Chapter XI: Best In The World
December 18, 2027. Jazz at Lincoln Center on 60th & Broadway.
This wasn't no regular night. This was the night. The kind college football players fall asleep dreaming about and wake up chasing. The Heisman ceremony. Glitz. Cameras. Coaches and boosters, media sharks in thousand-dollar suits, old alumni tryna recapture their youth, and tailgating fans with fresh jerseys still creased. They all came out to see who'd be crowned king. It was a pilgrimage and a coronation rolled into one, soaked in flashbulbs and corporate logos, layered in tradition and hype. ESPN trucks lined up like tanks outside, and inside? Inside it was a whole different world. Velvet ropes, champagne flutes, polished marble floors reflecting dreams and egos alike.
Dale Denton touched down at JFK that Friday afternoon. He wasn’t alone. Coach Danielson flew with him, grinning ear to ear like it was his name on the ballot. Dale just nodded through customs, mind on mute. It had been two years since his Timbs touched New York pavement. This wasn't a homecoming though. This was a hit-and-run mission: Win the Heisman, get back to Washington, lock in for playoffs. In his head, it was business. Strictly. The weight of expectation pressed on his chest like an extra plate in the weight room.
The Mandarin Oriental had him set up like royalty—clean, elegant, high-thread-count everything.
Crazy.
A hotel room in his own backyard. Born and bred a few miles away, but now treated like King of Norway.
Life moved fast. Almost too fast.
Between the cross-country flight and fans pointing him out at baggage claim, Dale was running on fumes. He hit the mattress like a sack of bricks, ESPN playing softly in the background, a montage of bowls, playoff predictions, and transfer portal drama lulling him to sleep. Above him, the ceiling glowed with a soft amber light, but all Dale could think about was fresh cut grass, timing routes, and legacy.
Next morning, his phone buzzed off the nightstand. Moms, calling on whatsapp.
"Good morning, Ma."
"Good morning to you, my baby. You couldn't call your mother and let me know you was in town? Had me sitting up late."
He rubbed sleep from his eyes. "Sorry. I checked in and crashed. I didn’t even eat."
"Well, let's fix that. What you want to do? You want to come home or you want to eat out? Your choice."
Dale sat up, stretching and yawning before he could answer. "I'll gladly come home. It’s brick out here."
"Alright then, get yourself ready and come on. I’ll whip up somethin' for you." Sharnell suggested. "Oh, and I got a little surprise."
"A surprise?" He squinted at the screen. "Care to clue me in?"
"Nope, just get over here."
Dale laughed and nodded. "Always the vague one with you. Alright, let me get ready, let coach know and I'll see you in a few."
It ain’t take long before he slid out the Mandarin and into a Lyft. The city never sleeps—even in 40-degree weather, New York was on go. Steam curled from sewer grates, horns blared like declarations, and street vendors slung bacon, egg, and cheeses to bundled-up commuters. He watched the skyline bend as they rolled uptown. Jackie Robinson Houses. 110 East 129th. Still the same. Maybe a few more potholes. But the bones? Still Harlem. Grit and beauty sharing the same breath.
He hopped out, dapped up the lobby gargoyles posted outside. They ain't do much but hold court, smoke loosies, and hug the walkway. Still, they looked out for his moms, and that was enough. Their approval was unspoken currency. A nod from the old heads meant more than likes or retweets.
Dale catches him-self nearly ringing the door bell to buzzed in, but reminded his-self of his keys. It's been a while since he seen these pair. Seven floors up, Dale fumbled with his keys like a rookie. Door clicked open. The smell hit first—cocoa butter, heavy pine sol, smoke hickory and radiator heat, that classic NY winter mix. Then came the voice.
"There he is, my baby!" Sharnell shouted in joy.
Sharnell came rushing from the kitchen, apron flapping like a cape. She held him like she was trying to protect him from the world, like all the cameras and pressure couldn’t reach him here.
"Look at you! You've gotten so big since you was last here. My boy ain't scrawny no more!"
"All them protein shakes and home-cooked meals added up."
Dale had gone from 190 to 227. Solid. Built like a tank but moved like a Tesla. Good weight. Power without sacrifice. His body was his brand, and it showed.
"You don't know how good it is to see you in the flesh after so long."
"Yeah, well, you're the one who kicked me out."
"Uh huh, and I'll do it again, watch it!" Sharnell slaps Dale on the arm playfully with her kitchen towel. "Get comfortable, I'll have breakfast ready in a few."
"Aight, bet. I'ma go wash my hands."
He shrugged off his bubble coat, heat instantly melting off him. Just as he turned for the bathroom, the toilet flushed. He paused with curiosity of who else was here with his mother. The door opens and footsteps made it's way down the dark corridor. Moments later, it was revealed to be Dale's father, Mark. Dale jumps back, looking at Mark, then looking back at Sharnell.
"Oh, so this is what y'all doing now?" Dale joked.
"You ain't been home five minutes and you already talkin' shit," Mark shot back.
"Hey now! What I tell you about that language in my house?" Sharnell warned.
"Look what you done started," Mark chuckled, pulling Dale in for a one-armed hug. The grip was strong but warm, like holding onto something that refused to break.
"Good to have you home, son. How was the flight in?"
"It was just like any other, long, tedious, and disorganized. And what you mean home? What you mean by that?"
"Can it, stay out of grown folks business." Mark retorted.
Breakfast was banging. Kale omelets, thick-cut beef bacon, French toast strips, and crispy potatoes. Mark sipped his coffee slow. They sat around the table like no time had passed, like it wasn’t months since they’d all shared a meal.
"Wasn’t expectin' to see you here, Pops."
"I told your mother about your ceremony, she was delighted to hear about it. Told me to pack a day bag. I think she was under the influence of whatever. She caught me off guard asking me to come."
"For the record," Sharnell said, "I was tipsy, but fully coherent. I wanted your father to be here for you. Whether I like it or not, we're a family, and I think Dale is more than deserving of support from both his parents."
Dale and Mark silent looked at each other, curious of what washed over on Sharnell.
"Ma? You okay? Blink twice if you're being controlled by a chip module embedded in you. We can get you help." Dale grew a grin on his face.
"I'm about two seconds of kicking you and your father out if y'all don't leave me the hell alone. Talking all this quack shit like I'm crazy."
"What happened to the language rule?" Mark asked.
"This my house." Sharnell nonchalantly retorted as she sipped on her coffee. Mark looked at Dale as he silently nodded back, leaving him to sigh in defeat. In a world of cameras and chaos, this was his anchor. The warmth of the kitchen. The quiet understanding of two parents still figuring it out. Dale appreciated it more than they knew.
Later, they all chilled on the couch. ESPN switched to NBA talk. Stephen A. yelling about supermaxes and midrange jumpers. The room buzzed with low laughter and the scent of leftovers.
"Man, I can't believe how well you're doing in school. A perfect season?" Mark said with joy. "You really doing big things there, son. I didn't think you'd take so early and take off like you did."
"I didn't think so either," Dale responded after relieving a sigh off his chest. "It was out the fryer and into the fire type situation. I'd be lying if I didn't say there were still adjustments that needed to be made, but we came this far. 13-0, we made that streak real. For real though, we've been anticipating when the first loss would come, just to get that monkey off our back."
"Yeah, I know what you mean, but don't let up now. You got a few more games. You can really do something monumental and go all the way." Mark said.
"You're father is right. I don't know the sport much, and I'm trying to learn it now, but if you're doing great and got something going on, don't be so pessimistic about it. Ride it out." Sharnell interjected.
"And who's teaching you football?" Dale asked inquisitively.
"Your father. Even if it's just enough, I want to be able to watch your games and understand what you're doing."
"Look at you, that's real." Dale said with a smile.
"What I don't like though, seeing you get hit all the time. Does it hurt or is that how it looks on TV?" Sharnell asked furrowing her eyebrows.
"I wish I could say it's for TV, but it's real. The pads we wear absorbs some of the blow, but not everywhere." Dale answered.
"You should've seen him, USC folded his butt up like an old wallet when they first played. Boy was black and blue before the end of the game." Mark laughed.
"Yeah, don't remind me. Even though we played a better game in our conference championship against them, I still get chills about that game." Dale admitted, shaking his head.
Well, just take of yourself. Stay healthy, eat right, get all the rest you can get. You plan on going to the NFL with this dream, don't mess around with it." Mark detailed.
"Yeah, I know. I'm trying. It has it's days, but most better than not."
Silence thick as jailhouse stew brewed in the lounge. ESPN played low on the flat screen, Stephen A. barking about the same old WNBA trife—money, respect, and how neither lined up with what the women deserved. Nobody in the room really listening, but it was on. Just background static.
Sharnell leaned in, legs crossed sharp, lip gloss poppin’ under the light. “So, what’s on the itinerary tonight?” she asked, eyes all casual but tone hinting she already knew.
Dale leaned back in his spot on the sofa before answering, “Just this Heisman trophy ceremony. They announcing the winner live on TV. I should be getting back to the hotel for it. Y’all know y’all got front row seats, right?”
“And you know we gon’ be right there beside you,” Sharnell said, a little smirk tugging the corner of her mouth.
Mark nodded, arms crossed like he was trying not to smile. “You think you got a shot?”
“At the Heisman?” Dale repeated, like he ain’t even believe it out loud yet. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. It's crazy I’m even saying that out loud.”
“Well, you ain’t never lacked confidence,” Mark said with his eyes closed, almost condescending like.
“Nah, it ain’t even like that,” Dale replied, eyes going off somewhere else for a second. “I mean, if I win this… I’ll be the third freshman ever to take that trophy home. Third. And the first ever at Washington to win it. Huskies never had one. It’s like—I don’t even know—Johnny Manziel, Jameis Winston… and maybe me.”
“Manziel?” Mark scoffed, damn near choking on his own breath. “That boy’s a joke through and through.”
“Eh, say what you want ‘bout his pro career, but in college? He was cold. Gotta give him that.” Dale didn’t flinch.
“You just make sure you don’t fall flat on your face like he did,” Mark said, voice going from playful to dead-ass quick.
Sharnell leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “Whatever he did, don’t sound good if Mark’s all riled up about him. You do make sure you stay outta trouble.”
“No sweat, Ma.” Dale offered a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right now, let’s just get through the night. Ceremony first. Then… whatever the future wanna throw at me.”
He stood up, brushing invisible dust off his jeans like he was prepping for battle.
Mark looked at him, long and hard. “You ready?”
Dale nodded once. “Been ready. Just didn’t know the world was gon’ be watchin’ when it happened.”
And with that, the boy who might just make history walked out the room, head high, heart thumpin’ loud in his chest—but steady.
This was more than a night. It was legacy. Or the beginning of one.
The night pulled up slow, dressed in tuxedos and pressure. Spotlights beaming. Flashbulbs flicking like lightning. That air-tight kind of quiet you only hear when greatness on the edge of being announced. The Heisman ceremony wasn’t just an event. It was war without pads. Every eye in the room trying to see who’d bleed glory first.
Dale sat posted, suit sharp, eyes harder. Hands on his knees, heart beatin’ a little too fast. Next to him sat the killers: Christopher Vizzina from Clemson, George MacIntyre reppin’ Boise, Julian Sayin from the machine that was Ohio State… and Akili Smith Jr., USC's golden boy, and Dale’s rival. That tension between them? Ain’t new. Ain’t friendly, either. Even off the field, these boys came to win.
But none of ‘em was making headlines like Dale. Walter Camp—his. Maxwell—his. Alexander, Davey O'Brien—scooped ‘em all. The streets already whisperin’ it like it was gospel: Dale Denton, Heisman.
But it ain't real 'til your name get said out loud. Until it echoes through the mic and the world hears it.
That’s what Dale wanted. Nah, needed.
Silence took over the hall like a hush before a verdict. Cameras panned slow. The host adjusted his tie, smiled like he knew who it was already.
"It is my honor to announce the 2027 Heisman award goes to..."
Pause...
Dale’s chest tightened. His mother squeezed his hand.
"...Dale Denton."
Boom.
The room blew up.
The applause hit like an ass clap-off in a strip club. Crowd up on they feet. Dale stood up slow, smile creepin’ across his face. That sigh he let out? Heavy. Like years of grind just slid off his shoulders.
He hugged Moms first. Tight. Like he was holdin’ on to where it all started. Pops next—solid, proud.
Then Coach Danielson, who damn near had tears in his eyes. "You did it, Dale. I’m proud of you,” Danielson said, gripping him by the neck like a son. “Now go up there and get what’s yours.”
Dale nodded. Before making his way to the stage, Dale shook hands and hugged each one of the finalists. He Straightened his jacket and walked toward the stage, head high. Shook hands with every old head on the way up to the podium, nodding, thanking them. Then he turned to the mic. Lights hot. Room quiet again.
He took a breath.
“I, um... I really don't know what to say, but thank you,” Dale started, voice steady but cracked just enough to let you know this meant everything.
“Thank you for believing in me. God, Mom, Dad, Coach. To the coaches and teammates back in South Carolina, all the way up to Washington—I see y’all. I feel y’all. This moment right here? Ain’t mine alone.”
He paused. Looked out into the sea of flash and faces.
“I never imagined I’d be the third freshman to hold this trophy. Didn’t chase this. I just wanted to play football. Put pads on, take names, win games. That was it. But somehow, I done more than that.”
He glanced down at the Heisman in his hand like it still ain’t feel real.
“I wanna thank God—straight up. For the talent, for the trials, for the grace. This ain’t mine without Him.”
He turned toward his father.
“Dad… with all these trophies tonight, we gon’ need a new shelf. For real. I know we had a rough start, me and you. Lotta days we ain’t see eye to eye. But you saw the vision. Even when I ain’t. You ain’t let me fall off. You gave me more than any trophy could. You gave me a bond.”
Applause.
Dale cleared his throat. Looked over at his mom.
“Moms… you a soldier. You put in overtime without a clock. Late nights, early mornings. Never asked for a thing. You kept me grounded when I was wildin’. You saw the dream and let me run toward it. You pulled me outta places I didn’t belong in and gave me space to grow. I needed that. I love you. I pray God gives you all the years to see what your sacrifice built.”
Another wave of claps, this one warmer. Dale wiped at his eye. Sniffed.
“Coach Danielson… I ain’t gon’ lie, I never saw myself wearin’ purple and gold. Never saw myself out west. But when I questioned my path, you pulled up and gave me direction. You told me I was starting, even when I doubted myself. You told me I was built different. You ain’t lie. You ain’t steered me wrong yet. I’m glad I came. And Coach—we ain’t done. Job’s not finished.”
Louder now. Whole crowd feelin’ him. Some standing again.
He took one last pause. Then dropped his eyes to the floor. Voice dropped too.
“Lastly… This one for you, Amani Toles.”
Room froze.
“I made a promise to you, big dawg. That I’d see this through for both of us. And we here. You hear me? We here. I wish you were here, but keep watchin’ over the crew.”
He sniffled again, head bowed, tears clouding up but not falling yet.
And then—he lifted the Heisman above his head. Just enough to show the weight didn’t break him. Smile cracked across his face. Half joy, half heartbreak.
Dale Denton had arrived.
Not just as a baller. Not just as a Husky. But as a piece of college football history. Stamped. Certified. Forever.
And couldn’t nobody take that from him.
