Dale Denton | The Legacy | Rookie Year

[Agent]

[The JZA]

Chapter VIII: On The Radar

Four weeks in, and the Manning Monarchs were riding a tsunami of dubs like they were born on the wave.

Every Friday night was like a backyard concert. Townsfolk came out in school colors, kids with big dreams from middle school, fawning over the atmosphere of varsity games and phones ready to catch the next highlight. The bleachers buzzed with chants, stomps, and the sound of pride cracklin’ under the lights. If you ain’t had no plans in Kingstree, you had plans come game night.

And at the center of that spotlight? Kingstree Blazers vs Dale Denton.

The kid from Harlem who touched down like a whisper and turned into a headline silenced the home team, their sideline and fans. Game four, win #4. It was another day at the office. Punch in. Get the win. Punch out.

That's what Manning did in dominant fashion: 38-7. Disrespectful. Like walking into somebody crib, taking the last drink, and leaving the fridge door open type of disrespect.

Dale went surgical that game. Slants, posts, bootlegs—he did it all. Read defenses like a fortune teller. Used his legs when pockets crumbled and found Toles and Trinidad for two touchdowns with pinpoint precision like he had GPS in his eyes. The Knights defense couldn’t breathe with him on the field. That scoreboard wasn’t just numbers—it was a warning to the rest of the state: Manning got a real one.

By Monday, his phone started chirpin' with interest. Not D3 no more. We talking Coastal Carolina. East Carolina. Even Charlotte slid into the picture.

No promises yet, but that attention? That was the first knock at the door. Dale appreciated it, soaked it in like sun through the window—but he ain’t let it gas him. Not yet.

There were more games to play. More film to drop. More jaws to make drop.

He wanted big fish. ACC, Big Ten... maybe even Big 12. Dale knew his value, and he was betting on himself every snap. So he kept his mouth zipped and hands wide open. Take the blessings, keep grinding. Ain’t no shortcuts through the mud.

And through all that shine? Mark was there.

Every game. Every week. Rain, heat, no matter the hell the weather served, Mark showed up early, sitting in the bleachers. Sometimes he’d be by the 50-yard line behind the team, sometimes the end zone, other times up high to get the full view. But he was there. Every damn time.

Dale noticed. He ain’t say much. Didn’t have to.

See, some cats need jewelry or trips to Cancun to feel appreciated. Not Dale. Dale was simple: consistency, loyalty, and truth. Mark showing up wasn’t some grand gesture—it was that slow-burn proof that maybe, just maybe, the old man gave a fuck after all.

The bond was building, brick by brick. Home-cooked meals after games. Early morning jogs in silence. Talks over protein shakes about life and missed years. Wasn’t perfect. Ain’t never been. But the Denton boys? They were shaping up into something solid. From strangers with blood ties to family with shared struggle.

Dale still held on to his truth though. This time was borrowed. College was coming. And with it, change.

He knew Mark was temporary. Not because he wanted him to be—but because that’s just how life works sometimes. You don’t get to keep everything you love. Sometimes you just hold it long enough to remember how it felt.

Still, Dale soaked it in. All of it.

The sound of cleats crunching dirt. The energy of the crowd when he rolled out the pocket and launched a 40-yard dime. The late nights icing his shoulder while Mark watched reruns of Good Times and Martin. The quiet nods over dinner. The unspoken peace of a second chance.

That Tuesday night after practice, Dale sat on the back porch with a hoodie on and a sports wrap hugging his throwing arm. Mark came out with two cold waters, tossed one his way.

“There he is, Mr. Talk of the Town, himself. Man, people are eating everything you served up last game.”

Dale smirked. “Had to remind folks what New York ball look like.”

Mark sat down beside him, cracked the bottle open as he laughed. “Nah, that's that Denton ball game. I know it when I see it." Mark takes a swig of the crisp cold water that felt like a silent scream crashing against his hot throat. "Coach Kennedy said some scouts been coming through every game now. You keep this up, sky’s the limit for you.”

“I ain’t stopping,” Dale said. “Not until everybody know the name.”

Mark looked at him—real long. Like he was trying to memorize that face. “They gon’ know, son,” he said quietly. “They gon’ know. Just don’t forget where you came from when they do... I don't mean here, or New York. Talking about those early days hitting the field, getting your reps in, the wins and losses, the joys and tears. Don't forget why you still do this. Don't forget where it can take you.”

Dale took a sip, then nodded.

“I remember everything.”

The night air sat thick with humidity and hope. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of cicadas filled the silence like a soundtrack. Dale looked out past the trees, beyond the shadows, toward whatever was waiting for him out there.

More games. More pressure. More glory.

But for now, it was quiet. And sometimes… Quiet meant peace.

The numbers kept tickin’.

40K. 50K. 60K views.

Every time Dale refreshed his socials, his highlight reel was getting more action than the corner boys on 125th during tax season. The clips didn’t even show the whole game—just flashes of brilliance: him side-stepping a linebacker, shaking off a tackle, launching that pigskin deep like it was made of helium. Dale wasn’t just playing ball… he was putting on art.

And now? The big boys were watching.

Kentucky. Syracuse. Duke. NC State. Louisville—ranked #17 in the nation at the time.

Even Florida, FSU, and Miami started putting out feelers, like they just caught wind of a new plug. They weren’t talking full rides yet, but the attention was real. Dale was on the radar now.

But the one that made Dale’s heart skip a beat? Boston College.

That wasn’t just any school. That was his school. Ever since he was a jit, watching old Matt Ryan highlights tear up the field on YouTube, he told himself if he ever made it, it’d be there. Dale's his phone lit up that Thursday afternoon, and he usually don't answer unknown numbers. But this one felt like it needed to be answered.

“Hello?” Dale answered, voice already betraying the butterflies.

“Hi, this is Bill O'Brien, head coach of the Boston College football program. Am I speaking with Dale Denton?”

He almost dropped the phone right there. Heart in his throat. Adrenaline pumping like game day.

“Yes sir, this is Dale. How you doing, Mr. O’Brien?”

O’Brien’s voice was cool, collected, that old-school New England grit with a salesman’s charm.

“I know you’re probably heading to practice or got homework, so I’ll cut to the chase…”

And just like that, the man got to the point.

Boston College liked what they saw. They wanted him—maybe. Coach needed a little more. Four touchdowns in his next game and that full scholarship was as good as sealed.

Dale felt like he’d just been handed the keys to a Porsche, but only if he could do donuts in the rain without crashin’. Four touchdowns? Pressure. But Dale loved pressure. Pressure made diamonds, right?

“I can do that,” Dale said with a confidence that covered up the knots in his stomach.

“Good,” Coach replied. “Show us what you got, and let’s make this real.”

They hung up, and Dale sat there, still holding the phone like it was made of gold. The smile on his face could’ve lit up the whole damn street. A call from an ACC coach? That wasn’t just a dream come true. That was a whole damn prophecy manifesting in real time.

But just as he was floating off that high, his boys pulled him back down to earth.

“Yo Dale!”

Defensive tackle, Denzelle and tight end, Deylon, came up behind him clapping him on the back.

“What’s good?” Dale said, still buzzing.

“No practice today,” Deylon said, stretching. “Coach had to dip for some family thing. But we was gone hit the field anyway, get some routes in. You with it?”

“Damn straight. No days off,” Dale grinned. “But yo… check this out…”

He told them about the call. About Bill O'Brien. About Boston College.

Their jaws dropped.

“Word? That’s dope!” Deylon said, but Denzelle? He didn’t look so hyped.

“They offer you the scholarship?” he asked, squinting like he already knew the answer.

“Not yet,” Dale said, “But he said—”

“Let me guess,” Denzelle cut in. “He wanna see more out of you next game?”

Dale blinked. “…Yeah.”

Denzelle sucked his teeth and shook his head. “That’s that bull.”

“What you mean?”

“He playing you, bro. He probably asked you for promise on a task. Given that you're a QB, I'd say about... Hmm, 4 or 5 touchdowns? That ain’t a goal—that’s a test. He ain’t just looking at you, he got other QBs on his list. He tryna' check off who don't delivers. He stacking y’all against each other without even telling you. They did my cousin like that.”

Dale kinda felt it hit right in the chest. Dale understood the part of recruitment was to look at multiple options, but coach wasn't all the way upfront like he was talking.

All that pride, all that hope? Took a sucker punch.

Man told him no fluff, no BS, but kept the real game hidden in the fine print. It wasn’t just about proving himself—he was being pit against other kids he ain’t even know about. A numbers game. A business transaction dressed up in a “we believe in you” speech.

Dale stood there quiet for a second, just processing. “…Still gonna get them four TDs though.”

Denzelle cracked a grin. “I ain’t say fold, bro. I just said know what game you playing. This ain’t just ball—it’s chess. Get those four tuddies, there's bigger schools out there that might watching, never know.”

“Bet,” Dale nodded. “Then I’ll be Bobby Fischer on that field. No mercy.”

The three walked and talked toward the field, but Dale’s mind was already somewhere else.

He wasn't mad at O'Brien. This was the business. He asked for the spotlight—now he had to perform under it. The question wasn't can he deliver.

The real question was: How badly do you want it? The answer was simple: everything.

[The JZA]

my boy put together a GAME

Captain Canada, Out here trying to get an oscar award with his performance

Agent, You know the vibes

[The JZA]

[djp73]

i'm assuming you are using the actual RTG mode?

djp73, Since there's no full feature for the RTG HS games, I'm playing those behind the scene along with the games in Play Now. Had to spend majority of the 7th creating the teams

Also, while I'm playing games in Play Now, I'm adjusting sliders for the college games.

We're all lined up

[The JZA]

[djp73]

FOUR TOUCHDOWNS
Double D gonna get Amani a scholly too

[The JZA]

Chapter IX: Options

The air had changed...

Not just the temperature, but the energy. That thick humidity that used to wrap around your neck like a noose was finally gone. October came in like a bouncer at the door, kicking out Summer’s sweaty, rowdy ass and letting cool Fall vibes slide through in hoodies and fresh kicks. The wind whispered through town, rattling the bones of old trees, tossing leaves like confetti on broken sidewalks. It was late Fall in the South—and that meant two things: Halloween… And the final game of the regular season.

But this wasn’t just any game. This was the game. Manning Monarchs vs. Scott’s Branch Eagles.

Clarendon County's civil war...

Blood didn’t need to spill for it to get violent—just pads popping, helmets cracking, and old rivalries igniting like dry brush in a fire pit. Manning was already locked into the playoffs, sitting pretty with a 7-1 record. But Scott’s Branch? They was hanging on by a thread. A win against Manning would break their 5-5 tie with Bethune-Bowman and give ‘em a ticket to the dance. So, of course, the pressure was thick.

And Dale Denton? He was the gatekeeper now. The big dog. The name everybody in the county whispered about when football came up.

Coach Kennedy had broken it down in the film room—how Scott’s Branch always played with a chip on their shoulder when it came to Manning. The fights. The trash talk. The old tapes. All that did was feed Dale’s fire. If this was the stage, he was the damn show.

But the field wasn’t the only place Dale was winning.

After that 28–14 win over Lake City, Dale’s inbox blew up like a gas station match. He’d already been dancing with Boston College, but that was before he opened his email and found a buffet of offers sitting there like unopened Christmas gifts.

Florida State. Tennessee. Washington. #1 ranked Texas A&M. And two that stopped Dale cold: #22 Michigan. #6 Notre Dame.

That’s when it sank in. Dale had arrived. He wasn’t just some out-of-town QB who got hot. He was that guy now. Dale Denton. The Harlem kid turned Carolina star. A walking headline. A recruiter's wet dream.

But all that buzz? It came with pressure. Eyes. Expectations.

And Dale knew, next game out—he had to show and prove all over again...

Later that day, Dale drifted down the stairs, shoulders heavy with decisions but heart steady. Mark was in the kitchen, doing his usual chef routine—seasoning up fresh salmon and chopping up salad. The smell filled the room: lemon pepper, garlic, a pinch of sass. But tonight, dinner wasn’t the only thing on the menu.

“Hey, old man,” Dale said, pulling up a chair. “I got something I wanna talk to you about.”

Mark glanced over his shoulder, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Yeah? What’s on your mind, young bull?”

Dale didn’t answer. Not right away. He pulled out his phone and hit Dial.

Mark raised a brow. “Who you callin’?”

“Mom. I wanna tell y’all both at the same time.”

Mark paused. His jaw set a little tight. Him and Sharnell weren’t beefin’ exactly, but it was always smoke in the air when they talked. Still, he didn’t protest.

The phone rang twice before a familiar voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey Ma, how are you?”

“I’m good, baby. Better now that I’m hearin’ from you. You okay? Everything cool with you and your father?”

“Yeah, we keepin’ the peace.”

“That’s more than I can say about him.” Sharnell’s voice had a dagger tucked in it.

Mark cut his eyes toward the phone but said nothing.

“How’s school? You stayin’ outta trouble?”

“I am. That’s actually what I wanted to talk about… and I got the old man here with me.”

“Mark’s there? Mark! You been sittin’ there this whole time and couldn’t say hi!?”

“I ain’t the one who made the call,” Mark muttered, dry.

“Ma, focus, please. This ain’t about y’all beefin’. I got something important to share.”

“What is it? You better not be about to tell me some lil’ girl knocked up!”

“Ma! Chill! Can I talk?”

“Go on. I’m listenin’.”

Mark slid the food aside and leaned in, arms crossed.

“Well… this morning, I went through my email. I got like… thirty or forty college offers.”

“What?!” Sharnell damn near squealed. “Oh my God, baby! That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!”

Mark cracked a smile. “You serious?”

“Yup. Michigan, Notre Dame, Texas A&M… even FSU and Washington.”

Mark whistled. “Cream of the crop right there. Michigan and Notre Dame? Sheesh.”

“Wait—any South Carolina schools?” Sharnell asked, her tone shifting just a touch.

“I mean… Clemson, yeah. There's also East Carolina and Coastal Carolina, but that’s not where my head is at.”

“Why not? You should reconsider. What about your father?”

“I think I can take care of myself", Mark retorted.

“He’s a grown man now, Sharnell. Would I like him to stay close? Of course. But I respect his choices. This ain’t about us. This is his moment.”

Sharnell wasn’t backing down. “He needs support! You think just because he’s grown now he don’t still need his father?”

“I didn’t say that,” Mark said. “But he’s got a good head on his shoulders. I trust him. This is his life. He’s earned the right to choose his path.”

Silence sat between the three of them for a long second.

Then Sharnell sighed. “You’re right. Both of you. I’m just… I’m proud of you, baby. I just want what’s best. I worry about you every day.”

“I know, Ma. I worry about you too. I haven’t picked a school yet. Still got time. But I just wanted y’all to know what was up.”

“You take your time,” Mark said. “Don’t get blinded by the names. Look at the fit. Look at the staff. The education. The vibe. That’s what matters. Not just the jersey.”

“Exactly,” Sharnell chimed in. “Make sure wherever you go… it’s right for you.”

Dale sat back, soaking that in. Those words lingered in the air: for you.

Not for the county. Not for the likes. Not for the scouts. Not for the past. But for Dale.

They ended the call on a high note. Peaceful. Supportive. Almost normal.

Mark went back to prepping the fish, quiet. “You proud of yourself?” he asked without looking up.

“Yeah,” Dale said, after a pause. “I think I am.”

“You should be. You earned everything that's coming to you. The success. The Failures. All the highs and lows with the tears and joys. Ain't nobody can take that from you, son."

Dale nodded slowly. "Yes sir."

The ambiance outside entered the conversation with the wind dancing. Leaves spiraled in the dusk air like confetti before the show.

And Dale knew—deep in his gut—that this game against Scott’s Branch next week wasn’t just a rivalry match-up. It was the beginning of the end. Or the end of the beginning.

Either way… It was time to choose.

[The JZA]

FOUR TOUCHDOWNS
Double D gonna get Amani a scholly too

djp73, We all getting up out the plantation

[The JZA]