Chapter VI: On My Way To Church
Friday came and went like a dream wrapped in sweat and adrenaline.
Dale Denton had officially signed up to try out for Manning High's football team. No more walkin’ the fence, no more maybes—this was it. Monday after school, the hopefuls gathered out on the football field, cleats digging into grass still wet from last night’s dew, all of them itching to show what they were made of. Most came to earn a spot, maybe make varsity, get some bragging rights. But Dale? Nah.
Dale came to own the field.
For him, this wasn’t about extra credit or making friends. This was mission-based living. His way out. A second shot at a dream he thought died in Harlem under the glare of streetlights and the weight of regret. Now he had a new stage, and he wasn’t about to waste it.
From the moment the first drill kicked off, Dale moved like a man possessed. Quick feet. Sharp reads. Smooth dropbacks. The kind of stuff that turned heads fast. Every pass hit clean, tight spirals that cut through the late summer air. Even Coach Kennedy, who already had a taste from the highlight reel Dale emailed him, was caught off guard.
“That Denton kid... he don’t play like he just got here,” he muttered to his assistant coach.
All week, Dale put in work. Ran like a back. Threw like a pro. Moved like he had something to prove.
And when Friday morning hit, the tryout results were posted by the gymnasium double doors. Whole cafeteria emptied out like somebody pulled the fire alarm. Folks pushing, stretching necks, whispering names, trying to see who made the cut.
Dale didn’t rush. He waited for the crowd to thin, kept it cool. He already knew what he did out there. When he finally stepped up and read that list…
"Dale Denton – QB1"
Plain and bold in black ink. Not only did Dale made the cut, but he stormed in and took his role. With all things considered: mission complete.
A slow grin crawled across his face. He didn’t cheer. Didn’t fist pump or do the most. Just gave a quiet nod to himself like, yeah, I’m back. Then he jogged home, heart thumping with new energy, already thinking about getting in one more workout before sunset.
This was it. He had found his rhythm again.
That football field was more than grass and goalposts—it was sanctuary now. His happy place. The world could throw whatever it wanted at him out there, and he’d throw right back. But as he started seeing the returning players and new recruits, Dale realized something fast—Mark wasn’t lying.
These country boys were different.
Big, corn-fed linemen with tree trunks for thighs. Linebackers that looked like they wrestled bulls for fun. Dale wasn’t scared, but he was real enough to know that his Harlem grind wasn’t gonna cut it by itself. He’d have to bulk up smart. Keep his legs light but armor his upper half. He wasn’t just a pocket passer—he was dual threat, and that meant being slippery and solid.
When Mark came home that evening, he was greeted by the smell of dinner already done. The kitchen was hot with spice and steam—baked chicken, Cajun rice, garlic-butter asparagus, and warm dinner rolls straight from the oven. Dale was in his zone, cooking shirtless with a towel over his shoulder like somebody’s uncle on the Fourth of July.
“For someone who’s still a kid, you know how to chef it up,” Mark said, stepping in, nostrils wide.
“Moms taught me early,” Dale replied, focused on the plate he was preparing. “She always said, ‘Cook to eat, eat to live. Save your money for a winter’s day.’”
“Don’t know nothing about no ‘winter’s day,’ but I do miss her cooking,” Mark said, washing his hands. “Looks like she taught you right, though.”
“Gotta eat to survive. These are life lessons that’ll stick with me when her time comes.”
That line quieted the room.
Mark just stood there for a moment, watching his son. The wild mouth, the short fuse—that was still in him. But now there was this calm... this balance. Something Mark hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t just the football training or the structure. Dale was maturing, right before his eyes.
He didn’t say much. Just nodded, quietly proud.
The two sat down and ate. The food? Slapped. Conversation stayed light, until Mark dropped the question. “So... the tryouts. It’s been a week now. How’d it all turn out?”
Dale wiped his mouth, took a gulp of water, then leaned back. “I made the team. They gave me QB1.”
Mark’s face lit up like Friday night lights. “What? That’s amazing! Congrats, champ. I bet somebody salty you took their spot though.”
“Nah,” Dale said with a small smirk. “Coach said their last QB dipped out after getting hurt, so the job was wide open.”
“Well, I’m glad it turned out for you. I can’t wait to see you ball out in person.”
That line hit Dale in a weird place. Not because it wasn’t genuine. But because it was too genuine.
He thought about the years his pops wasn’t there to see him ball. Thought about those cold bleachers in Harlem where only his moms clapped, screaming herself hoarse in the stands. The memories clawed at his chest, but Dale didn’t let it show.
He just nodded and kept eating. Some wounds weren’t for the table.
“Not for nothing, Dale,” Mark added, patting his belly, “you’re a good cook. If you don’t find a girl to hold you down, at least we know you won’t starve. Thanks for the meal. I’m stuffed.”
A soft smirk slipped across Dale’s face.
He didn’t say much back, but inside, he appreciated it. Maybe his pops was trying. Maybe time really could do something for them, maybe.
Later that night, after the dishes were done and the house got quiet, Dale laid in bed staring at the ceiling. Mind buzzing. Heart still in Harlem. He hadn’t talked to Keisha much since the move. Life got busy. Training, school, homework, yard work, more training... It was like the days had no space left for emotion.
But that didn’t mean the feelings were gone.
He missed her. Missed what they had. But more than anything… he missed home.
Still, for now, he had a mission. A new home. A new title.
QB1.
One year. One shot. And Dale Denton wasn’t wasting either.
The days rolled by like dominoes—one fell, the next stood waiting to tip. Monday through Friday, Dale’s life was carved into routine: breakfast at the crack of dawn, school before the sun fully stretched, practice till dusk, power walk home through the Carolina heat, extra workout in the garage gym, then homework—if his brain still had juice left.
No detours. No parties. No distractions.
To most of the students at Manning High, Dale was that quiet, light-skinned kid from New York with the Harlem hoodie and ice in his eyes. The new quarterback who didn’t talk much, didn’t dap many people up in the hallway, didn’t care to sit with the same crew twice in the cafeteria. Some said he was stuck up. Others said he was weird. But none of them really knew. Dale wasn’t being antisocial—he was locked in.
Tunnel vision. Mission mode. All he had was 9 games.
That was it. Nine Fridays under the lights to show the world he was something more than just another name buried in the transfer logs. Eleven chances to carve out a future and spit in the face of every doubt that ever crept into his spirit. That football field was more than turf and white lines. It was a stage, and Dale was ready to perform.
Word had been traveling around the school, and it didn’t take long for the whispers to make their way downtown. Every year, around this time, the local news station did a feature segment on Manning High's athletes. Football, basketball, baseball, track and field—each squad got a taste of the spotlight. But this year, the biggest buzz was about a name nobody in the Pee Dee had ever heard in person:
Dale Denton. Out of Harlem. Big island boy with an arm and a fire in his gut.
Somebody at the station pulled up his old highlight reel and shared it on Twitter. The clip hit enough numbers to grab attention, not viral, but enough for the town to start whispering, “That new boy can throw, huh?”
But Dale ain’t care about social media noise. That was just smoke. What mattered was fire—real game. And every time he ran a drill, dropped back in the pocket, or studied plays deep into the night, he was adding logs to the flame.
Still, one name on that schedule stayed etched into the front of his mind like a target in red paint.
Scott’s Branch High School Eagles.
Everybody in town had a story about that rivalry. The kind of grudge match that split families at dinner tables. Scott’s Branch hadn’t produced many stars—Jerell Adams was their crown jewel, made it to the league for a stint with the Giants—but their program still held weight. It was personal. And this year? This year it was going to be war.
Manning High vs. Scott’s Branch wasn’t just a game—it was a calendar event. Like Thanksgiving or a church cookout. The whole town pulled up for that one. Teachers, preachers, baby mamas, everybody. It was tradition. Pride. Blood in the grass type shit. This was the type of rivalry that had racial beef, it goes that deep. Thankfully, times had change.
Dale knew that was the one. The game where he’d prove he belonged, in a sense. The game he’d stamp his name in Carolina dirt and make folks back in Harlem take notice.
So when the official season schedule was handed out in the locker room, Dale didn’t even have to ask which date was circled in red marker. That one jumped off the page.
But before that smoke, there were other games. Other bodies to bury. Sumter, Santee, Crestwood, Kingstree and so forth. And the season... the season had arrived.
The energy around town was thick. Like barbecue smoke on a humid day. You could feel it. The kind of buzz that made your skin itch and your blood warm. Parents was in the stands early, kinfolk coming in from nearby counties, and even a few scouts from small colleges already started sniffing around.
This was football country. This was church.
The gates were wide open, and the stadium lights buzzed alive like a warning shot to the night sky. Bleachers started to fill with locals in school colors. Old men with weathered faces and radio voices were setting up near the press box, ready to call the game like it was a heavyweight title match.
And in the locker room, Dale sat still, shoulder pads hugging his frame like armor, helmet between his knees, eyes low and focused.
No headphones. No noise. Just breath. Just thoughts. Just purpose.
Mark had told him, “This your ticket, boy. Play it right and you’re gone from here.”
Dale didn’t need the reminder. He could feel it in his bones.
He wasn’t just here to play. He was here to take over. To dominate. To leave behind a legacy that couldn't be ignored—even by time.
As the team began to line up at the blow-up tunnel, and the stadium roared louder with each passing second, Dale clenched his fists once, hard.
He whispered to himself, low and cold: “Let’s eat.”
And just like that, it was game time.
game time 
