The chap­ter titled “Acknowl­edg­ments” from “The Boys of River­side” express­es deep grat­i­tude from the author towards var­i­ous indi­vid­u­als and groups who sup­port­ed the cre­ation of the book. The focus is on the expe­ri­ences sur­round­ing the author’s report­ing jour­ney, pri­mar­i­ly cen­tered on the foot­ball com­mu­ni­ty in River­side.

The author acknowl­edges the con­tri­bu­tion of play­ers and coach­es who per­mit­ted him to observe their lives close­ly in var­i­ous set­tings, includ­ing side­lines and meet­ings. He empha­sizes the behind-the-scenes sup­port from a sig­nif­i­cant num­ber of women, par­tic­u­lar­ly deaf women, who played vital roles through­out the process. A stand­out fig­ure is Tere­sa Maxwell, a senior admin­is­tra­tor at the Cal­i­for­nia School for the Deaf, River­side (CSDR), who gra­cious­ly offered her spare bed­room, facil­i­tat­ing the author’s tran­si­tion into a deaf house­hold.

The author cred­its sev­er­al indi­vid­u­als at CSDR, includ­ing for­mer super­in­ten­dent Nan­cy Hli­bok Amann and ath­let­ics pro­gram head Lau­ra Edwards, for their excep­tion­al assis­tance. Eri­ka Thomp­son, the school’s com­mu­ni­ca­tions head, also goes unrec­og­nized for her patience amidst the author’s numer­ous inquiries. The role of Meli­ka Angoorani, the author’s Amer­i­can Sign Lan­guage (ASL) inter­preter, is high­light­ed as cru­cial to the book’s suc­cess, with addi­tion­al acknowl­edg­ments to inter­preters who helped with inter­views.

Fur­ther­more, the author pays trib­ute to his wife, who pro­vid­ed unwa­ver­ing sup­port and encour­age­ment despite the addi­tion­al house­hold demands result­ing from his absences. He rec­og­nizes the inte­gral role of his edi­tor at The New York Times, Julie Bloom, and col­leagues who cov­ered for him dur­ing his time away. The author express­es immense grat­i­tude to his lit­er­ary agent, Jane Dys­tel, and his Knopf Dou­ble­day edi­tor, Jason Kauf­man, for their belief in his project.

The chap­ter extends its appre­ci­a­tion to experts at Gal­laudet Uni­ver­si­ty and oth­ers who aid­ed the author in under­stand­ing Deaf Cul­ture and the edu­ca­tion­al land­scape. The author shares thanks to pho­tog­ra­ph­er Eric Melz­er for cap­tur­ing moments through­out the process and acknowl­edges the invalu­able input from fam­i­ly mem­bers, par­tic­u­lar­ly his par­ents, David and Isabelle. He con­cludes by express­ing his grat­i­tude to the broad­er deaf com­mu­ni­ty for their unex­pect­ed kind­ness and sup­port dur­ing his jour­ney.

The acknowl­edg­ments sec­tion of the book high­lights the author’s grat­i­tude towards sev­er­al indi­vid­u­als and groups that played a cru­cial role in the cre­ation of the book. The author express­es heart­felt thanks to agents Mol­ly Friedrich and Lucy Car­son for their guid­ance and sup­port from the pro­pos­al stage through to pub­li­ca­tion, acknowl­edg­ing Dana Spec­tor for mak­ing dreams hap­pen, Marin Takikawa for pro­vid­ing impor­tant edi­to­r­i­al feed­back, and Han­nah Brat­te­sani for facil­i­tat­ing the book’s inter­na­tion­al reach. Heather Carr is also men­tioned for her patience in address­ing all of the author’s inquiries.

Car­o­line Zan­can is cel­e­brat­ed as not only a phe­nom­e­nal edi­tor but also a friend, with the author appre­ci­at­ing her excep­tion­al qual­i­ties that enhance both books and writ­ers. The entire Hen­ry Holt team is rec­og­nized, with spe­cif­ic thanks to Amy Ein­horn for her belief in the man­u­script, Caitlin Mul­rooney-Lys­ki for her career-impact­ing con­tri­bu­tions, and Lori Kusatzky and Leela Gebo for their seam­less oper­a­tional sup­port. Acknowl­edg­ment is giv­en to the edi­to­r­i­al team’s thought­ful atten­tion to detail and to Nico­lette See­back Rug­giero for her strik­ing jack­et design.

The author express­es grat­i­tude to those who pro­vid­ed valu­able feed­back on var­i­ous man­u­script ver­sions, includ­ing Diana Spech­ler, Shelly Oria, Cristi­na Rodriguez, and sev­er­al oth­ers who shared insights and sup­port through­out the writ­ing process. The sense of friend­ship and com­mu­ni­ty among these indi­vid­u­als is empha­sized, mak­ing the writ­ing jour­ney less soli­tary and more enrich­ing.

The author also pays trib­ute to lit­er­ary giants such as Vir­ginia Woolf and Char­lotte Bron­të, whose lega­cy inspires con­tem­po­rary writ­ers. Spe­cial thanks are offered to read­ers, book­sellers, and var­i­ous uni­ver­si­ties that sup­port­ed the work, under­scor­ing the col­lab­o­ra­tive and com­mu­nal nature of lit­er­a­ture. The acknowl­edg­ments con­clude with appre­ci­a­tion for fam­i­ly, includ­ing par­ents and sib­lings, whose enthu­si­asm for the author’s writ­ing fos­ters a unique con­nec­tion between her cre­ative and per­son­al lives. The sec­tion ends with a nod to the kind­ness of strangers met along the years, whose inter­ac­tions pro­vid­ed com­fort and inspi­ra­tion, fram­ing the book as a heart­felt thank-you let­ter to those who have made a dif­fer­ence.

Wait­ing ai

Wait­ing ai

Wait­ing ai

The acknowl­edg­ments sec­tion of this book reveals the author’s com­plex rela­tion­ship with sto­ry­telling and the exhaus­tive process of bring­ing a nar­ra­tive to life. The author shares a can­did glimpse into their per­son­al strug­gles, includ­ing the fear of for­get­ting those who have sup­port­ed them along the way. Amidst these chal­lenges, they high­light the inte­gral role of their sup­port sys­tem, par­tic­u­lar­ly empha­siz­ing their father’s con­tri­bu­tion, who was a sound­ing board for the ini­tial brain­storm­ing ses­sions that took place dur­ing walks in East Nashville. This pas­sage under­scores the author’s appre­hen­sion towards the for­mal act of acknowl­edg­ment, dri­ven by a fear of omis­sion caused by a self-admit­ted poor mem­o­ry linked to their immer­sion in the world of books. The author’s reflec­tion on this process is tinged with irony, espe­cial­ly giv­en the the­mat­ic focus of the book on mem­o­ry and its frail­ties. They con­fess that writ­ing serves as a means to cap­ture fleet­ing ideas before they escape, an activ­i­ty that para­dox­i­cal­ly both con­tributes to and mit­i­gates their for­get­ful­ness. The author’s ambiva­lence towards acknowl­edg­ments, their strug­gle with mem­o­ry, and the key sup­port pro­vid­ed by their father, all serve to pref­ace the nar­ra­tive that fol­lows, pro­vid­ing a glimpse into the per­son­al chal­lenges and influ­ences that have shaped the cre­ation of the book.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to every­one for read­ing Brid­get and Rhys’s sto­ry! This
cou­ple has con­sumed me for months, and now that they’re final­ly
out in the world, I hope you love them as much as I do!
I espe­cial­ly want to thank the peo­ple who’ve helped make this book
a real­i­ty:
To my alpha and beta read­ers Brit­tney, Brit­tany (with an a), Yaneli,
Sarah, Rebec­ca, Aishah, and Allisyn for your con­struc­tive feed­back.
You helped make the sto­ry shine, and I am so grate­ful for your hon-
esty and atten­tion to detail.
To my PA Amber for keep­ing me sane and always being there when
I need a sec­ond opin­ion. What would I do with­out you?
To my edi­tor Amy Brig­gs and proof­read­er Krista Bur­dine for work-
ing with me on my ever-chang­ing and some­times tight dead­lines.
You are rock­stars!
To Quirah at Temp­ta­tion Cre­ations for the amaz­ing cov­er and the
teams at Give Me Books and Wild­fire Mar­ket­ing for mak­ing release
day a dream.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If you fol­low me on Insta­gram, you thought this book was going to be writ­ten in
emo­jis, didn’t you?
Thank you to the team who worked so hard to help me bring my mem­oir
into the world, includ­ing: Cade Hud­son; Math­ew Rosen­gart; Cait Hoyt; my
col­lab­o­ra­tors (you know who you are); and Jen­nifer Bergstrom, Lau­ren Spiegel,
and every­one at Gallery Books.
Thank you to my fans: You have my heart and my grat­i­tude for­ev­er. This
book is for you.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

Acknowl­edg­ments
This book began as an ode to Sy Friend, the retired direc­tor of The Vari­ety
Club Camp for Hand­i­capped Chil­dren in Worces­ter, Pa. Like many works
of fic­tion, it mor­phed into some­thing else. I worked at the camp for four
sum­mers when I was a stu­dent at Ober­lin Col­lege. That was more than forty
years ago, but Sy’s lessons of inclu­siv­i­ty, love, and acceptance—delivered
not with con­de­scend­ing kind­ness but with deeds that showed the recip­i­ents
the path to true equality—remained with me for the rest of my life. In that
spir­it, I am thank­ful to the entire Vari­ety Club fam­i­ly: the late Leo and Vera
Posel, who donat­ed the land for the camp in the thir­ties; the late camp
trustee Bill Saltz­man, who insist­ed I become a coun­selor when I applied for
a job as a dish­wash­er at age nine­teen; my friend and for­mer co-coun­selor
Vin­ny Caris­si­mi, who lat­er became a bril­liant, two-fist­ed Philadel­phia
attor­ney who dug me and many for­mer camp staffers out of sev­er­al hor­ri­ble
legal scrapes, usu­al­ly for free. And of course Sy and his hus­band, Bob
Arch, now liv­ing in retire­ment in Lake Worth, Fla. Sy served that camp
from age six­teen until his retire­ment three decades lat­er (1950–1979). I’ve
nev­er met a more bril­liant, com­pas­sion­ate per­son. He was a slen­der,
hand­some man, a fast-mov­ing object who slipped around the camp­grounds
like a spir­it, in clean white ten­nis shoes, shorts, and golf shirt, bear­ing an
ever-present cig­a­rette between his fin­gers and the melody of some
spell­bind­ing opera in his head, for he loved that genre. He knew the name
of every camper and often the names of their par­ents as well. He was
decades ahead of his time. His staff looked like the Unit­ed Nations, long
before the word “diver­si­ty” echoed around Amer­i­ca. We were all poor­ly
paid and over­worked. But the lessons we learned from Sy left us rich. Many
of the for­mer staffers went on to excel in var­i­ous fields.
The kids loved him with an extra­or­di­nary inten­si­ty. Each night at
bed­time, he played a scratched record­ing of a bugle per­form­ing taps on the
camp’s ancient loud­speak­er, fol­lowed by a gen­tle “Good night boys and
girls.” And if you stood out­side fac­ing the rows of cab­ins, which were not
air-conditioned—he refused to let the trustees install air-con­di­tion­ing,
say­ing, “They need to feel the air. Let them live. They’re inside all year”—
you could almost hear the mur­murs of all nine­ty-one campers, the chil­dren
lying in their bunks, the words echo­ing up and down the row of dark cab­ins,
“Good night Uncle Sy.”
He served as a prin­ci­pal in the Philadel­phia school dis­trict dur­ing the
year, but was a sum­mer­time leg­end to the chil­dren of the camp. One of my
campers, Lam­ont Gar­land, now fifty-five, a born-and-raised North Philly
kid who nev­er allowed a life­long depen­den­cy on crutch­es brought on by
what was then called cere­bral pal­sy to stop him work­ing for the
Philadel­phia Elec­tric Com­pa­ny for twen­ty-five years before his retire­ment
in 2014, told me a sto­ry about Sy years ago that I nev­er for­got. Lam­ont,
who today lives in Colum­bia, S.C., told me this sto­ry when he was sev­en or
eight. He was attend­ing the Widen­er Memo­r­i­al School in Philadel­phia at the
time, which has admirably edu­cat­ed Philadelphia’s chil­dren with dis­abil­i­ties
for the last 116 years. We were sit­ting on the porch of one of the camp
cab­ins on a sum­mer after­noon and he said, out of the blue, “Uncle Sy came
to Widen­er once.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he work there?”
“No. He just showed up. We were in assem­bly in the audi­to­ri­um one
morn­ing, and he just walked in.”
“What hap­pened?”
“We gave him a stand­ing ova­tion.”
I leave it to you, dear read­er, to pic­ture that crowd­ed audi­to­ri­um more
than forty-five years ago, the con­glom­er­ate of crutch­es, wheel­chairs, and