Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my very first fencing lesson!
On a cloudy, rainy April evening, I took the plunge not only into the torrential downpour that was blanketing most of Westchester, but also into a whole new world of derring-do as I set foot in the Fencing Academy of Westchester.
The front doors opened up into a vast hardwood floor gym. The floor itself was divided by black tape into several fencing lanes, each at least 30-40 feet in length. Lining the tops of the mirrored walls were posters of past fencing competitions from around the world that screamed out in several languages, "Open Fencing Finals in London!" or "Concurrence d'escrime! Des Le 3 Juin-10 Juin" or "Scherma concorrenza!" and even "Ξιφασκία ανταγωνισμού!" This was the first sign of the worldwide influence this sport has had on all cultures. I stared in awe at the bottom portions of the walls, lined with neatly organized rows of fencing masks, foils of all sizes and baskets of fencing gloves. In the far corner of the room sat three practice dummies poised for attack.
I then gazed at all of the students, and what I saw amazed me. People ranging from 16 year-old boys and girls to adults in their late forties were lunging, parrying and spinning back and forth in their lanes while their instructors, dressed in black fencing vests and masks, stood on the sidelines yelling out instructions or criticisms in thick Eastern European accents. At one point, my eye caught a small girl, who couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve years old, effortlessly blocking and attacking against a foil wielded by her instructor, who was easily twice her size and probably three times her age. The air was filled with the sounds of blades clashing together, fencers laughing and goading each other on in friendly competition and the light thuds of the practice dummies getting assaulted by practice foils.
"Are you Otto," asked a female voice, thick with a Romanian accent. I turned around to face my fencing instructor, a petite, athletic-looking woman in her late thirties. I shook hands with her and introduced myself. "Yes," I answered. "We spoke on the phone two days ago."
"Have you ever fenced before," she asked. I briefly told her about my days as an actor and the training I received in stage combat (see my introduction blog for the full flashback). As I recounted my story, a sly smile crept onto her lips. "I think you'll find that this is much different from what you're used to," she laughed. Within twenty minutes, I found myself changed into my sweat pants and t-shirt and standing before my instructor in Fencing Lane 4. I was wearing a white, form-fitting glove over my right hand, which held a light, flexible metal foil, and over my head was a slightly heavy mask.
Speaking of the mask, it is a challenge in and of itself. As soon as I slipped it over my head, my vision was filled with the dark protective mesh meant to protect the facial area. My breathing immediately became stifled and heavy, giving me the childish urge to look at my instructor with mock menace and rumble the famous line, "No, Luke....I am your father!"
On the cushiony edges of the mask remained the damp sweat from whatever soul had just used it. The weight of the mask tipped my head slightly forward. I felt like I should be in zero-gravity training with NASA rather than learning the art of sword-fighting. Ahhhh, the glorious art of fencing, I thought. "It feels a little weird at first, but you'll get used to it," my instructor said encouragingly.
I told her that I felt like Zorro the Astronaut. She laughed and poked me gently in the chest with her foil. "Let's begin," she commanded. For the next fifteen minutes, I learned the basic en garde position: feet a little less than a shoulder width apart, with my right foot perpendicular to my left. My instructor cocked my free left hand upwards towards my shoulder and showed me how to hold the foil with my gloved right hand. "You must pinch the foil with your thumb and index finger," she said, sternly pressing my fingers against the bottom of the hilt. "It's like holding a pistol."
I then found myself learning how to advance and retreat. A slight kick of my forward right leg brought me within closer range of my instructor/opponent. A larger step back with my rear left leg took me out of range from her blade. So far, so good. This is easy, I thought. I'll become a master in no time at all.
Well.
Then came the lunge. "Point your foil towards my chest," my instructor said. I obeyed. "Now," she continued, "kick out your right foot as far as it will go, stretch out your left leg and aim right here," she commanded, patting her vest just above her heart, where a small grey patch signified the target area. Piece of cake, I thought. If friggin' Antonio Banderas can do it, how hard can this be? I mightily kicked my right foot out, confidently thrust my foil towards her chest and arched myself forward. I had every confidence that my foil would land right in the target area, impressing my instructor to no end. I pictured myself being able to fence circles around her in no time at all. Piece of cake.
Instead, I felt my right quadricep suddenly seize up as soon as I landed on my right leg. My foil richochet'ed harmlessly off my instructor's vest, nowhere near that cursed grey patch, and went spinning out of my hand and across the room. I ended up sprawled on all fours in the fencing lane, staring up at my instructor, who was calmly staring back down at me. Zorro the Astronaut indeed.
My instructor took off her helmet. I was expecting a scolding from her, using me as an example to the class of how fencing should not be done. Instead, she smiled gently and sighed, "Let's try that again, shall we?" I groaned as she helped me up. After stretching out my right quadricep a little more, I decided to give the lunge another shot. I kicked out my right foot, again nearly falling over, and my foil landed somewhere in the stomach area of her vest. "Always keep your eye on where the blade in going," she corrected me.
I tried yet again. My footing held, although I hit the right side of her vest.
On the fourth try, the foil went flying out of my hand again, prompting her to correct my grip. "Pinch," she yelled, again pressing my thumb and index fingers tightly around the handle at the hilt. "Pinch," I repeated, observing my corrected grip.
A fifth try. I just missed the target area, hitting below it.
A sixth try. I focused my energy to steady my right foot as it landed in front of her. I narrowed my eyes and held my right arm steady as the foil made a bee-line for her vest. And then....THUD! The tip of my foil landed awkwardly in the grey patch. I excitedly let out a laugh. "Good," my instructor smiled. I tried it again five more times, each time feeling my foil getting steadier, my footing finding its position more smoothly, and my eyes slowly adjusting to the black protective mesh of the mask.
By this point, my legs felt like jello, my arms were like forty pound weights and my face was drenched in perspiration. But I took off my mask with a victorious smile. "So, what do you think," my instructor asked me. "This is incredible," I panted in response. "Next week?"
"Next week. I want you to practice that lunge every day. Remember: pinch, focus on the blade and steady your footing."
I repeated these tips over and over to myself as I wiped the sweat off my face, as I drove home, as I was in the shower that night and as I incorporated the lunge into my daily morning workouts during the following week. By the following Wednesday, I felt pretty confident about my lunge.
When I see her at the next lesson, that grey patch won't stand a chance, I thought as I placed a bag of ice on my quadriceps one evening after having pulled them on a Sunday morning. Well, I guess I have to learn to walk before I can run. But one thing is for certain:
Zorro the Astronaut will have his revenge on the grey patch.
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