The morning of Andover/Exeter (A/E) began with the smell of propane and testosterone filling the air. As the football players got ready for the big game, the parents of the Andover team had a tailgate party at the back of their trucks. The talk was vibrant:
“My great aunt spoke to me from the grave, and she said we have a chance at winning today’s match,” said one father, flipping burgers with the intensity of a man who peaked during his own high school football career.
Around him, parents discussed their pre-game strategies to ensure that today was the day Andover Football would win. One mother claimed she had sprinkled holy water on her son’s cleats; another revealed she had personally bribed the referee. To these middle-aged adults, this match is everything.
Dr. Kington arrived just as the scent of overcooked burgers reached its spiritual peak. Dressed in all blue, he walked to the middle of the tailgate party and exclaimed, “Today, we feast, we fight, we forget the tuition!” The parents yelled with excitement and threw the burger patties in the air. Kington continued, “Exeter may have better players than us, they may have better spirit, they may even have better hearts. However, there is one thing that they don’t have: Andover Intelligence (AI)!”
At that, the crowd erupted into a frenzy. Fathers began chest-bumping with the cautious agility of men who hadn’t stretched since the Bush administration. At the same time, mothers screamed “Go Big Blue!” as if calling the gods for divine intervention.
As the ruckus died down, the grillmasters went back to cooking at full speed. They arranged the patties into the shape of the Andover “A.” Smoke rose in thick blue clouds, forming what several parents claimed was the face of Samuel Phillips himself. “It’s a sign!” yelled one father, tears streaking through his face paint. “He believes in us!”
Dr. Kington, basking in the admiration of his people, raised a paper plate as if it were a holy relic. “We are not just a school,” he declared. “We are a movement. A brotherhood. An institution with an enormous endowment and an even larger amount of delusion that we have an outstanding football team.”
The parents shouted, “We believe that we will win! We believe that we will win!” The chants slowly turned into a cry that began as school spirit and ended as something closer to collective therapy. One father fell to his knees, whispering, “Please, just one touchdown,” as if invoking a deity that only answers to Division I recruits.
And as the first whistle blew, the parents stood tall, drunk on spirit, nostalgia, and slightly overcooked hamburgers, ready to face the one truth that unites all Andover generations: we may not win, but by God, we’ll look like we paid enough to.
