“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. “John Ed Bradley says that all he ever wanted to do was to leave behind a pretty piece of writing. Here it is—a wonderful blend of honest introspection, passionate reporting, and superb storytelling. One of the best books I have read in years.” —Jeffrey Marx, Pulitzer Prize-winning author, Season of Life “John Ed Bradley is a rare gem, a gifted writer trapped in the body of a football player. It Never Rains in Tiger Stadium will send chills down the back of anyone who loves the game and will echo in the minds of former players long after they’ve put it down.” —Tim Green, bestselling author and member of the College Football Hall of Fame “A mesmerizing read . . . achingly sentimental in some parts, brutally truthful in others.” —Chicago Tribune “The best memoir I have ever read on how a particular game, win or lose, can linger with us.” —Josh Levin,  Slate “An unsparing and often beautiful chronicle of [Bradley’s] attempt to join polite society.” —Play “Heart-wrenching, honest, insightful and hard to put down.” —The Franklin Sun 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. 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.   In the summer, when he worked for the city's recreation department, supervising the baseball program at the park, Daddy liked to come home for lunch and a nap. He had lemonade and a BLT, then he had me lie close to him on the sofa, and he draped an arm around me. “One … two … three … “ he'd count in a whisper, and then he was out, sleeping that easily.   I lay there wondering if I'd ever have arms like his. I needed both hands to travel the distance around his wrist, the tips of my thumbs and fingers barely touching. I felt the hardness of his forearm. I saw how his wedding band fit him like a strand of barbed wire on a tree whose bark had grown around it. He smelled of the grass and the sun, of green and gold days that started early and ended late.   “Were you a good player?” I asked him once as he was coming awake.   “Was I what?”   “A good player.”   “You want to know if I was a good player?”   “Yes, sir.”   “What kind of question is that?”   “I don't know. Did they run your name in the paper a lot?”   He looked at me in a way that let me know he wanted my attention. “None of it matters, John Ed. Was I a good teammate? Did I do my best and give everything I had to help the team? These are the questions you need to be asking.”   I wondered how to answer them, these questions he found of such importance. Many years would have to pass before I was old enough to join a team. He pulled me close again, as if he'd just remembered something. “John Ed?”   “Yes, sir.”   “Always be humble.”   The rest of the year he worked as a civics teacher and coach at the high school in town. The town was Opelousas, on the road between Alexandria and Lafayette, and it was just small enough, at about twenty thousand, to be excluded from Louisiana state maps when TV weathermen gave their forecasts in the eve