Candy Canes and Competition- Sabre Style: A Fencing Match To Remember Just Before the Holidays

"Happy holidays, Otto!"

Theo ran up to me just as I finished my latest lesson, his little foil in one hand, a bunch of candy canes in the other and a Santa hat swaying back and forth on top of his head.  His little cheeks were flush, and he was panting after running around the studio for the past fifteen minutes, giving out candy canes like a pint-sized, sword-wielding Santa Claus.  "Hey, thanks, kiddo," I said, taking one of the candy canes he held out to me.  "Are you going to teach me another move today?"

"Not today," Theo frowned.  "I have to practice for a competition." 

Apparently, one of the reasons for  Theo's elation was not just because the holidays were in the air, but also because he was recently selected to compete in a local Westchester fencing bout.  I high-fived Theo in congratulations and asked him how the competitions are set up.  Apparently, they are divided into categories by age and the type of weapon used. For example, the category of junior foil would encompass all fencers between the ages of 8-12.  Intermediate épée covers all such fencers between the ages of 14-18.  The competition is county-wide, but also attracts fencing schools from both the city and upstate New York.  At our school, tryouts for all positions are held over a two-day period. To be selected is one of the highest honors the Academy can bestow upon a student.  While the adults such as myself treat these fencing lessons as merely recreational, they are almost a way of life for the younger students, some of whom have been studying fencing since they could practically walk.

Theo beckoned me over to five fencing lanes in the corner of the room, where the intermediate sabre tryouts were occurring.   The air was suddenly filled with heavy metal clangs, the electric buzzing of points being scored and the frenzied intensity of young boys and girls vying for a coveted spot among those who would represent the Academy's finest.  About ten fencers were battling their way to victory or defeat, and Theo informed me that I was watching the semi-final rounds.  Originally, approximately twenty-five teenaged sabre fighters tried out, and these were the cream of the crop.

In each lane (or piste, in technical fencing parlance), two fencers would square off against each other while a scorekeeper would keep track of who won each round.  After three rounds, the fencers would rotate, and at the end of the night, all of the scores would be tallied and the winners announced on the following day.  Theo and I each picked our favorites: his was a young girl with a small ponytail sticking out from the back of her helmet ("She's really pretty," Theo sheepishly confided in me), while mine was a tall, lanky boy who was quick on his feet and won three rounds in a row.  We watched as our favorites eventually met in the center piste for a showdown.

The chosen fighters would be part of the Academy's prestigious competition team.  In team competitions, matches are typically three minutes long, or up to five points.  Typically, there are five matches in a competition, making the highest possible score 45 points.  Unlike foil competitions, where points can be scored only by making contact with an opponent's torso with the tip of the foil, sabre competitors can score points with either the tip or cutting edges of the sabre anywhere above an opponent's waist, including the head and arms.

"I'll bet you one candy cane that the girl wins," Theo whispered excitedly.  "You're on, mister," I responded, shaking his hand.  With that, our two chosen fencers engaged each other in a truly dizzying display of clashing metal, lightning-quick reflexes and footwork so fast that they seemed to practically fly back and forth across the lane.  Unlike a foil match where the strikes are more limited to straight thrusts and lunges, strikes in sabre matches range from straight thrusts to swiping cuts and slicing arcs.   As we watched intently, the boy faked a left lunge, but at the last minute, changed his stance and landed a hit on the girl's upper torso.  Not to be outdone, the girl then scored two quick, slicing hits in rapid succession, her sabre cutting through the air with a majestic swish!  The boy tried to parry about a split second too late.  Theo and I were getting out of breath just watching them. 

Another thing I noticed was how much more effort it took for them to aim their strikes with the sabres, which are much heavier than a mere foil.  In addition, the enlarged, bell-curved hilt makes it more challenging to aim the sabre, although it does provide greater protection to one's sword hand.  Within the first minute, both fencers were drenched in sweat, and their breathing came from behind their masks in quick huffs with each lunge, slice and parry.  Truly, these two were among the best of the best at the Academy.

At the end of the match (which the girl won), Theo toddled up to the girl and chatted her up, his eyes filled with a small puppy crush.  Clearly, he was enjoying his best Christmas ever.  And I went home with my own small Christmas present: a smile on my face, another round of education in this wonderful sport and, as the old Christmas poem goes, visions of sabres dancing in my head.

And with that, dear readers, may I say, "Happy holidays to all, and to all a good night!"

The Sword and The Arrow: Learning La Flèche From An Unlikely Teacher While Taking On Droopy The Tin Man

So, after a wonderful Thanksgiving with friends, family and a whole lot of turkey (even if I was in Canada, where it was merely a typical Thursday), it was time to buckle back down and put some of that consumed protein to use at the Fencing Academy.  As my training had gotten slightly sidetracked due to the holiday, I was excited to once again pick up my foil and remind my quadriceps what a real workout is like.

As I sat on the Academy's polished wooden floor, stretching out my legs in preparation for my lesson and running through the lunges, parries and combinations I had learned thus far, I noticed that the other fencing students were apparently reacquainting their bodies with the art of the sword as well.  Everyone seemed to take a little longer to warm up, groaned a little louder while practicing their lunges or ran out of breath a little faster than usual.  Some serious motivation was needed for everyone in the room.

"Otto," a little voice to my right exclaimed, followed by the patter of little feet across the floor.  I looked up to see Theo, the ten-year old fencing dynamo I met back in early October.  As I would soon find out, my motivation had just arrived.  "Hey, kiddo," I smiled, high-fiving Theo's little hand as he smiled brightly back.  "You warming up with me today?"

"Sure," Theo nodded, bobbing his mop of brown hair back and forth as I stood up, working the last of the stiffness out of my calves.  We proceeded over to the Tin Men, assumed the en garde position and, standing side by side, began lunging in unison, our foils striking the practice dummies with precise TOCK's.  After ten gruelling minutes of decimating the poor dummies with our foils, Theo then volunteered to practice his footwork with me.  And so, we both moved over to a fencing lane and began shuffling back and forth for another five minutes.  I felt my calves warm up and my cheeks flush as my blood circulation picked up and my muscles began to burn in exquisite pain.  My spirits were raised as I increased my pace, spinning my foil in a disengage, a Parry Number Four and a quick lunge.

"You're getting faster," Theo remarked.  Hey, even if he was ten years old, a compliment from this mini-Zorro nevertheless gave me some comfort that I didn't look like a complete amateur.  "Thanks," I said.  "Hey, Theo.  Are you going to show me a new move today?"

Theo's smile grew even brighter.  Clearly, he was waiting for the next opportunity to show off.  He excitedly beckoned me back over to the Tin Men, stopping about fifteen feet from the middle dummy, which Theo and I had affectionately named "Droopy," on account of its sad little fencing helmet that hung precariously from its slumped wooden shoulders.

"Today," Theo announced, puffing out his tiny chest, "I'm gonna teach you la flèche." 

"As in 'the arrow'?"

Theo nodded.  La flèche, as I found out, is apparently one of the more advanced fencing moves, typically reserved for matches involving the épée rather than the basic foil.  Nevertheless, I was excited to learn a new maneuver.  Theo began to oscillate his little épée back and forth, a move meant to distract an opponent.  From his en garde position, he then stepped off his back foot, transferring his weight to his front foot while extending his sword arm forward in a surprisingly powerful strike. 

As he did so, he began to cross his legs, moving towards Droopy with what appeared to be an exaggerated walking stride, which turned into almost a run within less than a second.  With blazing speed, he appeared to almost glide towards Droopy, and in one smooth motion, the tip of his silvery blade sunk into Droopy's wooden heart with a resounding THUD.  Basically, this move was so named because it resembles the path that an arrow takes to its target and is used primarily as a finishing move, once an opponent's torso has been fully exposed.

"Cool," I whispered in awe.

"Now you try," Theo said.  With that, I attempted to imitate Theo's almost flawless style as best as I could.  I clumsily oscillated my foil back and forth, probably looking more confused than stealthy.  Then, I pushed off my back foot, throwing my sword arm out as I took three wide strides forward, focusing the tip of my foil on Droopy's heart.  Suddenly, my vision dropped away as I literally tripped over my own feet.  The next thing I knew, my foil clattered to the floor, from which I was staring up at Droopy's helmet.  Then, Theo's face appeared into view as he offered me a hand.  "Hmmm," he said as I got up, "let's try that again.  This time, keep your feet a bit wider apart.  Take lighter steps, increase your stride and don't bring your foil up so soon, or Droopy will see it coming."

Once again, Theo demonstrated an astuteness and articulation well beyond his years.  I took a deep breath and once again assumed the en garde position.  This time, I placed my feet into a stance about a half inch wider and crouched down about a quarter inch more than usual.  Once again, I boosted off my back foot, increasing my stride in a Herculean effort to show Droopy who runs this town.

However, Droopy once again had the last laugh. For a split second, I looked down at my feet to make sure that they weren't too close together.  In doing so, my sword arm went slightly wide, and my foil missed Droopy's wooden torso entirely.  I slammed head-on into the dummy, causing other students in the room to stop what they were doing and let out a sympathetic, "Ooooo!!!"  And once again, I found myself staring up at Droopy from the floor.  Theo's mop of brown hair slowly crept into my line of sight once more as I slowly got up.

For Attempt Number Three, I relaxed my legs a little more when I lifted by back foot.  As I focused my breathing and willed my legs forward, I raised my foil, this time loosening my wrist and narrowing my eyes, focusing the tip of my foil straight at Droopy's heart.  I felt my left foot move forward and then my right foot in front of it.  I increased my pace, seeing Droopy's torso racing into view.  Carefully, I thought.  Carefully....

THUD!

The tip of my foil landed in the center of Droopy's chest.  I broke out a sweaty smile behind my stifling helmet while Theo let out a victorious cry to my left.  I peeled off my helmet and slapped Theo's hand in a high-five.  "YAY," he exclaimed.  "Nice shot!"

"I have a good teacher, kiddo," I said.  We practiced the move for another ten minutes before my instructor emerged from the ladies' locker room and beckoned me over to start our lesson.  By this point, my muscles felt warm, relaxed and ready to spar.  My breathing was full.  I looked around at the other fencers, who were also now moving more quickly and with more agility.  I promised Theo that I would practice that move during the week.  Theo was excited at the prospect of reviewing my progress. 

And once again, I still couldn't believe that I was getting fencing tips from a ten-year old. 

"GO!"- Speed, Coordination and Improving Reflexes Through Observation and the Circle of Death

In pursuing my goal of becoming the consummate swordsman, I've been beaten, bruised, poked, stabbed, chided and shown up by ten-year olds who could rival Zorro himself.  Yet, I happily return for more, as with each new injury and bout of humiliation I slowly improve.  However, during my latest round of self-punishment in the name of entertaining my adoring readers, I found out that just as much technique can be learned through simple observation. 

And believe me, this was a welcome alternative to my usual method of education, i.e. getting the snot royally kicked out of me. 

During my latest lesson, I arrived at the Academy to find my instructor in the middle of teaching little Lucy, the diminutive fencer who forced me to learn Parry Number 8 very quickly two blog entries ago.  She waved excitedly and yelled, "Hiiiiii, Otto!"  I approached them, shook hands with my instructor and patted Lucy on the head. "Hey, Lucy," I said.  "What are you learning today?"

"I'm learning the disengage," she smiled widely.  "Lucy," my instructor said, "show Otto what you can do."  My instructor slowly approached Lucy with her foil.  Lucy smoothly ducked her little foil under my instructor's and landed a hit below her ribs, letting out a bray of delight as my instructor congratulated her on a job well done. 

"Wow," I exclaimed.  "You learned that in one lesson?" 

"Yesh," Lucy nodded, speaking with a slight lisp due to her little gap-toothed smile. 

"Lucy and I will be a few more minutes," my instructor said.  I told them that it was no problem and that I would use the time to stretch.  As they went about the remainder of their lesson, I walked to the sidelines, dropped my gym bag and began stretching out my legs, loosening my wrists and warming up with a few lunges, all while taking in that wonderful sound of sabres, foils and rapiers clanging and clashing about the room.

As I sat on the floor feeling my hamstrings elongate and relax, my eye caught a group of seven or eight students at the other end of the room standing in a circle, each boy and girl about a half foot from each other, and all of them dressed in the freshly starched whites of the Academy's competition team.  They all held their foils upside down, with the tips touching the floor.  In the center of the circle stood one of the other instructors, a slim, striking blonde who had her hands clasped behind her statuesque back.  It seemed as if the students were waiting for a signal from her.  She looked around, making sure that all eyes were focused on her.  Then....

"GO," she yelled out.

Before she even finished her command, there was a uniform shuffling of feet.  Like a synchronized dance, the circle suddenly shifted, each student letting go of his or her own foil and immediately lunging to the left, reaching for the other person's foil and grabbing it before it could move or fall to the ground.  Round and round they went, increasing their speed with each command from their instructor.  One of the boys didn't make it in time, and the foil for which he was reaching clattered to the ground.  "You're out, Robby," the instructor quipped.  Robby cursed quietly and moped over to the sidelines.

As the drill continued, the instructor increased the frequency and speed with which she yelled, "GO," causing her students to start huffing and straining as they lunged.  More of them fumbled and were sent  grumbling to the sidelines.  "Damn," one girl yelled as she practically dived for a foil and missed.  "Crap," a boy stammered as his heel slipped due to a lunge that was too fast and too narrow.  Other expletives not suitable for this blog were uttered as more students were sent out of the circle.

"Speed," the instructor yelled at her students.  "Speed and coordination are the keys!  Focus on the handle of the foil and aim your hand towards it.  Don't hesitate, otherwise you'll be dead, just like in a match."

Soon, I began to grasp the purpose of this seemingly exhausting exercise: not only was it meant to improve a fencer's reflexes, but it also forced each student to adjust his or her stance and footwork to increase speed and enable him or her to make it to the next foil while under pressure.  I watched as the circle was narrowed down to four remaining fencers.  Each of them slightly widened their stances, lunged with larger strides and stretched out their sword hands in an effort to keep their foils from falling to the ground. 

Eventually, two combatants were left to duke it out for the title of Top Fencer: a very petite brunette; and a taller, lanky-looking boy.  They stood across from each other, their bodies tensed, perspiration pouring from their foreheads, their eyes darting from their instructor to each other.  All of the other students sat on the edges of their seats in suspense, as did I.  You could practically cut through the anticipation with a sabre.  Both of them were poised to lunge forward with catlike refle-

"GO!"

They both darted forward at each other's foils in picture-perfect lunges, their front legs smoothly stepping out and landing- heels first, then toes- with impeccable form.  The girl ably snatched up the boy's foil and whirled it around into a perfect en garde position.  The boy stretched out his arm for the girl's foil, but he overestimated his reach and his aim.  His hand shot over the top of the foil's handle, allowing it to clatter onto the floor and causing the boy to shake his head in defeat.  His classmates let out a collective, "Ohhhhhh!"

Afterwards, the brunette and the boy shook hands, and everyone was congratulated by the instructor on a job well done before heading off to their respective fencing lanes for some sparring.  My instructor, having sent Lucy toddling off to her mother, strode up beside me.  "You want to try that game," she asked. 

"I don't know," I answered.  "I don't think I'm fast enough."

"You will be if you practice it," my instructor said.  "Come to another one of the adult classes and try it with them.  It's a great warm-up and does wonders for your form and reflexes."  I agreed that this sounded like a great idea.  "Just out of curiosity," I asked, "which one of the adults has made it to the end of the Circle of Death over there?"

"So far, Monty has been unbeatable."

Of course....

Helga's Lonely Hearts Club: Lessons in Life, Love and Looking Forward Through The Art of the Sword

We've all been there in life. A wonderful relative unfortunately passes on. A childhood friend drifts out of touch as years go by. And, of course, almost everyone has sustained the proverbial broken heart. And everyone has their own way of dealing with these sad little curve balls that life seems to enjoy throwing our way. Some people take up bowling. Some people travel. Some people buy a pet. Hell, some people buy many pets.

And apparently, some people fence.

I had decided to switch up my schedule and see what it's like to hang out with the adult classes. Although I had previously sparred with Monty and Arnold, I'd been curious to see how the rest of the thirty-plus crowd rolls when it comes to the fine art of the sword. So, one brisk evening after work, I drove up Hawthorne's Route 9A, which was ablaze with bursts of yellow, purple and orange autumn foliage, to attend one of the adult sparring sessions.

When I arrived, I expected to find the adults relegated to a small corner in the studio while the other teenaged fencers whooped and hollered about the rest of the space. Instead, I was greeted by Monty, Arnold and four other jovial grown-ups in the otherwise empty and eerily silent studio. All of them were in their late thirties to early fifties, easily placing me as the kid in the group. However, they all sparred with just as much gusto and friendly competition as the teenagers that I'm normally used to seeing. "Hey," Monty called out. "Welcome to the big leagues, kiddo!"

"More like the old timers' league," Arnold chuckled, clapping me over the shoulder and guiding me to the group. Among them was Helga, a pleasant, plump lady in her mid-forties who hails from Berlin, lives in Westchester County and has a habit of giggling at every third word she says. She shook my hand and offered me a warm, red-cheeked smile as I told her my name. "Otto," she repeated in a beautifully articulate German accent, turning my name over in her mouth while looking quizzically at me. "How did you get a name like zat? Do you have any Deutsch blut in your family?"

"Nein," I replied, surprising Helga with my butchered, North American-ized and very limited German. "No German blood in my family." With that, Helga welcomed me into the class and offered to be my sparring partner, which I readily accepted. "So," she quipped as she slipped on her mask. "Your instructor tells me zat you have learned a zing or two quite well."

"Really," I asked, sliding into the en garde position. "She said that?" Before I could even finish that question, Helga launched into her attack with surprising agility and speed. Apparently, my instructor must have also taught Helga a zing or two, as her apparent compliment was immediately followed by a blink-and-you're-dead attack. I instinctively shuffled back and blocked her lightning lunges with a Parry 6, a Lucky Number 8 and then countered with a double disengage, which she easily blocked. She launched into a blindingly quick riposte, or counter attack, with a quick lunge to my left, followed by a smooth disengage under my Parry 4 and a hit- a very palpable hit- straight to my solar plexis, slightly knocking the wind out of me.

After fifteen minutes of getting the snot kicked out of me with true German efficiency, Helga and I plopped down onto a pair of stools for a break, sucking back Gatorade while watching Monty and Arnold clash with each other. "How did you learn to fence like that," I asked, panting through slurps of my drink while wiping perspiration from my forehead.

What followed was probably one of the most heart-breaking yet inspiring stories I've ever heard.

Helga was married to a businessman in Berlin who taught her how to fence. It was one of the first things that attracted her to him. She recalled how, during one of their first dates, he gently caressed her hand as he cuddled behind her and showed her how to lunge, circle and disengage. From that day forward for the next seven years, they fenced together almost daily. It was one of the great bonds of their romance and what eventually led to their marriage.

Until one day she returned home from work and found him in bed with another woman. Helga was so distraught that she left Germany altogether and moved to New York, where she went to school and started a new life as a teacher. After a few years of living here, she stumbled across the Academy and began fencing again.

I was surprised at how readily Helga volunteered this information to me. "So, why keep fencing," I asked. "Doesn't it remind you of your ex-husband?" I was worried that this question might re-open an old emotional wound. However, Helga simply nodded and sighed. "I still miss him every day despite all zat happened, my boy. But fencing is part of my own life too, not just the life we had together in Germany.

"I used fencing to channel all of my anger, my heartache and even my longing to have him back. And you know what? It helped. I regained my own focus through fencing. Fencing helped me grow back into a person who was healthier, happier and who realized zat, while I still miss him, it is simply what life has dealt me." She then nodded at Monty. "So now I take out my frustrations on him," she shouted with a smile.

"I only have eyes for you, love," Monty retorted in mock flirtation while parrying Arnold's lunge.  Helga cocked her head at my apparent reaction to her story. "Why the long face," she asked. "It's nothing," I said. "Just...your story is amazing."

A long pause ensued.

"Tell me about her," Helga finally said, catching me off guard.

At first, I refused. But in all fairness, Helga had just revealed one of her most personal romantic tragedies and her subsequent recovery. So, after some verbal fencing, her persistence in that charming accent won me over, and I finally took a deep breath and agreed to answer her questions.

Yes, it was a substantial and wonderful relationship, lasting a little over a year. Yes, we fell for each other almost immediately. Yes, she left me. No, she didn't cheat on me. Yes, the break-up was bad.

Yes, I started fencing to cope. Yes, I do feel more focused and stronger since I started. It's helped me to regain my confidence with each lunge that I do, each new parry that I learn and each drive that I take to the Academy, looking forward to these wonderful lessons.  Yes, I also had the planet's best friends and family to help me through. 

Helga patted me compassionately on the shoulder. "My dear boy," she sighed. "If it's one thing fencing has taught me, it's zis: always keep looking forward." I sighed as well. "That's easier said than done, Helga."

"I know it is, dear boy," she said. "But, just like fencing, a lesson in heartbreak will make you stronger and wiser. With each lesson in fencing, you become smarter as you learn a new parry, a new feign or a new riposte. Similarly, as time goes by with your unfortunate incident, you will become wiser and know what to look out for the next time.  I promise. But I know exactly how you feel. The pain doesn't subside easily, particularly with someone special who leaves like that."

I nodded at my wise, fencing Yoda as we both took sips of our drinks, bonding in our shared moment of silent reflection.

"Hey," Monty called out to us. "Break up the lonely hearts club over there and get your butts up here for some sparring." And with that, I shook Helga's hand, thanked her for her story and her advice, and stepped up to square off against Monty.  "Cheer up, lad," he smiled as I whipped up my foil. "Let's see what you got."

So, to anyone who's been poked in the chest with life's little sabre, take heart in this story, know that you're not alone, and for what it's worth, do your best to look forward.

Lucky Number 8: Learning the Finer Points of Parrying and Saving My Manhood in the Process

In Chinese culture, the number "8" has significant meaning as one of the luckiest numbers that can be bestowed upon a person. People all over Asia constantly pattern their lives around it. They'll order eight dumplings at their tables during dim sum. They'll buy eight pieces of furniture in their living rooms. They'll try to have eight children. Hell, while growing up in Canada, my parents and I even moved into a house that was numbered, "88."

So, what is it that's so special about this number? Its pronounciation in Cantonese ("ba") is historically closest to the Chinese characters that translate to mean wealth, prosperity and overall good fortune.

Well. Imagine how lucky I was to have this number on my side during my latest fencing lesson a couple of weeks ago....

"Otto," my instructor hollered from across the room, her voice rising above the clangs, swishes and clashes of the countless sparring sessions raging about. As she beckoned me to approach, I weaved my way around dancing feet, swirling foils and red-faced coaches yelling instructions in heavy Eastern European accents. Finally, I made it to Fencing Lane 4 and greeted my instructor. She was finishing up a lesson with a small girl who had large brown eyes, short-cropped blond hair and a smile that was missing two front teeth and would make any parent want to spoil her rotten. In her tiny left hand she held a small foil, which she proudly waved around as if it was a wizard's wand.

"Otto, this is Lucy," my instructor said as Lucy stuck out her other tiny hand and shook mine with a wide grin. "Hi," I smiled back. "Are you new here, Lucy?"

"Yesh," she nodded rather sheepishly through her gap-toothed grin, her chubby little cheeks suddenly turning red. "Lucy just started a week ago, and I thought that she should meet our other newest amateur fencer," my instructor said, patting Lucy on the head. "I can parry now," Lucy announced enthusiastically, demonstrating her Parry Number 4 and throwing her little foil into a wide lunge.

"Wow, Lucy," I exclaimed. "You already look like a pro." And with that, my instructor gently sent her off to her mother, a pretty, slender blonde who was waiting at the other end of the room. "Lucy seems like a nice kid," I commented. "And apparently, she already has a little crush on you," my instructor chuckled, patting me on the shoulder.

"Well, for the next twenty minutes, I only have eyes for you," I joked as I slipped on my mask and slid into my en garde position. My instructor cocked her head sideways, observing my stance. "Good," she commented. "Your form is getting better."

Lately, I've been wondering if my instructor has been using these words of encouragement as genuine compliments or as momentary distractions, since she always seems to attack me before I can even let her words sink in and enjoy them. Within less than a second, I was already engaged in active sparring, my breath coming out in quick spurts as I controlled my footwork and stepped back and forth across the polished wooden floor, flicking my wrist into a Parry 4 or a Parry 6, then countering with a lunge here, a double disengage there, my foil quickly spinning around hers. "Good," my instructor noted as she smoothly blocked a strike to her upper chest. "Excellent speed."

Once again, this apparent compliment was immediately followed by a sudden and creative riposte before I could even blink. My instructor faked a lunge towards my heart, forcing my arm up into a Parry 4 across my chest. Then, at the last second, she dipped her foil down and scored a hit just above my belly button. I hoped that Lucy wasn't around to hear the four-letter expletive that emanated from behind my mask as I returned into my en garde stance.

"So," I said. "A new strike means that there must be a new parry in store for me." My instructor nodded. "Let's talk about Parry Number 8," she said, at which point she launched into a fascinating tutorial regarding one of the fancier fencing parries.

Parry Number 8, also known as Octave, is meant to protect the side and lower parts of the torso from being struck. To perform this move, the fencer drops his or her blade down and to the outside of the body. Basically, it's a semi-circular move downwards, with the blade being brought down in an arc along the outside of the body, meeting the attacker's blade at the lower portion of the torso.

My instructor had me practice the move over and over against her strikes until my sword arm felt like jello. There was a certain bravado to this move that made me feel like I was in an Errol Flynn movie, my foil swishing as my forearm swung down in a wide, flourishing arc to meet her blade. "Smaller circles downward," my instructor pointed out. "I can still see it coming. Don't use your whole forearm."

Again, she lunged towards the left side of my lower torso. This time, I moved only my wrist rather than my forearm, flicking my blade down in a much smaller and disappointingly less exaggerated arc. It wasn't quite as flashy, but was a lot faster and more effective. "Good," my instructor said, standing back up. "Practice that every day, and next week we'll put it into play when we spar." I nodded, looking forward to perfecting this move and eventually using it against Monty or Arnold.

As I turned around to head back to the locker room, I didn't even notice Lucy standing directly in my path. Unbeknownst to me, she had forgotten her gym bag, which was lying in the middle of the room. Unfortunately, Lucy didn't see me either, because as she was picking up her little bag, she tripped over one of its straps, and in trying to keep her balance, her sword hand, which still held its foil, sprung up...and was heading straight for my groin.

The glint of her foil flashed before my eyes. Maybe it was the constant repetition of parries that I just finished doing. Maybe it was the fact that my body was still racing with a bit of adrenaline. Or maybe it was simply the fear of having my manhood chopped off by a small child that made me instinctively flick the wrist of my sword hand downwards, blocking Lucy's accidental lunge with a quick Parry 8, the tip of her blade stopping just short of its unintended target, causing me to breathe a huge sigh of relief.

My instructor ran up to me and asked me if I was alright. I told her that I was fine, and we both calmed down a crying Lucy, gently reassuring her that everything was alright and nobody was hurt. After she started smiling again, Lucy gave us both hugs and toddled off to her mother, who was waiting outside.

"Wow," my instructor sighed. "Now let's see if you can parry like that next week."

Lucky Number 8, indeed.

Taming the Chubby Crouching Tiger: Facing off Against Arnold.

"Hi," cried a squeaky little voice from my left-hand side. Once again, I looked around and saw nothing there. Then I looked down and saw Theo smiling back up at me. "Hey, kiddo," I greeted him, slapping his ungloved hand, which he held up for a high-five. For the second week in a row, the diminutive Theo has been my warm-up partner. Before each session, we would practice our lunges and disengages, battering the Tin Men in front of us.

"You ready to warm up with me," I asked. Theo gave his usual enthusiastic nod, his head of tussled brown hair bobbing back and forth. As we began to lunge and strike at the practice dummies, I felt my muscles stretching out. The blood pumping through them warmed my body, and I began to feel more and more limber. The wrist of my sword hand began to loosen as I disengaged and parried. And once again, Theo, the Academy's ten-year old swashbuckler, was putting me to shame with his energetic speed and technique.

After ten minutes of warming up, my instructor glided over, patted Theo on his head and led me once again to Fencing Lane Number 4. "So," she announced as a I slipped on my mask, "today you won't be sparring with me."

Oh no, I thought. I wasn't ready for another face-off with Monty just yet. My mind was suddenly flooded with visions of Monty laughing heartily as his foil scored point after point, while the other fencing students pitifully shook their heads at me.

"Instead," my instructor said, "you'll be sparring with Arnold."

Arnold?!

I hadn't seen Monty's sparring partner for a couple of months now, and I had actually begun to wonder whether he had quit, moved away or something else. Apparently, however, it was none of the above. I heard someone clearing his throat behind me, and I turned to face Arnold. His cherubish, forty-something face actually looked slightly chubbier, and his frame was slightly more rotund than the last time we saw each other. I smiled as we shook hands. "Been a long time, rookie," Arnold smiled back. "Yes it has," I laughed.

With that, Arnold slipped on his mask, backed up and reminded me why I should not underestimate his slightly paunchy appearance as he fluidly glided into a perfect en garde position. "It's time to see if you can mix it up with a different opponent," he called out as I assumed my fighting stance as well. I nervously looked over at my instructor, standing on the sidelines, not knowing what to expect.

Before she could give me any type of reaction, Arnold suddenly lunged forward and shot out his foil, forcing me back with a last-second parry four to my left. I struggled to maintain my stance and keep my footwork in line with his. Despite his apparent weight gain, Arnold's speed and agility had not suffered at all. He faked to the right, forcing my blade in the same direction. Then, at the last minute, he disengaged his blade around mine and caught me in the center of my chest before I could parry, knocking the wind out of me.

"Come on," my instructor yelled from the sidelines. "Why are you so slow, Otto?"

"Why is he so fast," I retorted, hearing Arnold let out a chortle at this. "C'mon, kid," he chided, "you can beat an old man like me."

That's exactly something that Monty would say.

I lunged forward, aiming for his heart, trying to catch him off-guard. As Arnold parried, I disengaged around his blade, but he saw it coming, and our blades began circling each other in a small metallic tornado. Back and forth we went, thrusting and parrying, our feet squeaking incessantly on the polished wooden foor, our foils clashing like mighty thunderclaps. Even my instructor watched in awe as I seemingly managed to hold my own.

"Wow," Arnold exclaimed with delight in between parries. "Looks like they have taught you a thing or two." As I aimed again for his upper chest, he feigned back...and then pulled off what is probably the most athletic feat anyone at the Academy has ever seen. After Arnold feigned back, he crouched down under my foil, and, looking like a chubby crouching tiger, glided in close and scored a hit just beneath my ribs with his foil.

It was over in less than two seconds. At that point, everything stopped. I heard a collective gasp of amazement from the other students who were observing the match. I turned to see little Theo standing beside my instructor, both of them gawking at Arnold with a mixture of admiration and pure shock at his athleticism, which has apparently remained quite undisclosed until now.

Arnold stood back up, and we heartily shook hands. "Good match," he huffed, his cheeks now cherry red from the exertion. "Thanks," I sighed, peeling off my sweaty mask and wiping perspiration from my forehead. Arnold patted me firmly on the shoulder with a meaty hand. "Not too shabby, kid. Still a little stiff and predictable, but you're getting there." I let out a wide smile as he turned around and headed for the locker room, grumbling about how his legs would be killing him the following morning.

I turned towards my instructor and asked, "Can you show me how to do that?" She admitted that nobody has ever seen Arnold pull off such a move before. I turned back to watch Arnold rubbing his belly and grunt as he awkwardly pushed upon the door to the locker room.

Hey, never underestimate your opponent, especially a chubby crouching tiger.

The Ten-Year Old and The Tin Man: Learning Advanced Maneuvering...The Hard Way (Of Course!)

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.

Monty vs. The Rabid Hyena: The Amateur Fencer Takes on the Master!

Drip- SPLOOSH!!

Drip- SPLOOSH!!!

Drip- SPLOOSH!!!!

Each bead of sweat sounded like a thunderclap inside the closed space of my helmet as it dripped from my chin to my chest. The air was warmer and more stifling than ever. My sword arm felt like a lead weight. My vision was beginning to swim. And in front of me, all I could hear was Monty's hearty, bellowing laugh.

Show off.

My fingers ran over the numerous depressions on my chest pad, where Monty had effortlessly planted his foil countless times over the last twenty minutes. Damn it, I thought. Some re-match this is turning out to be. It seemed that no matter how quickly I parried, how powerfully I lunged or how spry my footwork, Monty was two steps ahead of me. During our latest match, I feigned a lunge to his left, forcing him to open up his chest. As I disengaged and attempted to circle my blade to his exposed right side, Monty's foil was already planted squarely above my sternum before I was even halfway to my target. I, on the other hand, had yet to score even a single hit.

More expletives came from behind my mask.

"You, dear boy," Monty proclaimed, "are like-"

"A lazy dog! A clumsy windmill! I know! I know!"

Monty paused and smiled his white, toothy grin. "Actually," he quipped, "I was going to say a rabid hyena." I expressed my appreciation for my new title with a deep sigh of humiliation.

"But," Monty said, "I must say that you are getting faster!"At this my eyes perked up. Although Monty was a little harsh at times as an instructor, he was also just as quick to compliment students on their improvements. "Larger lunges, grizzly," he would bellow one minute at a particularly hirsute student, only to pat him on the back ten minutes later after that same student demonstrated a smooth downward parry and hit combination. "Excellent, ol' boy," he would shout, slapping Grizzly on his hairy shoulder. "No hitting like a pansy," he would glower at another student, only to then whoop and congratulate her with glee when Pansy landed a hit- a most palpable hit- squarely in the center of a practice dummy's chest.

"So," Monty said. "If you want to beat me, you have stop trying to force the blade straight through into me. Your moves are too predictable. Take, for example, our last bout," he lectured as he suddenly whipped up his foil in an elegant, distracting flourish before lunging forward. I instinctively engaged him in a parry to the left and shuffled back out of range, just as my Romanian instructor had taught me. "Good," he bellowed. "Now, think back to what your next move was." At this, I pushed his blade further to the left, exposing his chest and then disengaged from him, again circling my foil underneath his and making a beeline for his sternum. However, just as before, my own chest pad met the tip of his foil before I was even halfway there. "You see," Monty smiled. "You have to think outside of the box. Remember, you're not always confined to these straight-nosed techniques of block, hit, block, hit. Fencing is a creative art, not a mechanical one. Think...." Monty paused to circle his free hand in the air rather foppishly. "...like an artist."

I had to smile at Monty's sheer enjoyment of not only the sport, but of the flair he added to it. No matter how harsh his criticisms, he always knew how to put some class and charm into his lessons. Once again, Monty shuffled towards me, again lunging furiously towards my chest. Again, I stepped back, this time parrying his blade downward in an attempt to expose his upper torso. As soon as I saw my opening, I went in for the kill. And once again, Monty's blade stopped me dead in my tracks.

DAMN IT!

A third try with a parry to Monty's right and a lunge. Once again, Monty halted me before I could blink.

A fourth try with a parry to the left and a double disengage. And again, Monty thwarted my diabolical scheme in a whirlwind of steel and speed. "Had enough," Monty asked, noting with concern how I was beginning to tire.

By this time, I was nearly ready to pass out. I could barely stand on my own two legs. The only thing I could picture was the enormous dinner I was going to cook myself if I survived this. And that cocky son of a bitch Monty was standing there, not even breaking a sweat.

And yet....

"Again," I called. Monty threw his head back and let out an enormous bray of delight. "That's the spirit, m'boy," he yelled, twirling his sword in circles as he bounded towards me. He lunged at me twice, each time forcing me back with quick parries. As Monty went for his third lunge, I parried to the right, opening up his chest once again. Monty smiled as he calculated that I would make the same mistake. Think outside the box, I repeated. Don't just block and hit.

I disengaged Monty's foil and circled mine under his, just as before. Monty once again brought up the tip of his foil towards my chest, grinning as he predicted teaching me yet another lesson in humility.

That's when I mixed things up a little.

At the very last second, I drew my sword arm back from my usual beeline strike. Suddenly, I saw that twinkle in Monty's eyes disappear. His grin instantly vanished, only to be replaced by a furrow in his brow and a dimple in his weathered cheek as he cocked his head sideways in a moment of...what? Hesitation? Confusion? From the legendary Monty?

Whatever it was, I seized the opportunity. I circled my foil from right to left, causing Monty distraction as he struggled momentarily to block my blade. I slowed the speed of my wrist as I circled my foil under his to the left. As he followed to block, I then instinctively flicked my wrist, batting his blade away and opening up his torso. From there, I disengaged around his foil once more and drove mine forward....

...only to be met with Monty's foil clanging against mine, blocking my tip less than an inch from his solar plexis. As I looked back up, I saw that Monty was actually catching his breath! "Close," he panted, slightly unnerved, "but no bottle of scotch just yet, m'boy." And there was that white, toothy grin once again.

UGH! my mind screamed. I was so close! As we both stood back up and saluted each other, Monty straightened his back and took a deep breath, standing there, still as unbeatable as ever. "But," he remarked, "now you're starting to think outside the box. It's not anything you can practice at home. You just have to keep sparring and thinking."

As I hobbled back to the locker room, I was replaying those last moments of the match in my mind. I couldn't believe it! I was less than an inch away from settling my score! Less than an inch! I couldn't believe that he stopped me....

...but I'm getting closer, I thought with a smirk. Rabid hyena, my ass.

The Lazy Dog versus the Lethal Rabbit: Humility, Footwork and the Triumphant Return of the Amateur Fencer State-Side!

"Dear God," my instructor sighed.

She was staring wide-eyed at my awkward lunge and how precariously my foil was sent careening into the padded chest of the practice dummy before me. I looked up, expecting to see her beaming at the dynamic new stance and technique that I had melded into my fencing style after observing Ho Sum and the other wu shu students back in Hong Kong.

No such luck. "That...really sucked, Otto," she exclaimed, in her thick European accent.

Clearly, my attempt at emulating Ho Sum's prior demonstration of athletic prowess was not what I had envisioned it to be. During the plane ride from Hong Kong back to New York, I attempted to forget the constant, rumbling turbulence by focusing on the intricacies of Ho Sum's elongated stances and imagining how I would incorporate them back at the Fencing Academy, sending my instructor, Monty and the other students into a fit of gloriously jealous awe at my newfound fencing technique.

Instead, I saw my instructor now frowning at how clumsy my lunge appeared and how my foil nearly snapped in two after landing with a thud on the right side of the practice dummy's chest, when the target was on its left side. My stance was twice as wide as it should have been, causing me to nearly fall over in the middle of my lunge. My instructor cocked her head to the side. "What happened to your stance? You were making such nice progress! Did you practice at all during your vacation? This is unacceptable! And you say that you want to spar with Monty again...like that?!"

I assured her that I had been practicing in my hotel room during my vacation. I explained the magnificent wu shu demonstration I witnessed in Hong Kong and my attempt to incorporate fencing into martial arts and vice versa. I told her how I thought that a longer, more martial-arts-like stance would help my reach; or how more of a curve to my striking hand would help my speed.

My instructor simply shook her head at all this. "Learn to walk before you can run," she said, causing me to slump my shoulders in defeat as I stood up. "Come," she said, motioning to the adjacent fencing lane. "Let's get you back into it." With that, I moped over to the fencing lane, again mumbling expletives to myself while swinging my foil at nobody in particular. I sullenly assumed the en garde position, still embarrassed by the dressing-down I just received from my instructor. That's when I felt her sternly rapping me on the side of my mask to wake me up and pull me back into the present.

"Cheer up," she said, spinning her foil in smooth, circular spins, loosening the muscles in her sword hand. "Time to learn something new." I shook off my anxiety at these words. Whenever I attended these lessons, and no matter how much humiliation I took, this phrase always made the training worthwhile: Time to learn something new.

Determined to redeem myself by mastering whatever new challenge she threw my way, I regained my composure and straightened my back. "Today's lesson," she announced, "is speedy feet. Fencing is just as much about being quick on your feet as it is about being quick with your foil."

"I'm already quick on my feet," I said with a slight hint of defiance. "Really," my instructor quipped. Before I could respond, she batted my foil out of her way, lunged forward, and sunk hers into the left side of my chest. In the back of the room, I could hear Monty, who was watching us the whole time, chuckling as he taught a group of young students. "You'll need to be quicker than that if you wanna fight me again, dear boy," he bellowed out heartily.

You know what I said about shaking off the last of my anxiety? Suddenly, I felt like I needed another vacation.

"One thing Monty and I notice about you is that whenever you feign back, you always drag your feet," my instructor continued, "which slows you down and makes it easier to strike you." By way of demonstration, she assumed the en garde stance and moved to feign back just as I normally do. However, as she feigned back, she sloppily dragged her front foot across the polished wooden floor, causing the slighest of squeaks....just like I normally do. It was amazing how observant my instructor was, to the point where she could not only predict but also mimic my every movement. It was like watching a mirror image of myself...except...with longer hair and boobs.

"Your step must be lighter, with larger strides," she said, as she hopped back, lightly picking up her front foot by the heel, which added probably a good half second of speed and three inches of distance onto her retreat. There was no way she was within range of my blade. "Now you try."

She suddenly whirled her blade in a disengage to distract me and then thrust it forward at my chest. I instinctively blocked and jumped back, but I was too slow. My front foot dragged, allowing her to actually step on it and hold me in place while she brought the point of her blade just under my chin.

"You are like a lazy dog today," she yelled, loud enough for the whole class, including Monty, to hear. "You must be like...like a rabbit!" Again, this was loud enough for the whole class to hear.

Sigh.

"Again," she bellowed, as she recoiled and lunged mercilessly at my chest, not allowing me a second of breathing room. I again blocked and huffed as I sprung myself lightly back, but again, I was still too slow, lifting my front heel a second too late, allowing her to push her blade through my defense. More expletives emanated from behind my mask.

"Again," she shrieked, coming at me once more, as if her foil was magnetically drawn to my chest pad, which was now riddled with divits from the abuse it was taking. As her foil moved in for a third killing blow, I thought back to Ho Sum once again. In particular, I focused on his demonstration of how wu shu helped his fencing skills. I recalled how he smoothly scuttled his feet back and forth, darting in and out my range, without making a sound. I focused on his feet and how lithely they moved.

Then it dawned on me: Ho Sum didn't really jump back, but rather just...stepped, ever so lightly. Heel first, then toe. One quick movement.

I refocused on my instructor's blade, making a lightning beeline straight for me. I took a deep breath and just...stepped back, my back foot first, my front foot following, making sure my step was wide and landing on my heels first, then my toes. As I did so, I flicked the wrist of my sword hand downward, blocking my instructor's blade and opening up her chest. Then, without warning, I followed my gut and lunged forward in a counter-attack. Suddenly, one good move turned into two.

Why the hell not? Let's see where this takes me.

I saw my foil nearing the left side of my instructor's chest pad. My hamstrings stretched out, my biceps loosened and my heart began to race with anticipation as I realized that I couldn't miss! Ha! I was about to score my first point on my instructor, without any warning and with the element of surpr-

My instructor promptly batted my blade to the ground, causing me to fall over with it. I was sent sprawling over the gym's hardwood floor, my mask tumbling off my face and my foil rolling to the other end of the fencing lane. I turned over onto my back to look up at my instructor smirking down at me. Then, Monty's smiling mug entered the picture as he suddenly stood over me as well. Here it comes, I thought. Another dressing-down about how my stance was too wide, how my stride was too slow and how I still looked like a lazy dog rather than the lithe, lethal rabbit. I braced myself.

Instead, my instructor elegantly stuck out her hand to help me up. "Better," she said as she yanked me off the floor. "Your step was a little better that time. And your lunge was good. I almost didn't expect that," she admitted. When she saw me break out into a sweaty grin, she held up her long, thin index finger to stop me. "I said, 'almost.' "

She patted me on the shoulder. "We're done for today. I want you to practice this footwork, up and down your apartment, until your legs are tired, every day," she shouted as she walked back into her office. I unscrewed my bottle of Gatorade and took a gulp when Monty, with his impeccable timing, slapped me across my back, once again sending a wave of blueberry-flavored electrolytes and vitamins shooting up my nostrils. "We'll make a fencer out of ya yet, m'boy," he laughed heartily.

And then he was gone, leaving me standing in the fencing lane, all by myself, surrounded by the other fencers, spinning and parrying with each other as I wiped sweat from my face and envisioned the day when I would eventually be like them; when I would be able to lunge, parry, feign and spar without losing my balance, my foil or my cool.

With each lesson, I was getting closer to that point, and, despite the admonishment I received from my instructor today, it looks like I received a little help from Hong Kong after all.

Thanks, Ho Sum. M'Goi-Sai.

Chop Socky Fencing: The Amateur Fencer Goes Abroad!

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We'd like to welcome you to Hong Kong...."

After two months of lunging, parrying and sustaining numerous bruises to my chest, it was time for a holiday! And what better excuse for a vacation than my cousin's wedding reception in Hong Kong? So, after a turbulent, 15-hour flight and a 12-hour time change, I found myself in the Far East for a week of family, fun and a chance to give my poor thighs a break from all the lunging. And what a week it was!

After hiking all over the electrifying city of Hong Kong, I hopped onto a high-speed catamaran with my other youngest cousin, propelling ourselves across the South China Sea to the island of Macau (which also happens to be where my parents grew up). There I experienced a mish-mash of Portuguese and Chinese cultures fused into a day filled with beautiful architecture, ancient ruins, glittering casinos and breathtaking mountains. The next day, I hopped onto another catamaran and shot out to Discovery Bay at Lantau Island, where I experienced its lush, tropical gardens, fresh sea air, exotic delicacies and a crystal-clear ocean that seemed to stretch far beyond anyone's wildest imagination.

So. What does all of this have to do with fencing?

Even on the other side of the world, the art of fencing still found me. One sunny, humid morning, I ventured out of my hotel in the heart of downtown Kowloon in search of a coffee shop. As I strolled across the walkway by Victoria Harbour, gawking at the immense glass towers glinting in the early morning sunlight and the mountains behind them, I stumbled across a group of martial arts students putting on a demonstration of wu shu. About 10 young boys and girls had taken up a portion of the walkway, and with the ocean water and city skyline as their backdrop, they whirled, kicked and punched their way through the morning with supernatural grace and agility, seemingly unaffected by the stifling summer humidity. A crowd of European and American tourists surrounded them, oooo-ing and ahhhh-ing at the dizzying display of backflips, jump kicks and whirling fists. Being a martial artist myself, I found a great appreciation for the amount of energy and rehearsal that must have gone into this jaw-dropping routine.

At one point, all of the students formed a circle, in the center of which stood their sifu, or master, a slim, striking Asian woman in her late thirties dressed in the traditional, black kung fu uniform. As all of the spectators settled their attention on her, she took a deep breath as one of her students knotted a blindfold over her eyes, after which she suddenly whipped out a 9-ring broadsword from behind her back. The sword carried a heavy, wide blade, the blunt edge of which was lined with 9 large decorative rings that swished and jingled as she crouched down into a tiger-like stance and began tracing the sword in a circle on the ground. Then, faster than I could blink, she suddenly leapt into the air, stretched her limbs out and whirled the sword like a human hurricane. As she landed on the ground without a sound, she then began to stab, swipe and kick at myriad imaginary opponents around her as the crowd of tourists went dead silent in utter fascination.

While watching her routine, I began to notice various subtle similarities and differences between the art of Chinese wu shu sword-fighting and fencing. The sifu's stances bore a strong similarity to the en garde position used by fencers, with her front foot perpendicular to her rear; and her sword hand leading and poised as if holding a pistol. Whenever she would split the air with a forward strike of her blade, its rings jingling in the wind, her body elongated into another stance that resembled a fencing lunge. However, unlike fencing, which is a linear, one-on-one duelling style, the art of wu shu sword-fighting is more fluid and circular, meant to engage multiple opponents.

As her routine ended to the thunderous applause of the tourists, I had the opportunity to shake hands with both the students and the sifu. "Lai-goh gung fu ho lang," I stammered to the sifu in my broken, infantile Cantonese. Your kung fu is very good.

Cue the Lalo Schifrin chop socky music and poorly translated kung fu movie sub-titles.

"Thank you, sir," the sifu laughed in perfect (albeit accented) English. I mentioned to her my background in martial arts, that I was a budding amateur fencer and that I couldn't help but notice certain similarities between the two fighting styles. "It's funny you say that," the sifu responded, pointing to one of the young students who was posing for a photo with a couple of overly enthusiastic German tourists. "That boy over there has actually studied fencing before," she said to my surprise. "He is one of our finest students."

She called to the diminutive boy, who shuffled over and shook hands with me, smiling brightly. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, yet I had just seen him whirl through the air like a one-man army just a few minutes ago. The sifu chattered with him for a minute in Cantonese, after which his eyes lit up as he turned back to me. "I told him that you are a fencer," the sifu said.

"Hi," I responded to the student in more of my horrible Cantonese. Yes. "Lai giu man mang," I continued to stumble. What is your name?

"My name is Ho Sum," the boy responded in measured English, to which I breathed a small sigh of relief.

I asked the exceedingly polite Ho Sum how he came to study fencing. Apparently, he traveled to France early on in life, where his parents made him study fencing. What an honor it must be to have studied in the very country that birthed the sport, I thought. I told him that I also lived in Paris for a time, to which his smile grew even wider as we established a rapport with one another. I asked him about the influences he drew from the two fighting forms.

"Fencing helps a lot with flexibility in wu shu," Ho Sum said. "My sifu is teaching me the Chinese broadsword, so the, uhhhhh...." he hesitated, searching for the rest of his words, but shook his head when he could not find them. "Ying mun hi leggoh," he asked in Cantonese, as he suddenly shot his body into a perfect, low lunge in front of me. What do you call this in English?

I marvelled at Ho Sum's incredible agility. "Ying mun hi 'lunge.'" In English, it's called a "lunge." Ho Sum nodded excitedly.

"Hi...lunge," he exclaimed. He explained how the lunge helped to make his stances in wu shu more flexible and fluid. Ho Sum again demonstrated the move in front of me. I noted how smoothly his sword hand glided into position. He didn't really aim at his target. Rather, he seemed to simply....point. Just as fencing aided him in kicking butt in wu shu, I asked him whether the opposite was equally true. Ho Sum nodded furiously. "The stances in wu shu help with speed and agility in fencing."

Again, he eagerly demonstrated his prowess, dropping down into the en garde position. I noticed that, unlike most of the fencers I've seen at the Academy, Ho Sum's stance was a little lower and a little looser. Then, he demonstrated how wu shu had made his footwork faster. With blazing speed, he shuffled back and forth a few paces in the en garde position. In the blink of an eye, he went from being ten feet away from me to being close enough to poke my eye out with a fencing foil if he had one. This kid was fast...maybe even faster than Monty, our local Westchester fencing god and arguably the best fighter in the Academy.

But what I noticed most was Ho Sum's expression. Fierce. Focused. Like nothing could stop him. It reminded me of the small girl that my instructor had previously pointed out at the Academy: the one who went from a whimpering willow to an unstoppable woman warrior and taught me to say, Why the hell not? Let's see where this takes me. Even the mental aspects between martial arts and fencing were strikingly similar.

"Maybe you can try it at your school," Ho Sum suggested. At that moment, the dimly-lit lightbulb of my mind suddenly flared. I began to see the endless benefits that my martial arts background could have on my (very) slowly emerging fencing technique. As I watched Ho Sum demonstrate a couple more quick lunges and parries in front of me with seemingly boundless energy, I noticed how he elongated his stance by a couple of centimeters, making them ever so slightly resemble a wu shu stance and consequently giving him additional reach and speed. His sword hand flowed more smoothly, with small circular flicks led by his fingers rather than his wrist, lending his disengage additional accuracy. By transferring some of the influence of wu shu to the art of fencing, Ho Sum was a fencer that could probably rival Monty any day of the week.

And that's when my next fateful thought occurred to me....

I wanted a re-match with Monty.

The Monty Two-Step: Learning the Fine Art of Timing, Feigning and Showing Off

"Lunge, damn you, boy!"

This was the third time I heard Monty yell that same line during our first bout together. Each time, his voice got louder and more exuberant as he fenced circles around me. I got the distinct impression that this crazy old man enjoyed teaching the younger fencers like myself some humility. And with each of my Herculean lunges, he let out a hearty, South African laugh as his foil swooped down and clashed with mine. After my last lunge, he playfully glided around me, aiming his foil for my ribs, laughing all the way while doing it.

Show off.

I whirled around in a panic, parrying against his blade and opening up his torso, just as I had learned. With a flick of my wrist, I circled my foil under his and aimed straight for his heart in my best attempt at a disengage. This was truly a battle between Zorro the Astronaut and...well...just plain Zorro. My God, I thought. This stuff really works!

As usual, I spoke too soon. Monty lithely feigned back, smoothly parrying my blade to the side. In a fit of frustration, I disengaged again around the other side of his blade and angrily forced my foil through, but before I could even blink, I found the tip of his foil planted squarely in my chest, just below my neck, as he gently pushed me back out of range.

Crap, I thought. At least the teenagers aren't here watching me get my ass kicked.

I've been sparring with Monty for only half an hour on this sunny Saturday morning. I've always considered myself to be a fairly good athlete, having grown up around martial arts, a regular weightlifting routine and a healthy diet. But today, I was drenched and exhausted while Monty, who was easily twenty years older than me, was hardly breaking a sweat. Indeed, fencing was introducing me to a whole new level of fitness (and fatigue).

I peeled off my mask, feeling its cushiony edges soaked through with perspiration. I exhaled as I ripped the cap off my bottle of Gatorade and sucked back a huge gulp of blueberry-flavored electrolytes and vitamins. As I plopped myself down on a nearby stool to watch his pal Arnold fencing with another adult in the adjacent lane, my quadriceps and calves cried out in exquisite pain.

"Not bad, rookie," Monty hollered jovially as he slapped me across my back, sending Gatorade shooting up my nostrils. "Thanks," I coughed. I looked up to see Monty waving his foil wildly in the air as he excitedly goaded on a mumbling Arnold. Age is nothing but a number, I thought, recalling my instructor's pearls of wisdom.

"So," Monty smiled, finally sitting still for the first time today and settling onto the stool next to me. "How did I beat you?"

I replayed the final seconds of our match in my head. "You blocked my blade, and I tried to disengage twice around it, but you saw them coming." Monty nodded in acknowledgement. "True," he said. "But what was it about your last disengage that tipped me off?"

I thought about this for a second. "I don't know."

Monty offered me his hand and yanked me off the stool. "Let's go over it again, and I'm going to show you a little trick that I call, 'The Monty Two-Step.' " I mulled this over for a moment. "Okay, but if we're dancing, I lead," I joked. "Ha! You kids are great," Monty yelled, slapping me again across my back and sending another flood of Gatorade shooting up my nose. He was clearly getting a kick out of this. As I wiped blue snot from my face and put down my drink, Monty led me back into the fencing lane next to Arnold, who was engaged in a whirlwind of steel against his own opponent.

"En garde," Monty bellowed. How strange it was to hear these words coming from someone other than my instructor. I assumed my stance as Monty approached and slid into the most elegant fencing pose I had ever seen. While my sword arm was nervously bent at the elbow and my back ramrod straight, Monty's sword arm was fluidly outstretched as he loosely rocked back and forth on his slender legs.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go back to the last move. You had parried my blade...." He suddenly shot his sword hand forward, and I smoothly parried his blade as I had done during our match. "Good form," he observed.

"Now," he continued, "after that, you disengaged." I nodded, circling my blade under his. Just as before, he feigned back and parried. "Here's where it got tricky," I noted.

"Well, here's what happened," Monty said. "You were impatient. If I block your disengage, you don't immediately try to disengage again, as you did before. That will telegraph your moves to me, and I'll see it coming from a mile away."

I replayed this scenario in my head. "But," I pondered, "I can't just stand there and let you strike me."

"That's exactly what you do," Monty instructed. "But, the trick to defeating me is in the timing. Step One: you wait. By waiting for me to counter, you are forcing me to stretch out my arm and open up my torso, but without allowing your foil to get blocked and without giving yourself away. So, instead of trying to be the bull-headed aggressor, time your moves. Use some finesse. Wait for me, and then comes Step Two: at the last second, parry and hit."

I was amazed by how Monty could remember every detail of our bout. For all his bravado in the fencing lane, he was turning out to be a very observant and insightful tactician. Truly, this sport is just as much of an exercise of the mind as it is of the body.

With that, Monty's foil slid out of my first parry and made a beeline for my chest. I waited until the moment just before the tip of his foil reached my chest. At the last second, I feigned back, as Monty had done. Monty's sword arm stretched out even further as he tried to reach me, exposing even more of his torso.

Now I was beginning to see what he meant. With his entire torso exposed, my opening became clear. I parried, stepped to the side of his blade and pushed mine forward into his exposed chest. "HA," he laughed triumphantly as my blade struck him with a satisfying THUD. "Well done! I do believe your instructor owes me a pint."

"What," I exclaimed happily as I straightened myself back up, exhilirated that I landed a hit on the legend of the Fencing Academy that was Monty. "Well," Monty explained, "your beloved instructor and I made a bet. She didn't think that I'd be able to teach you anything. I bet her that, if I could prove her wrong, she would buy me a pint."

For the next twenty minutes, we went over the Monty Two-Step five more times. Despite the burning pain in my legs, the thrill of learning my first strategic pattern encouraged me to continue. Each time, I felt my timing becoming slightly more precise and my disengage being executed more smoothly. And once again, as my forehead broke into a heavy sweat, Monty stood there looking like a million bucks, goading on a mumbling Arnold while teaching me the finer points of timing, feigning and....

Show off.

Enter the Old Timers: The Dread Pirates Monty and Arnold

Swish. Swish. CLASH!

Swish. Swish. CLASH!

My foil swirled, spun and dashed around that of my instructor. The wooden floor of the fencing lane squeaked as our feet frantically shuffled back and forth. My breaths came in short, quick bursts as my wrist flicked from left to right, blocking my instructor's lightning stabs. From inside my mask, sweat flowed freely from my forehead and down the sides of my cheeks. I leapt back, blocked her blade and shot my foil forward to strike her in the chest. Without missing a beat, my instructor swatted my blade away as if I was an annoying child tugging at his mother's sleeve.

This was where the rubber met the road. This was my first attempt at actual sparring. All of the technique I've learned thus far came down to this. Our back and forth was starting to resemble an elegant dance of whirling steel and mayhem....maybe not the type that would win us a spot on "America's Got Talent," but enough to make some of the other fencing students stop and watch for a couple of minutes as we-

"Damn it," I yelled as my instructor scored her second point in a row, planting the tip of her foil squarely in the center of my chest. I sighed as my instructor and I stood up and flicked our swords towards each other in salute. "Not bad," my instructor smiled as I pried off my helmet and felt the room's air conditioning wafting refreshingly over my face. "You're still a little stiff, but you're getting faster."

"Thanks," I huffed, looking at the other fencers sparring around us. "So...if this was a real competition...."

"Then the score would be 2-0 for me, and I would have to score three more points," my instructor finished. With that, she motioned me over to Fencing Lane Number 1. I strolled over with her, passing other young fencers as they expertly parried, disengaged and lunged with their opponents. All of them were dressed in the sterile white uniforms of professional fencers, complete with electronic sensors to register points that were scored. My instructor revealed that I was pretty much walking among some of the best competitive fencers in the country. A few of them had tried out for the Olympics, and one of them was currently ranked #2 in the United States.

As we walked, my instructor proceeded to school me in the rules of a professional fencing bout. In the preliminary round of a tournament, a bout ends when one fencer has scored five "touches," or hits, or when four minutes have elapsed. In a direct elimination bout, a fencer must score 15 points, and the maximum time for a bout is nine minutes, which is divided into three parts.

"When competing with the foil," my instructor explained, "a fencer can score in the area anywhere between your collar and your groin. In the case of the épéé, the entire body is open as a target. Finally, with the saber, anywhere from the waist up is a target."

Somehow, images of Daniel LaRusso competing at the All-Valley Open Karate Tournament to the tune of "You're the Best Around" suddenly came to mind.

We arrived at Fencing Lane 1, where, to my surprise, two adults were battling it out in full competetive gear...and my God, were they fast! After two months around a bunch of fencing teenagers, this was certainly a welcome surprise. One had to be at least 5' 9" or 5' 10", while the other one was perhaps 5' 5" or so. Both moved with the agility of panthers, probably placing them in the age range of twenty-eight to thirty-three, at most. In fact, they were almost as fast as the teenagers. Back and forth they went, almost floating across the fencing lane as they ducked, lunged and parried faster than my eyes could even follow.

As if I wasn't already sufficiently amazed, I also noticed that they were using sabers, the most advanced of the fencing weapons! Rather than the light clash that one hears when two foils strike each other, the thicker, stronger sabers would rattle out a resounding CLANG whenever they struck each other, reminding everyone else that these weapons are not for the feint of heart.

"Who are these two," I asked my instructor in amazement. "These are some of the adults who come here just for recreation, like you, " she responded. "I thought you should meet them, as they're both very good."

As I turned back to watch the battle, I saw the shorter man smoothly lunge forward. As the taller man moved to block, his diminutive opponent, seeing the move coming, flicked his wrist in a small, smooth circle, bringing his blade under his opponent's and up on the other side of it. The disengage, I noted excitedly. And with a saber! He makes it look so easy! He's going to score this point for sure!

To my surprise, the taller man also saw this move coming. He drew himself back and parried the shorter man's blade to the left, forcing him to open up his torso. Then, seeing his opening, the taller man moved in for the kill and tapped the flat of his blade squarely onto the shorter man's chest pad.

I heard the shorter man quietly curse from under his mask as they both stood and saluted each other. While the shorter man stuck his blade out and flicked it to the ground in an efficient, almost minimalist salute, the taller man circled his blade to the ground in a histrionic flourish and elegantly bowed to his opponent.

Show off, I thought, secretly wishing for the day when I could do the same and look that cool.

As the two men pulled off their masks, I expected to see two fairly youthful faces in their late twenties or early thirties. Instead, my jaw hit the floor as I saw that the taller man's face was handsomely weathered with white hair, easily placing him somewhere in his fifties, while the shorter man's face was a bespectacled and rather cherubish forty-something. I turned to my instructor. "No way," I whispered.

My instructor laughed out loud and called the two fencers over. "Age is nothing but a number," she responded to me...which begged the question, How old is my instructor? She didn't look a day over thirty-five, but she has often indicated that she is much older. Before I could muster up any courage to ask such a question, the taller of the two fencers glided over and shook my hand, revealing a smile of bright white teeth. "How are ya," he laughed in a thick South African accent. "I'm Monty, and this is my pal, Arnold."

"Some pal you are, hitting me with that cheap shot at the end of the bout," the shorter man mumbled with a thick mid-Western accent.

I shook both of their hands. "You guys gotta show me how to fence like that," I said. As it turns out, Monty is an account executive at a small company in upper Westchester, while Arnold is a computer technician at a law firm in Manhattan. Hey, never judge a book by its cover, I thought.

My instructor turned to me. "Monty and Arnold fence with the other adults here every Saturday," she said. "I want you to participate at least a couple of times. That way, you'll spar against some opponents with different styles, and Monty and Arnold can also improve your technique. Would that interest you?" I nodded in approval. "Good," my instructor smiled. "Then, when we meet next week, we'll see what you've learned."

I looked Monty and Arnold. No sweat, I thought with a sly smile. Is she kidding?! These old timers don't stand a chance against me.

Little did I know what I was about to get myself into....