It Never Rains in Tiger Stadium

It Never Rains in Tiger Stadium

by John Ed Bradley

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Overview

“A lyrical memoir . . . about his teammates, his coaches, his parents and the magnetic power of football in Louisiana.”—NPR
 
“The best sports book of the year.”—Sports Illustrated

Inspired by a classic essay about a visit to a dying coach, It Never Rains in Tiger Stadium explores in gorgeous detail the inescapable pull of college football—the cocky smiles behind the face masks, the two-a-day drills, the emotionally charged bus rides to the stadium, the curfew checks, the film-study sessions, the locker room antics, and the yawning void left in one’s soul the moment the final whistle sounds.
 
To understand why it’s so painful to give up the game, you must first understand the intimacy of the huddle. “It ends for everybody,” writes John Ed Bradley, “and then it starts all over again, in ways you never anticipated. Marty Dufresne sits in his wheelchair listening to the Tiger fight song . . . Ramsey Darder endures prison by playing the games over in his head . . . Big Ed Stanton never took up the game of golf, and yet he rides the streets of Bayou Vista in a cart nearly identical to Coach Mac’s, recalling the one time the old man invited him for a ride.” Far more than a memoir, It Never Rains in Tiger Stadium is a brutally honest, profoundly moving look at what it means to surrender something you love.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781933060675
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 10/07/2008
Pages: 304
Sales rank: 413,397
Product dimensions: 7.96(w) x 5.08(h) x 0.68(d)

About the Author

John Ed Bradley is the author of several highly praised novels and a memoir, It Never Rains in Tiger Stadium. A former reporter for The Washington Post, he has also written for Esquire, Sports Illustrated, GQ, and Play magazines. He lives with his wife and daughter in Mandeville, Louisiana.

Read an Excerpt

YOU SHOULD'VE SEEN my father's arms. He didn't lift weights or do push-ups or exercise them in any way, and yet they were packed tight with muscle. When I was a boy and he lifted his highball in the evening for a sip, a round knot the size of a softball came up under the skin and slowly flattened out when he lowered the glass back down. I loved his arms so much that I memorized every vein, sinew, and golden hair. I knew the wrinkles of his elbows.
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Excerpted from "It Never Rains in Tiger Stadium"
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Copyright © 2008 John Ed Bradley.
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