The lopsided practice dummy in front of me resembled a freakish cross between The Wizard of Oz's Tin Man and a NASA training reject. Bolted to the studio wall, the practice dummy consisted of a rectangular torso padded with gaudy blue felt, an extended wooden arm meant to hold an imaginary foil and a plastic head covered with a makeshift fencing mask. Four other similar dummies (or "Tin Men," as I like to call them) lined the wall, some meant for left-handed fencers, while others were meant for righties such as myself. Each dummy's torso was marked with grey scotch tape patches on the left and right sides of the upper chest, meant to serve as target areas.
For the last fifteen minutes, I was rigorously practicing my lunges, disengages and thrusts to warm myself up for my lesson, starting with my left arm. The tip of my foil neatly struck the grey patch right above the Tin Man's heart (or where his heart would be if the Wizard granted his wish) with a loud TOCK! After nearly three months of punishing myself, I felt like I was finally making progress. I was focusing more on the tip of my foil, driving it towards my target with studied concentration rather than striking wildly. I was letting my sword hand lead my lunge rather than stepping into it first, which often tipped off Monty and my instructor during our past sparring sessions. As I continued to strike the Tin Man, I imagined myself in another duel to the death with Monty.
I know something you don't know, I pictured myself quipping to Practice Dummy Monty as I switched my foil from my left hand to my right, astounding him with my prowess. I am not really left-handed!
"Hi," I heard a squeaky voice chirp from my right side, snapping me back to reality. I turned around, but didn't see anyone there. Then, a little tuft of brown hair suddenly appeared at the bottom of my line of sight. I looked down and was confronted by a small boy, staring at me with a mop of brown hair, a dimpled smile...and a sabre in his gloved right hand.
"Hello," I said nervously, not sure if this diminutive fencer was going to shake my hand or chop it off with the sabre. "You're getting better," the small boy said. Apparently, he had been watching me for the past few weeks and thought that my form was improving. "Why, thank you, young man," I smiled, not sure if I quite believed that this child was appropriately qualified to be commenting on my fencing technique. "How long have you been fencing," I asked.
"Since I was five," he replied brightly, puffing his little chest out with pride.
"And how old are you now?"
"Ten. And I've been doing sabre for the last year."
Well. Looks like I stand corrected.
"My name is Theo," he said, sticking out his tiny, ungloved hand, which I shook while introducing myself. "Can I practice with you," Theo asked. "Sure, kiddo," I smiled. And with that, Theo stepped in front of the practice dummy next to me, and in unison, we began lunging together at our respective Tin Men.
"Increase the width of your stride," Theo advised, catching me off-guard with his surprising insight and articulation. "You'll get a lot more speed. And lift the hilt of your foil more when you hit. It'll help you follow through."
I'm getting fencing tips from a ten-year old, I thought. Geez.
"Ooo! I wanna show you another move," Theo said excitedly after a couple of minutes of practice. I watched as Theo stood before his Tin Man in a picture-perfect en garde stance. Then, he began to vibrate the wrist of his sword-hand back and forth, like an oscillating rubber band. "This is to fake out your opponent," he explained. Then, his sabre suddenly flashed towards the left side of his Tin Man's chest, and at the last second, Theo struck the dummy's right side, the tip of his sabre landing effortlessly and precisely on the grey patch adorning its chest, causing my jaw to drop in awe.
"Hey," I exclaimed. "That's pretty good, Theo. Can you show me how to do that?" With that, Theo began enthusiastically schooling me in this new maneuver. According to him, this move was all about timing. I oscillated my wrist back and forth, then shot out my sword hand, only to lose my grip and have my foil clang against the practice dummy's helmet and clatter onto the floor. Theo scratched his head. "Let's try it again," he said. "This time, do it slower and wait 'til your wrist is directly in line with the target."
Obeying the little fencer, I tried the maneuver again, this time controlling my wrist as I oscillated my foil back and forth, keeping my eye on the tip and waiting for it to line up with the grey patch on my Tin Man's chest. Then, when my eye caught my foil lining up with my target, I faked left, then struck to the right, hitting my Tin Man right above its would-be heart. Theo flew his arms up in victory. "Yayyyy," he cried out. "You did it, Otto! You did it!"
"I have a good instructor," I smiled widely as Theo and I started to jump up and down, giving each other high-five's. We excitedly began punching the air, celebrating my victory as a student and Theo's successful lesson. It was clear that this little boy was enamored with the sport, and who could blame him? In the past three months, I understood how learning each new move could be a thrilling and educational experience for almost anyone, young or old. Then, we heard someone clearing her throat behind us. We suddenly stopped mid-way through our celebration and turned to face my instructor, arms crossed and staring sternly at us.
"Ummmmm....hi," I waved sheepishly. After a long pause, with Theo looking as if he were caught behaving badly in school, my instructor finally let out a broad smile. "I see you've learned something new," she said. "Thank you, Theo." She went up to him and patted him on the head. "Your parents are waiting for you."
"Okay," Theo sighed, disappointed that playtime was clearly over. He turned and gave me another dimpled smile. "See ya next week, Otto!" And with that, he scurried to his parents, waiting at the back of the studio, dragging his sabre behind him.
"He seems like a good kid," I observed. "He's great," my instructor said. "But sometimes he gets a little too excited. Now, let's see how well he taught you." She motioned for me to follow her.
"Who's his teacher," I asked as I walked with my instructor to Fencing Lane Number 4, weaving my way in between other fencers spinning and sparring about the room.
My instructor turned to me when we arrived in the lane and smirked. "Monty."
Of course.
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