Dale Denton | The Legacy | Rookie Year

[The JZA]

painted a picture, I rock with it

djp73, Long as y'all enjoy it, my guy

Oh he writing writing that was some heat

Captain Canada, We committed to the cause. Gone do right by that Jodi story and do better

[YaBoyRobRoy]

Ayyy love the start to this bro. You got me with that second piece, thought for sure you were fast forwarding in time excellent writing so far, I’ll be following along

[The JZA]

Ayyy love the start to this bro. You got me with that second piece, thought for sure you were fast forwarding in time excellent writing so far, I’ll be following along

YaBoyRobRoy, Nah man, it was all a dream lol Preciate you fam. More to come as we get the weekend rolling

[GM Rizzo]

Sure, twist my arm to follow a serious player lock journey!

[The JZA]

Chapter III: New Batteries

The heat in South Carolina didn’t hit like Harlem heat. Nah, Harlem heat came with noise—car alarms, barking dogs, some old head arguing about dice and pride. But this? This heat came quiet. Sneaky. Crept up on you while you blinked and slapped the soul out your neck before breakfast. It just sat on your back, dared you to breathe too hard.

It had been a few weeks since Dale landed down South, and every morning felt like he was waking up inside someone else’s life. Mark gave him his space—didn’t force that fake father-son sitcom script. But he made one thing crystal from day one:

“You stay under my roof, you respect my word. That’s the price of admission.”

No arguments. Dale ain’t have much fight in him anyway. Truth be told, where else was he gonna go?

So he passed the days how most kids did when life hit pause—anime, Wi-Fi, group chats with friends he knew he’d probably never see again. The only thing moving faster than the heat index was the clock on the wall. But Saturday changed all that.

5:00 A.M.

Knock knock knock.

Dale peeled himself from a half-dream like it owed him something. Eyes sticky with sleep, heart not even awake yet.

“Come on,” Mark’s voice boomed through the door. “Wake up. Get dressed. I’m putting you to work.”

Dale groaned like death was calling collect.

“Work? What’s going on?” he asked, voice laced with sleep and attitude.

“Get ready and come downstairs. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Slipping into his pajama pants and slides, Dale shuffled to the bathroom, slapped a cold rag to his face like it owed him rent. He followed the noise to the garage, blinking under the dusty light like a prisoner seeing sunlight for the first time.

Mark was knee-deep in clutter—boxes, tool kits, old-ass magazines, a folded treadmill that looked like it gave up on life back in 2003.

“What’s all this?” Dale asked, eyes still adjusting.

“This... is old shit I’ve been meaning to toss.”

Mark stood, wiping his hands on a rag, sweat already forming on his brow.

“I noticed you been planking on your ass these last few weeks, so we—you and me—we’re gonna clear this garage out and turn it into a gym.”

Dale raised an eyebrow. “There’s a gym off the intersection up the road. I passed it during my morning runs. I could just—”

“That ain’t no gym,” Mark cut him off.

Dale looked confused. “What you mean? They got a pool and everything.”

Mark leaned against the old car draped in a dusty sheet like he was leaning on history.

“Yeah, they got a pool. And bingo on Thursdays. That ain’t no real gym. Not for you.”

“For me?”

Mark nodded, voice low but steady.

“Safe to say you don’t know how it go down here, but school starts in August. That gives us about a little over a month to whip you back into shape. You’re lookin’ kinda light on the weight scale, son. You want to play with the big boys down here, you gonna need some armor on that frame.”

Dale squinted at him, confused.

“Wait... What? I’m not playing football anymore, man. Whatever traction I had up north? That’s gone. Over. You can’t put that back on me.”

Mark just chuckled.

“Yeah, sure I can.” He reached into a nearby box and tossed Dale a football. “Look—ball’s in your hand. That means you playin’.”

Dale let the football hit his chest into his hands, then tossed it back like it was diseased.

“You not making sense, old man.”

“Nah, I make perfect sense.”

Mark looked him dead in the face. Voice calm. Eyes honest.

“Despite our lack-there-of relationship… you still my son. And that means I love you by default. That’s how it works. And now that you under my care, I want the best for you. Even if it’s just for a short time.”

Dale’s brow tightened. “Short time? What you mean by that?”

Mark shrugged, still leaning. Still calm.

“I mean, you damn near grown. Eighteen next year. You’ll be outta here soon enough. I ain’t tryna hold you hostage. You here to reset—before the world eats you alive.”

Dale stood silent. The words wrapped around him tight.

“This town ain’t much, I know that. But football’s still in your hands. Literally. Figuratively. Spiritually. You in football country now. They breathe that shit down here. And the buzz you had back at East Harlem? That traveled, kid. People know who you are. They just don’t know you my son. Yet.”

Mark pushed off the car and dusted off his jeans.

“I made some calls. Spoke to the coach at your new school. They need a quarterback. Yeah—I been watching your games online. You're good, Dale. Too damn good to be sittin’ around in pajama pants waitin’ on life to text you back.”

Dale’s arms folded. His face twisted.

“Why you doing all this for me, Mark? You tryin’ to set up a long-term ‘get rich off your kid’ scheme? ‘Cause that’s dead. You think you deserve a cut of my life just ‘cause you pulled some strings now?”

Mark stared at him for a long second. That kind of stare that speaks louder than yelling ever could.

“You got a lot of growing to do, son...”

Dale scoffed, cutting his eyes.

“There ain’t nothin’ in your world you can offer me… except time,” Mark continued. “Time is the only thing I want from you. I can’t make up for seventeen years ago. That window closed. But I can make due with the time I got left… and whatever time you choose to give me. That’s it. That’s all I ask for.”

Dale looked down, heavy shame weighing in his chest. He didn’t say nothin’.

“But time ain’t on my side right now. It's with you. So use it. Go to school. Go to try-outs. Make waves. Stack your wins. Line up your dominoes and let ‘em fall where they may.”

Mark walked past him and tossed a box near the garage entrance.

“But stop with all this prissy-ass energy and learn how to get yours. You a Denton, right? That don’t just mean Harlem in your blood. That mean hustle. That mean grit. That mean you don’t fold, son. You get yours.”

The words hung in the air like incense. Thick. Lingering.

Dale didn’t say much. He just nodded quietly, grabbed a box, and started moving shit toward the curb.

The old man might’ve been a ghost for seventeen years. But something about him felt solid now. Real. Right up under Dale’s nose, something was shifting. The garage. The conversations. The fire in his chest. Change was coming. And it wasn’t asking for permission.

[The JZA]

Sure, twist my arm to follow a serious player lock journey!

GM Rizzo, Say less

Happy to have you along the ride

[redsox907]

liking it so far bro. Dale should be looking at football as his ticket out now, not something he left behind. But we'll see how it goes, those country boys don't like new folk on their turf im guessin

[The JZA]

liking it so far bro. Dale should be looking at football as his ticket out now, not something he left behind. But we'll see how it goes, those country boys don't like new folk on their turf im guessin

redsox907, At least someone over him sees the ticket, but starting over can be a task at times. Hopefully that won't be the case for the new kid on the block(?)

From my personal experience, hell no they don't At least not at first

[The JZA]

Chapter IV: Year One

The heat didn’t let up, not for a second as the days pushed on. Summer didn’t just visit—it moved in and made itself comfortable. But the Denton boys? They moved with it.

It only took a matter of days to flip that dusty, cluttered garage into a bootleg iron jungle. It wasn’t fancy—no chrome machines or digital screens. Just a bench press held together with rust and hope, barbells with chipped paint, dumbbells that ain’t matched, a pull-up bar that creaked like it had a grudge. Only thing new was the medicine ball. It was ragged... but it worked.

And now Dale had no excuses...

The very next day, Dale was up before the sun. 4 A.M. Alarm clock never got the chance to scream. He was already lacing his sneakers, eyes half-closed, body still stuck in that purgatory between sleep and drive. He didn’t care.

He was already out in the garage before the birds opened their mouths. Gripping iron. Pushing through reps. Form tight. Breathing sharp. He wasn’t chasing the mirror—he was chasing time.

Because that clock was ticking.

By 5 A.M., Mark would be up. Like clockwork. Pots clanging. Bacon sizzling. Kitchen smelling like a Waffle House explosion. Every morning, without fail, a full spread: eggs, toast, grits, turkey sausage, sometimes pancakes when he was feeling generous. Then he’d slap Dale’s plate on the table like a challenge.

“You lift heavy, you eat heavier.”

Mark never said much during breakfast. Just nodded when Dale cleaned his plate and poured another cup of coffee. Then he’d wipe his mouth, grab his work shirt off the chair, and vanish into his hustle.

Mark might’ve dipped out for 17 years, but he was about that work. He ran sanitation trucks like a general—kept three on the road and a spare for parts. Managed a junkyard that was more organized than half the convenience stores in town. And even on his off days—the two or three he might catch in a month—he ran with Dale.

No excuses. No sick days. No “my back hurt.” Just pavement and purpose.

Dale started keeping track. Every mile. Every pound. Every protein shake. No, it wasn’t pretty. Some mornings his legs felt like soggy noodles. Some nights he laid in bed sore enough to cry. But he pushed through. He had to.

Because school was coming. Because football tryouts were coming. Because life was coming.

The gym workouts, the early morning runs, the chicken and rice meals, the gallons of water, the ice baths in a plastic kiddie pool—all of it became his rhythm. His focus. His revenge on the world that pushed him away from home. From what he knew. From what he was comfortable with.

Still, Dale wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t throwing the “Father of the Year” award at Mark. The resentment didn’t just disappear because they shared eggs and a run route. He had his reservations. Questions that still clung to the back of his throat. Like why now? Why this version of Mark and not the one he needed at seven years old?

But whenever the doubt crept in, Dale would shut it down with five words:

“Just one year. One year.”

That was the plan. That was the mission. Grind out the next 300-something days, get the film, get the offers, and get the fuck outta nowhere. Whether Mark was along for that ride or not... that didn’t matter.

Because this wasn’t about making peace. This was about making a way.

And truth be told, Dale was already starting to see it. The shoulders filling out. The bounce in his step. The hunger in his core that had nothing to do with food. That killer instinct was creeping back in, and not the kind he picked up from Harlem corners. This was different. Focused. Intentional.

The garage wasn’t just a gym. It was a forge. And Dale Denton was back on the grindstone.

One rep. One mile. One year.

That’s all he needed.

Getting registered at Manning High made it official—Dale Denton was now a South Carolina boy. At least on paper. School ID, class schedule, locker assignment—all that bureaucratic jazz that screamed this is your life now.

But in his mind? He was still Harlem. Just on layover. One year. That’s it. That’s all.

His focus was locked in: keep his grades up, make the team, show out, get scouted, and bounce. No detours. No side quests. But the process wasn’t a sprint. It was one long, painful walk through purgatory. So between two-a-day workouts and Mark’s crash course in manhood, Dale allowed himself small pockets of peace.

And that night? That Saturday night, one week before school started? That was his peace.

After a long convo with his moms, Sharnell—who still checked in like she had GPS on his soul—she dropped him a light blessing: $200, no strings attached. Just a little something to hold him over. “Keep your head up, baby,” she said. “And keep your nose clean.”

Cool. Dale had one craving on his mind. Taco Bell.

It wasn’t his first choice, but it was across the street from Manning High and open late. Close. Cheap. Quick. That’s all that mattered. Tossing on a hoodie and shorts, keys in hand, Dale decided to hoof it down the road. It was humid, sticky, the kind of night air that clung to your skin like a guilt trip.

He thought about throwing his headphones on—let some old Dipset ride him into the night—but something told him nah. He was still new around here. Still watching his step. Still learning the rules of this slow-motion town.

Crickets were chirping like they had a DJ. Most of the town was tucked in. Gas stations glowed in the dark like beacons of desperation, and chain restaurants ran off skeleton crews and microwaves. It was dead out here, but not dead enough.

About a mile into the walk, Dale spotted a Shell gas station, one of those joints with the full convenience store inside. He figured he’d stop in for a couple of Powerades to balance out the sodium bomb he was about to order from Taco Bell.

As he approached, the door flew open, damn near hitting him in the chest. Four white kids barreled out, 3 guys and a girl to be exact, loud as hell, talking trash and bumping shoulders like they were escaping a movie scene. Couldn’t be older than seventeen, maybe eighteen. Same age as him.

They piled into a black Toyota and peeled out like they just robbed the place.

Dale? He ain’t blink.

Just stepped inside, grabbed two Powerades, slid to the counter, paid in cash, and bounced. Smooth. Quiet. Just like the streets taught him: Mind ya biz and keep it pushin’.

That was the plan. Until a squad car pulled in.

Cherry lights spinning. Siren off. But that presence? Loud as hell.

Dale glanced once, heart skipping a half-beat. Couldn’t be me, he thought. Right?

Wrong.

A door swung open and a middle-aged Black officer stepped out. Could be local PD. Could be State Trooper. Light brown uniform. Belt stacked with authority. At this point, they all look the same.

“Excuse me, boy!” the cop called out, his voice sharper than it needed to be. “You there! I’d like to have a word with you.”

Dale clenched his jaw. Closed his eyes. Let out a sigh so deep it pulled from the soles of his feet.

He froze in place. Didn’t run. Didn’t talk slick. Just stood there. Because this ain’t new. It was just new here.

“How ‘bout you turn around,” the officer barked again. “Let me see your face. Hands where I can see ‘em.”

Dale turned slow, Powerade bag in hand, hoodie still down, no sudden moves.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. What you doin’ out this late?”

Dale blinked. His brow twitched.

“I ain’t know I needed a permit to be out.”

“Don’t give me no sass, boy!”

The trooper stepped closer, puffed up like a rooster with a badge.

“We got a call about some teenagers loitering out here. You fit the description.”

“Your math don’t add up, boss man. It’s just one of me. Maybe you should go talk to whoever called you… or check the cameras. You barking up the wrong tree.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Dale knew he hit a nerve. Trooper wasn’t built for logic. He was built for control.

“Get up on that wall,” he snapped. “Arms out. Legs spread. Now.”

“Yo, what?” Dale stepped back, disbelief coloring his voice. “You serious bruv?”

“I said—Wall... Now.”

“This some bullshit,” Dale muttered. He was just about to play along, let the cop have his little moment, when a Ford Explorer rolled into the lot. Faded blue. Dusty.

Mark...

Like divine intervention in sneakers and work boots.

Inside the store, the commotion had drawn the cashier to the door. She peeked through the glass, wide-eyed but silent, hands clenched.

Mark stepped out of the car, eyes cutting through the situation instantly.

“Jett?” Mark called out. “Jett! What’s goin’ on?”

The trooper looked over his shoulder. His shoulders dropped a little. Recognition softened his face.

“Got a call about some punks up to no good.”

“Yo, Dad!” Dale shouted. “Tell him to get off me! I ain’t do nothin’!”

“C’mon, Jett. There’s gotta be a mistake,” Mark said, walking up. “That’s my boy. He just moved down here from New York. He ain’t even know his way around yet.”

Jett’s face twisted, surprise flickering.

“This your boy?”

“Yeah. The one I told you about—the football kid. Let him go.”

A pause. Tension hung like a thundercloud.

Then the cashier finally spoke.

“It wasn’t him,” she said through the glass. “It was four others. They took off in a black Toyota. I saw it.”

Jett let it register. Took his time. Let the weight of embarrassment settle in before he finally backed off.

“Mark, I like you. You always been straight with me. But this boy got a mouth that needs fixin’. I hope you handle that.”

Mark nodded. Tense smile.

“Oh, trust me, I know, and I will. You know I will. Dale—go on. Get in the car.”

Dale looked at Jett. Looked at the cashier. Then Mark. Grabbed his bag and got in the truck. And to top it off, the officer didn't even budge to apologize for the mishappening.

His body was calm, but inside? Rage. Fire. Shame. Humiliation.

Dale sat in the passenger seat, silent, staring out the windshield like it insulted him personally. Eyes locked on that cashier still peeking out the window.

Questions started spinning: Why didn’t she speak sooner? Did she call the cops and change the story once she saw him? Was it a mistake—or a cover-up?

Didn’t matter.

Dale didn’t want the answers. Because the answer was always the same: this place ain’t home.

After smoothing things over, Jett proceeded his investigation inside the store. Mark climbed in and started the car, eyes tight with thought.

Dale didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

That night added another brick to the wall Dale was building inside. Another reason to get the fuck out of nowhere.

He thought about his mother. Her voice on the phone. The $200. He thought about Harlem. His friends. His girl and if she would wait on him. He thought about football. School. The gym. The plan.

And then he whispered to himself, “Just one year...”

[The JZA]

Chapter V: On The Clock

Days had passed since that night—the run-in with the law that painted South Carolina's welcome committee in a shade of reality Dale wasn’t ready for. It wasn’t his first time seeing it—he grew up in Harlem, after all—but it was his first time on the receiving end. That kind of heat hits different when it’s aimed at you. When it’s your face under the flashlight, your hands being questioned. It stayed with him like a scar beneath the skin.

But as always, the world didn’t stop moving. And neither did Dale.

Summer was on its last leg, and the first day of school had crept up like a shadow with bad intentions. The ride to Manning High was quiet—too quiet. Just the low hum of the engine and Mark occasionally clearing his throat like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. He tried to apologize again for what happened at the gas station, but even he knew that wasn’t his place. That wasn’t a father-and-son moment. That was America being America.

Dale wasn’t mad at him. He was just… Uncomfortable.

“Thanks for the ride,” Dale mumbled, adjusting his backpack straps as they pulled up to the curb.

“No problem, son. You need any cash? You know how school lunches are. Mystery meat might be a thing down here too.”

Dale smirked, just a little.

“Nah, I’m good. Moms dropped me some cash the other night. I’ll probably grab a salad or somethin’.”

“Okay, big baller,” Mark chuckled. “Just remember to hit up Coach Kennedy before the day’s over. He’s expecting you.”

“Got it,” Dale said, stepping out and giving a lazy wave. “I’ll let you know how it go.”

And just like that, he was on his own again.

Manning High stood in front of him like a brick-wall welcome mat. Red bricks. White trim. A tall American flag out front flapping like it had something to prove. Just under the archway resided a sign that read, "Pride. Poise. Excellence." Buses lined up like prison transports, flooding the school lot with faces—freshmen to seniors, all trying to look like they weren’t trying. New haircuts. New kicks. Fresh fits straight out the mall. Everybody trying to impress somebody.

Dale kept it lowkey. Hoodie on. Bag slung tight. No jewelry. No need to flex when you don’t know who’s who yet.

People watched him as he passed. The way new blood always gets watched in a small town. Some just glanced and went back to their conversations. Others lingered a second longer. The ones that really stared—those were the ones Dale clocked. Those were the ones that weren’t curious… They were sizing.

He didn’t pay it no mind. Eyes forward. Chin tucked. Just like back home.

Once he hit his locker and dumped his things, Dale made his way to the south end of the school—the hangout zone. A big open area where students loitered before first period. The real gem, though, was what laid just beyond that: the football field.

Clean bleachers. Short-cut grass. Track in good condition. Nothing fancy, but it had character. Had that old-school Friday night energy to it, like ghosts of games past were still echoing in the air. The smell of dew and cut grass hit Dale like a memory. A feeling. The one he thought he’d buried back in Harlem with the rest of his old life.

That itch came back. That urge to compete. He could feel it in his chest.

By the time lunch rolled around, the day had moved like clockwork. Teachers cool. Students? A mixed bag. Some country, some cultured. A few cornballs. A couple heads that looked like they knew ball when they saw it. But nobody pressed him. Not yet.

Cafeteria was packed. Long-ass line like Rikers mess hall. Corn dogs and fries on the menu. Dale wasn’t about to test the mystery meat theory, so he copped a milk carton and bounced. Light stomach, clear head.

Instead of sitting down, he made his way to the front office and asked where he could find Coach Kennedy. After a couple vague directions and a detour down a hallway that smelled like wet books and teenage sweat, Dale ended up at the faculty lounge. He knocked once, stuck his head in.

“Hi, Coach Kennedy?”

A stocky African-American dude in his mid-forties looked up from a sandwich, brushing crumbs from his chest.

“Yeah, that’s me. What’s up?”

“Hey, good afternoon. Sorry to interrupt. My pops told me to check in with you. I’m Dale Denton.”

At the mention of the name, Coach Kennedy’s eyebrows lifted. He stood and wiped his hands, extending one out.

“You Mark’s boy?”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

“He’s been talking your name up since the end of June,” Kennedy said with a grin. “Said you played quarterback back up north?”

“Yeah, East Harlem High. Had a good run.”

“Well, you’re catching us in a bit of a bind,” Coach said, rubbing his chin. “Our starting QB transferred after a knee injury. We’ve been running summer drills, but nobody’s stepped up like we hoped.”

“When’s tryouts?”

“Next week. We pushed it up. Usually give the school year a week to settle, but the schedule’s tight this year. Come see me Friday, I’ll get you signed up officially.”

“Bet. I got highlights too. Game tape, huddle clips, all in my Drive. I can shoot that to you if you’re interested.”

“Absolutely. I like the initiative.”

Coach Kennedy reached into his wallet and handed Dale a business card.

“Email me. I’ll check it out when I get a minute. Let your father know, he'll have to sign off on all the paperwork—waivers, permission forms, all that fun stuff.”

“Will do. Appreciate the time.”

“Looking forward to seeing what you got, Mr. Denton.”

Dale left the lounge with something heavy in his hand—an opportunity.

This was the first domino. If that tape hit right, if the coach liked what he saw, if Dale showed out at tryouts… It could all line up.

One year. One chance. One ticket back to something that felt like freedom.

But for now? It was one day at a time. One step at a time. One play at a time.