in that huddle like a general before the final battle.

“I know y’all tired. I see it. But trust me—stick with me, I’ma see us through. We burn these 29 seconds, run the 29 strong side. Let’s see what we got.”

First snap. 29 Strong. Right guard pulled perfect, cleared the hole like Moses partin’ the sea. The tailback took it 27 yards clean, dropped on their own 47. Crowd erupted. Sideline hyped. You could feel hope pulse through the bleachers like a heartbeat.

Next play. Full Back Under.

Dale stepped up to the line, eyes scanning like a sniper. He spotted it—linebackers creeping up on a disguised blitz. They was trying to bait him into a mistake. But Dale wasn’t no fool. He motioned his fullback weakside, then—

“HUT!”

Blitz came hot. Dale rolled with it, bootleg to the weak. The fullback caught the rusher just enough to give Dale a window. He planted, squared his shoulders, and hit the tight end—a big, country-strong dude who caught it like he was born with stickum in his palms.

15-yard gain. Ball on the 38. Coach’s goal? Complete.

But Dale wasn’t done.

No overtime.

With 37 seconds on the clock, they were in striking range. Two downs later: an Iso run, two yards. Then a pitch to the weak—stuffed. No gain.

Third down. Pressure on. Opposing D-line looked hungry now, like they smelled blood in the air. Dale took a breath.

They went 5-wide. Empty backfield.

Defensive backs dropped soft, classic prevent. But Dale wasn’t looking for air—he was looking for chaos.

He gave a look to his running back. No words. Just a look.

You ready?

RB nodded, jaw tight. They were locked in.

Motioned him wide right. 4-1 stack.

15 seconds.

Snap.

Dale dropped back three steps, waited... then boom, pocket collapse. He took off, bursting through the right edge, juked one defender, spun off another. He was making real ground—crowd rising to their feet, sideline screaming, every second chewing at his heels.

Fifteen yards to go.

Then crack! The safety came flying in from the blindside. Dale saw the hit coming—just enough time.

As his body twisted out of bounds, Dale pitched the rock back, a smooth lateral to the running back who’d trailed him perfect like a shadow.

RB snatched it in stride, turned upfield, untouched, TOUCHDOWN.

23-20. Game.

The stadium blew up. Bleachers shook. Screams, tears, fists in the air. A hundred different dreams all shouting in unison.

East Harlem High rushed the field like an army returning from war. Helmets thrown in the air, players dog-piling each other. It was madness. It was glory.

Dale found his running back near the sideline, still jumping like a kid.

“Yo! We did it! We made it baby!”

His RB slapped his shoulder pads constantly, eyes wild with joy.

“Nah, man! We didn’t make it… We HERE! All-State Champions, baby! We. Are. HERE!”

That word echoed in Dale’s mind, louder than the crowd.

Here.

Here..

Here...

He blinked.

Suddenly, the bright lights faded, the cheers softened, and the vision of victory turned to shadows.

“Hey… wake up. We’re home… We’re here...”

Dale’s eyes opened. He was back in the passenger seat of the Explorer, engine humming low, parked in front of a small brick house with peeling paint and a beat-up porch swing.

South Carolina.

Mark looked at him with tired but gentle eyes.

“Come on, son. Let’s get you settled.”

Dale stepped out slowly, dream still clinging to him like morning fog. The scent of hot dirt and pine needles hit him.

He looked around. Quiet. Calm. Nothing like Harlem.

But still…

He was here.

And maybe—just maybe—this was the next big drive...