think it was called the Participant Award, and it wasn’t even a trophy. It was a certificate. Everyone knew it was the lamest award of the night. When they called out “Kevin Hart” from the stage, there was a sympathetic smattering of applause. I stepped up to the podium and placed one hand on the microphone. Every other kid who’d spoken had written his speech on a piece of paper or an index card. Now I was on stage—for the first time in my life—with no paper, no index card, no preparation, and no clue what to say. “Hello—I’m Nancy’s son,” I began, “though a lot of y’all know me as ‘the
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