Dale Denton | The Legacy | Rookie Year

[The JZA]

[redsox907]

Ezekiel cut his low eyes to Dale, "I also remember that line from Lamar: "Maybe if you got rid of that old yee-yee ass haircut you got, you'd get some bitches on your dick."

quoting GTA V in 2027

But I'm with Trey and them. Dale catching feelings for Clarissa when she got a whole ass man already, hate to see it

[The JZA]

Ezekiel cut his low eyes to Dale, "I also remember that line from Lamar: "Maybe if you got rid of that old yee-yee ass haircut you got, you'd get some bitches on your dick."

quoting GTA V in 2027

But I'm with Trey and them. Dale catching feelings for Clarissa when she got a whole ass man already, hate to see it

redsox907, Play action my guy, play action

[The JZA]

[The JZA]

[The JZA]

[The JZA]

[The JZA]

[The JZA]

Chapter IX: Road Warriors

The 2027 college football season was in its final act, and tension pulsed through locker rooms, living rooms, and stadium tunnels alike like a second heartbeat. Across the nation, twelve programs were already locked into the College Football Playoff picture—standing tall as heavyweights, decorated with records and résumés worthy of respect. These were the juggernauts, the elite, who had battled through injury reports, hostile crowds, and icy Novembers to carve their place in history.

But not everyone had the luxury of resting easy.

For others? The road was jagged, full of potholes and roadblocks, and the journey was far from complete. Some were clinging to the edge, praying for the right mix of luck and miracles. They were waiting on upsets, chasing stats, and studying strength-of-schedule metrics like it was scripture. One or two well-timed Hail Marys, and they could backdoor their way into the dance. Others were knocking on the door with urgency—teams like Washington. Ranked, respected, but still hunting. They weren’t satisfied with entry. They wanted dominance. A ticket wasn’t enough—they were looking for the first-class upgrade, that coveted bye week, to rest their stars and recalibrate for the war to come.

Ranked #5 in the country, the Washington Huskies were undefeated at 10-0, coming off convincing wins against Northwestern and Minnesota in hostile territory, silencing crowds and doubters alike. But the path ahead wasn’t just steep—it was straight-up volcanic. They weren’t just stepping into tough matchups; they were walking into back-to-back brawls with two of the most feared programs in college football. First up? The undisputed top dog in the nation, the #1 Penn State Nittany Lions. Then to cap it off, a war with their bitter blood rivals, the #10 Oregon Ducks—the chaos agents of the Big Ten who lived for ruining perfect seasons. These final two weren’t just games, they were trials by fire, the kind of crucibles that define legacies.

Everything about them screamed dominance.

Penn State had been playing like their souls were on fire. After an early season hiccup against Wisconsin, they turned into a death machine—ripping through their next six opponents. They had the grit of a prison squad and the execution of a military unit. They were clinical. Vicious. Efficient. Every phase of the game, from special teams to secondary coverage, was elite. You didn’t just play Penn State. You survived them—if you were lucky.

The Huskies couldn’t afford a slip. Not even a toe out of bounds. This late in the season, everything was magnified. A win could shoot them straight into that playoff bye, a golden ticket they’d fought tooth and nail for. But a loss? A single L would shake their whole foundation and leave them relying on prayers, bracket math, and divine chaos from other games across the country. And in college football? Chaos was never guaranteed. It was random. Wild. Unforgiving.

Every yard mattered now. Every block, every coverage scheme, every damn whistle blown by the refs. One mental lapse could flip the season from glorious to tragic. And Washington, for all its power, was still carrying the burden of being underdogs in the eyes of national media. Nobody was handing them anything. If they wanted respect, they’d have to rip it out the cold, dead hands of their enemies.

Dale and his squad? They weren’t just hungry. They were starving.

Dale Denton felt that pressure in his chest like a second set of lungs, like he was carrying not just the playbook but the hopes of a city on his back. It had been a quiet flight back from Minnesota, the hum of the engines drowned out by the noise in everyone's head. Heads on swivel, earbuds in, but nobody really listening. They were tuned in to a different frequency—the one where doubt whispered and dreams screamed louder. Dale sat with his hoodie pulled over his head, headphones on but no music playing. He wasn’t just the quarterback anymore. He was the guy. The face on the posters, the reason the stadium filled up before kickoff.

And the weight of an undefeated season? It didn’t rest. It pressed down on him like armor forged from expectations—heavy, relentless, suffocating if you weren’t built for it.

Practice that week wasn’t just practice. It was a war room, a proving ground, a rehearsal for a battle that would be televised and dissected by every analyst with a platform. Dale attacked every rep like it was fourth and inches in overtime. His footwork was surgical, his passes came with venom. His scrambles had a ghostlike quality—disappearing just before a hit and reappearing 15 yards upfield. Every read, every checkdown, every audible—he executed like a man possessed, driven by some internal fire that refused to dim. And the team noticed. They followed his lead. That same Harlem kid who once walked into the facility with swagger in every step was now an owl in the dark. Quiet. Watching. Calculating. Hunting. He wasn’t just confident anymore. He was learning to become more dangerous. He was evolving into the kind of player that scared opponents before the coin toss and gave his teammates a reason to believe they could walk into hell and come out smiling.

At least that was Dale unconsciously.

Thursday afternoon, the Seattle air was cool and damp, a chill mist dancing through campus like invisible waves rolling in off Puget Sound. Trees trembled with each breath of wind, and students pulled jackets tighter as they hurried across the quad. Classes had ended for the day, and Dale made his way through the familiar stone corridors of the athletics building, each step echoing with purpose. He paused outside Coach Danielson’s office, knuckles hovering for a moment, then knocked twice on the thick wooden door, heart thudding like a drumline during pregame.

"Come in," came the familiar voice from inside.

Dale stepped in, closing the door gently behind him before sinking into the chair opposite Coach's desk. His body moved, but his mind was elsewhere, spinning on film breakdowns, blitz packages, and the ghosts of missed opportunities. His knees bounced, and his eyes didn’t quite focus—he was running through plays before a word had even been spoken.

Coach Danielson looked up from his tablet, the light reflecting off his glasses. "Dale, you look like you’re deep in thought. Care to share?"

Dale rubbed his face with both palms, dragging the stress down to his chin, then scratched at his goatee with the kind of restless energy only quarterbacks carried this time of year.

"I'm worried about this weekend's game," Dale admitted.

Coach sat back slowly, crossing his arms. "Yeah? What about it? What’s on your mind?"

Dale leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You know Penn State hasn’t won a game with less than 30 points in the last six weeks? They’re monsters out there. Our defense is solid, but against a team that explosive? I don’t know, Coach. One busted coverage, one missed tackle, and boom—seven points."

"Yeah, Dale, I’m aware. I’ve been watching the same tape you have."

"Our points allowed? We average 23.1. They average 22.1. That’s tight. Real tight. Where does our defense really stand against that, Coach? A single point can be the difference-maker. One damn point."

Coach Danielson paused, nodding slowly. He reached for a pen, tapped it against the desk, then set it down.

"In a pretty good spot, to be honest," he said. "Penn State is great, no doubt. But they’re not built like us. Not this year. And I say that with no bias. They’ve got talent, depth, experience—but we’ve got something they don’t: adaptability."

Dale furrowed his brow. "How you figure?"

"You did your homework on Ryan Puglisi, right?"

"Yes, sir. Watched all three angles, full breakdown."

"Then you know he ain’t you. He’s a pocket guy. Can’t run. Only 22 rushing yards all season. He’s clean, yeah. Accurate. But he’s a statue back there. If we bring heat from the edge and disguise the blitz, he’ll panic. You don’t panic, Dale. You create."

Coach sat forward now, the fire rising in his voice.

"Their real threat is the run game. Cam Wallace, Tiqwai Hayes, George Stoner. Hayes is out, so that leaves two backs. Solid rotation, but if our linebackers plug those lanes and we force them to throw, we put it all on Puglisi’s arm. I’ll take our DBs in that fight every day of the week."

Dale thought to Rahshawn Clark, their safety and Leroy Bryant, their cornerback. They both been making noise on the field, combining for 108 tackles, 5 backfield tackles and 3 interceptions. On top of that, Zaydrius Rainey-Sale has been a one-man army. 82 tackles, 5 tackles of losse, 3 interceptions. He was definitely leading the defense. Dale nodded slowly, the gears beginning to shift. "Okay, I follow. I just needed to hear it out loud. The numbers don’t lie, but sometimes they don’t tell the full story either."

"Exactly," Coach said, pointing at him. "And the story we’re writing? It ain’t done yet. But you’ve got the pen in your hand, son. Keep writing."

Dale let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The weight hadn’t disappeared, but it shifted—became something he could carry. Something he was born to carry.

Coach leaned in now, voice a little firmer, tone heavy with conviction. "You, on the other hand, got a full arsenal. You’re top 20 in giveaways, sure—that’s kinda expected for a freshman thrown into the P4 fire. But you’re also top 5 in passing touchdowns. Top 35 in rushing scores, and the ONLY quarterback in that list. You lead the Heisman race. You’re already a legend in the making before your time. This ain’t the time to fold up. This is the moment to show them exactly who the hell you are."

Dale absorbed every word like gospel. His eyes didn’t blink. He was still, like a soldier getting orders before battle.

"We take it one yard at a time," Coach continued, leaning closer, as if proximity could make the message sink deeper. "Don’t play scared. Play smart. This team sees you as the future. Hell, the whole damn campus does. You brought life into this program. Don’t let fear steal your light. Not now. Not when the whole country’s finally paying attention."

Dale nodded again, slower this time. "I hear you, Coach."

Coach Danielson smirked, a sharp glint in his eye. "Do you? Or did you forget what we did to USC that was #10 in the nation back then? Did you forget about the Apple Cup? What we did to #8 Miami the week after?"

"Nah, I didn’t forget."

"Yeah, you did. YOU forgot. We weren’t even in the conversation back then, for years. And you scurry in and shook the whole nation up. Twice. Why you acting brand new now? Like you ain’t already proved you belong. You scared of Penn State? Say it."

Dale's jaw tightened. "I’m not scared."

Coach pointed at him. "Good, I hope not. Because scared ain’t gonna cut it. Scared gets you benched. Scared gets you beat. But YOU? You got fire. You got that Harlem grit you're always boasting about. That chip on your shoulder that says, 'I don’t care who lines up across from me. I’m getting mine.' Remember that."

Dale leaned back, rubbing his temple. "I don’t know... I guess I am in my head. I saw it happen last year. At Notre Dame. They steamrolled everybody, made it to the natty, just to lose. One bad half, and it all fell apart. That’s what scares me."

"And that's the nature of the game," Coach sat back, nodding slowly. "You win some, you lose some and you're lucky enough to come in second if you're not immortalized in first. But you never stop playing. You don’t stop believing. You think greatness comes without failure? Without doubt? It don’t. It comes from pushing through both."

A long pause filled the room, heavy with truth and memory.

Coach broke it with a softer tone, his voice almost fatherly now. "Look, no matter what happens in these last two games, I’m proud of you. You’re a good kid. You let your grades slip and bounced back like a damn scholar. You’ve grown into a leader. A real one. Not ‘cause you talk the loudest—but because you show up. You show up every damn day. You’re leading this team by example. That’s what we want here at Washington. That’s what we build. You’ll do fine Saturday. I believe that. We all do. And even if you stumble, you get back up and fight. 'Cause that’s who you are. That’s who you’ve become."

Dale met his eyes. Coach wasn’t giving the same old locker-room speech. This was real. The man believed in him. Truly. It reminded Dale of why he transferred. Why he put his trust in this program.

"Thanks, Coach," Dale said, standing up. He reached his hand across the desk.

Coach took it, gripping tight. "No, thank YOU, Dale. For making this school your home. You remind me of Ashton Jeanty when I had him back at Boise State—pure hunger and heart. You finish this year strong, you go to New York. You take that Heisman home to Harlem, to your family. Make the city stand up proud like we will. Make history."

Their handshake tightened, two warriors on the same mission.

"...I will," Dale said. "I'll do that."

And in that moment, the noise outside didn’t matter. The rankings, the stats, the analysts—none of it. The ESPN pundits running their mouths, the social media buzz, the haters who still questioned if Washington was for real—it all disappeared. There were no distractions, no narratives, no doubts. Just a quarterback and his coach. Just belief. A belief for Saturday that was enough to light the match and set the house on fire.

Dale walked out of that office with the weight of the world on his shoulders, but it didn’t feel heavy anymore. It felt right. Like armor forged by fire. Like a sword sharpened by doubt. He was ready to go to war. Not to survive it, but to win it.

[djp73]

Dale's ballin out, will be interesting if he stays in Washington or takes the Cam Ward route