Now that my courage had returned in my personal life, it was time to muster up that same chutzpah for Fencing Lane Number 4. I once again stood before my instructor, whirling my foil in my right hand to loosen my wrist and shoulder, with my mask tucked under my left arm. I felt strong today. I was ready to go from a fun date to facing off against the Romanian mistress of the sword. Even some of the other students noticed that I was standing a little straighter and wielding my foil with more swagger and precision.
"En garde," my instructor bellowed out, as I strapped on my mask. By now, the weight of the mask was barely noticeable. I was becoming accustomed to seeing past the dark mesh protecting my face. The remaining sweat from its prior user was now an encouraging reminder of the workout I was about to receive. I confidently whipped up my foil, feeling the comfortable flexibility in my wrist. I turned my left arm upwards and bent my legs. Today I felt more like Zorro the Avenger than Zorro the Astronaut.
My instructor cocked her masked head sideways, examining my stance. "Good," she exclaimed. "Much better, Otto." Before I even had time to smile at myself, she whipped up her foil and moved to strike me in my chest.
As her foil made a lightning beeline for my heart, my right wrist flicked to the side, and my foil expertly blocked her blade with a satisfying CLASH! Then, following through, I straightened my foil and took my shot, attempting to score a hit just beneath her outstretched arm. I saw my foil nearing its target. My form felt flawless. My muscles smoothly eased into my strike. I couldn't miss.
Famous last words.
Before I could blink, my instructor drew back like a lithe dancer, well out of my foil's reach. Then, with another loud CLASH, she blocked my foil and held it in position. No matter how much I tried to push through, she wasn't letting me. I sighed. Another perfect plan foiled. "So," she said, satisfieid that she had brought my hubris back down to Earth. "Now we learn the disengage."
"The what," I huffed, futilely trying to loosen my foil from her iron hold. After watching me flail around for a few more seconds, my instructor released my blade, and I stood up, defeated. "The disengage," my instructor repeated. "You blocked my foil well. Now comes the next step: what to do once I block your counter-attack, as you just saw."
"Okay," I said, removing my mask and wiping new sweat from my forehead. "But when you blocked my counter-attack, I couldn't even get through your defense."
"That is where the disengage comes in," my instructor pointed out. "You feign your counter-attack and lead my blade in the direction you want. Then, you move your foil around the blade and find the right opening."
Zorro the Astronaut was now thoroughly confused. Obviously, I had to learn this the hard way.
"Attack me," my instructor sighed, smoothly gliding back into the en garde position. I did the same, determined to land a hit against my haughty, arrogant instructor. Disengage THIS, I thought as I mightily lunged, aiming straight for the grey patch on her chest. As half-expected, my instructor blocked my attack. I knew what was coming next. My instructor then moved in for her counter-attack. As I saw her foil move towards my chest, I bent my right arm up to block her blade. Ha! I thought. Now it's my turn to watch her squirm a little....
Little did I know that I was falling right into her trap.
If I was watching closely, I would have noticed that she was "leading" my blade even further to the right than I expected, forcing it too far out and opening up the rest of my torso, which was exactly what she wanted. Then, with a small circular flourish and a sudden swish, her blade went under mine, came up on the left side of my sword hand and sank its way into the pad of my chestplate.
I just wasn't catching any breaks during this lesson. But, boy, did that move look cool. "Now you try," my instructor offered.
With that, my instructor aimed her blade at my chest again, which I smoothly blocked. Then, trying to mimick what my instructor did, I shot my foil out towards the right side of her chest. As she moved to block, I then dipped my wrist, attempting to fake her blade to her right and open up her torso. Next, in a melodramatic, flowery circle, I spun my foil around and heaved it up on the other side of her blade, aiming for that damn grey patch.
However, before I was even halfway there, I heard my instructor tsk me under her mask as she effortlessly batted my blade back down to the floor. The foil went spinning out of my hand and skitted across the fencing lane.
"Not such a big circle with your sword," my instructor called out after me as I trudged across the fencing lane to retrieve my foil, mumbling expletives to myself. "Your opponent will see it coming. Your movements need to be smaller and quicker," she continued as I returned to her, still mumbling expletives to myself. "You look like a clumsy windmill."
I wasn't sure whether to laugh at how funny this dressing-down sounded or scratch my head in confusion. I settled on doing both.
"Remember, Otto," she continued, "Be more relaxed, and don't be afraid to take risks, eh?" She was right. I was still trying to be too perfect in front of everyone. I heaved a deep sigh and eased myself back into the en garde position. I focused on my instructor's foil, forgetting about everyone else around me.
Why the Hell not? Let's see where this takes me.
I saw my instructor's shoulder move and her arm shoot forward to strike. I blocked her foil and immediately popped my arm out to counter-attack. As my instructor went to block it, I feigned to the right. This time I was ready. When I saw her blade following mine, I slightly loosened my wrist, and with a small flick, brought it up on the other side of her sword hand, all the while controlling my breathing and drowning out the other noises around me. Then, driving my arm forward, the tip of my foil finally met its mark and found the grey patch!
"That's it," my instructor exclaimed in approval as I let out a victorious whoop! "You see," she continued, "once you relax yourself, the technique follows. That is the mindset that we want!"
As I practiced the move ten more times with her, I began to understand the mindset needed for this sport. Not only was I gradually able to focus my concentration on my opponent and forget about the other people around me, I also found that whatever other problems or pre-occupations I was experiencing faded away every time I picked up that foil and stepped into the fencing lane. This was quickly becoming not just a sport, but a part of my lifestyle that I was really starting to enjoy.
So much so that I almost didn't notice the little kids in the corner laughing about the Attack of the Clumsy Windmill....
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Why the Hell Not? Let's See Where This Takes Me- Dating, Inside the Budding Fencer's Mind and the Art of the Épéé
Flash forward to June, about two months later. My legs felt like overstretched rubber bands, more from a hint of nervousness than from all the lunges I had been practicing. I could hear the rush of blood to my ears as my heartbeat picked up slightly, more from excitement than from the fatigue that came with all the advancing and parrying I've endured.
You'd think I'd be used to this by now! Apparently not....
On this day, these sensations were not from yet another exhausting fencing lesson, but from another similarly exciting experience. Like my first fencing lesson, I suppose first dates are always a little nerve-wracking. Whenever you meet someone new, I think it's safe to say that most, if not all, people feel that strange combination of adrenaline, apprehension and curiosity. Then, when you finally see that someone new walking your way, you let go of all those emotions, take a deep breath and just say to yourself, "Why the hell not? Let's see where this takes me."
As I stood on the steps of Union Square one warm Sunday afternoon, waiting for my date to appear, I realized that I had experienced a similar onslaught of emotions when I first entered the Fencing Academy. Like meeting someone new, learning a new skill such as fencing also conjures up (at least for me) those same feelings of excitement, curiosity, apprehension and eventual courage. In my case, I suppose that apprehension was the most dominant emotion during this moment. After coming off of a year-long relationship and then recklessly getting involved in another month-long...how shall we say..."experience" shortly thereafter, I was naturally a little hesitant to start dating again. In fact, I was beginning to think that perhaps I wasn't quite ready to do this at all.
Then, as I observed the nearby street performers, musicians and sketch artists, my mind wandered back to one of my more recent gruelling training sessions at the Academy, after which I remained for another half hour and watched the more advanced students sparring back and forth. In particular, my attenton was caught by the Academy's competition team, consisting of fencers between the ages of 16-18. As I watched them parrying and lunging with each other while I massaged my aching triceps, my instructor sat down beside me on the hardwood floor.
"Do you see that one," she asked, pointing a long, slender finger towards a young girl, poised in the en garde position. She was dressed in the starch-white fencer's uniform and holding an épée ready for attack. She was facing off against a boy who was at least three inches taller than her and easily had a longer reach. "Who do you think will win?"
I looked at both fencers. The girl, who looked as if a slight breeze could knock her over, was slightly hunched over, and her free hand was shaking. "The boy will win," I replied.
"Why," my instructor asked.
"Because the girl is nervous," I observed. "She doesn't look like she's concentrating. Her free hand is shaking and she's hunched over. The boy easily has a longer reach and is twice her size."
"Ahhh," my instructor said with that sly smile indicating that I was about to be proven dead wrong. "True, the girl is nervous, but watch."
I turned back to the two teenaged fencers. As soon as their instructor yelled, "En position!" something amazing happened. Suddenly, the girl's posture became ramrod straight. Her legs bent slightly as she readied herself for the match. Her free hand went from swaying back and forth to becoming as steady as a statue. Gone was the reed-thin, apprehensive teenaged girl, and in her place was a young, confident warrior ready to lunge, parry and strike.
And that's just what she did. When the signal to begin buzzed, the boy with the longer reach and the advantage of height suddenly found the tip of the girl's épée batting away his blade as if swatting a fly, and in the next second, it was planted squarely in the center of his padded chest. It was as if this young, scared girl simply said to herself, "Why the hell not? Let's see where this takes me."
"Holy s--t," I whispered. My instructor raised an eyebrow at me as I suddenly realized that, in addition to various parents and teenaged fencers, there were also a couple of eight-year olds playing in the far corner of the room, who stopped and looked up at me dumbfounded. "Uhhh...." I stammered, realizing that their parents would have words with me later about my apparent potty mouth. My instructor sighed and patted me on the shoulder.
"I thought for sure that she'd lose," I whispered in awe. "That's what everyone thinks when they first see her," my instructor said. She pointed to the other students, who were awkwardly sparring with each other in the other lanes. "You see how these other students hesitate before they strike," she asked. "It's because they're nervous. They're afraid of getting hit or looking bad in front of everyone else. But this one," she continued, pointing back to our tiny champion, "although nervous at first, lets go of her hesitation when she engages the other person. She welcomes her opponent to the match and is not afraid of getting hit, taking a risk or looking bad. That's what is putting her ahead of the others."
She then turned to me. "Once you have that mindset, your body will become more relaxed in its technique, and your form and speed will improve. Let yourself go a little more, and the technique will follow. Don't try to be an expert fencer. Just be you, be relaxed and don't be afraid to take risks."
As we continued to chat, I also learned that the difference between the intermediate-level épée and the basic training foil is that the épée has a larger bell guard for a hilt and a stiffer blade. Competing with the épée is the only weapon in fencing where the opponent's entire body is an open target, and it is the heaviest of the three fencing weapons (i.e., foil, épée and saber). Historically, it evolved from the 17th century smallsword and eventually became the main weapon used for duelling throughout the 18th and 19th centuries. In the 19th century, authorities eliminated the fatal aspect of duelling and turned it into a sport where "first blood drawn" such as a nick on the hand would decide the victor, which required more skill and accuracy than-
"Are you Otto," a soft, female voice asked, snapping me back to Union Square's reality.
I turned to face a raven-haired, brown-eyed, Maggie Gyllenhaal look-alike. Suddenly, my legs regained their strength. My posture straightened. My heartbeat grew steadier. The apprehension that had been weighing me down slowly dissipated and courage (or recklessness under the guise of courage) took its place. No matter how this date ended, my fencing lessons taught me a very important (and somewhat therapeutic) lesson:
"Just be you, be relaxed and don't be afraid to take risks." With that, I introduced myself. "That's a cool name, by the way," she said, revealing a dimpled smile.
Why the hell not? I thought. Let's see where this takes me.
You'd think I'd be used to this by now! Apparently not....
On this day, these sensations were not from yet another exhausting fencing lesson, but from another similarly exciting experience. Like my first fencing lesson, I suppose first dates are always a little nerve-wracking. Whenever you meet someone new, I think it's safe to say that most, if not all, people feel that strange combination of adrenaline, apprehension and curiosity. Then, when you finally see that someone new walking your way, you let go of all those emotions, take a deep breath and just say to yourself, "Why the hell not? Let's see where this takes me."
As I stood on the steps of Union Square one warm Sunday afternoon, waiting for my date to appear, I realized that I had experienced a similar onslaught of emotions when I first entered the Fencing Academy. Like meeting someone new, learning a new skill such as fencing also conjures up (at least for me) those same feelings of excitement, curiosity, apprehension and eventual courage. In my case, I suppose that apprehension was the most dominant emotion during this moment. After coming off of a year-long relationship and then recklessly getting involved in another month-long...how shall we say..."experience" shortly thereafter, I was naturally a little hesitant to start dating again. In fact, I was beginning to think that perhaps I wasn't quite ready to do this at all.
Then, as I observed the nearby street performers, musicians and sketch artists, my mind wandered back to one of my more recent gruelling training sessions at the Academy, after which I remained for another half hour and watched the more advanced students sparring back and forth. In particular, my attenton was caught by the Academy's competition team, consisting of fencers between the ages of 16-18. As I watched them parrying and lunging with each other while I massaged my aching triceps, my instructor sat down beside me on the hardwood floor.
"Do you see that one," she asked, pointing a long, slender finger towards a young girl, poised in the en garde position. She was dressed in the starch-white fencer's uniform and holding an épée ready for attack. She was facing off against a boy who was at least three inches taller than her and easily had a longer reach. "Who do you think will win?"
I looked at both fencers. The girl, who looked as if a slight breeze could knock her over, was slightly hunched over, and her free hand was shaking. "The boy will win," I replied.
"Why," my instructor asked.
"Because the girl is nervous," I observed. "She doesn't look like she's concentrating. Her free hand is shaking and she's hunched over. The boy easily has a longer reach and is twice her size."
"Ahhh," my instructor said with that sly smile indicating that I was about to be proven dead wrong. "True, the girl is nervous, but watch."
I turned back to the two teenaged fencers. As soon as their instructor yelled, "En position!" something amazing happened. Suddenly, the girl's posture became ramrod straight. Her legs bent slightly as she readied herself for the match. Her free hand went from swaying back and forth to becoming as steady as a statue. Gone was the reed-thin, apprehensive teenaged girl, and in her place was a young, confident warrior ready to lunge, parry and strike.
And that's just what she did. When the signal to begin buzzed, the boy with the longer reach and the advantage of height suddenly found the tip of the girl's épée batting away his blade as if swatting a fly, and in the next second, it was planted squarely in the center of his padded chest. It was as if this young, scared girl simply said to herself, "Why the hell not? Let's see where this takes me."
"Holy s--t," I whispered. My instructor raised an eyebrow at me as I suddenly realized that, in addition to various parents and teenaged fencers, there were also a couple of eight-year olds playing in the far corner of the room, who stopped and looked up at me dumbfounded. "Uhhh...." I stammered, realizing that their parents would have words with me later about my apparent potty mouth. My instructor sighed and patted me on the shoulder.
"I thought for sure that she'd lose," I whispered in awe. "That's what everyone thinks when they first see her," my instructor said. She pointed to the other students, who were awkwardly sparring with each other in the other lanes. "You see how these other students hesitate before they strike," she asked. "It's because they're nervous. They're afraid of getting hit or looking bad in front of everyone else. But this one," she continued, pointing back to our tiny champion, "although nervous at first, lets go of her hesitation when she engages the other person. She welcomes her opponent to the match and is not afraid of getting hit, taking a risk or looking bad. That's what is putting her ahead of the others."
She then turned to me. "Once you have that mindset, your body will become more relaxed in its technique, and your form and speed will improve. Let yourself go a little more, and the technique will follow. Don't try to be an expert fencer. Just be you, be relaxed and don't be afraid to take risks."
As we continued to chat, I also learned that the difference between the intermediate-level épée and the basic training foil is that the épée has a larger bell guard for a hilt and a stiffer blade. Competing with the épée is the only weapon in fencing where the opponent's entire body is an open target, and it is the heaviest of the three fencing weapons (i.e., foil, épée and saber). Historically, it evolved from the 17th century smallsword and eventually became the main weapon used for duelling throughout the 18th and 19th centuries. In the 19th century, authorities eliminated the fatal aspect of duelling and turned it into a sport where "first blood drawn" such as a nick on the hand would decide the victor, which required more skill and accuracy than-
"Are you Otto," a soft, female voice asked, snapping me back to Union Square's reality.
I turned to face a raven-haired, brown-eyed, Maggie Gyllenhaal look-alike. Suddenly, my legs regained their strength. My posture straightened. My heartbeat grew steadier. The apprehension that had been weighing me down slowly dissipated and courage (or recklessness under the guise of courage) took its place. No matter how this date ended, my fencing lessons taught me a very important (and somewhat therapeutic) lesson:
"Just be you, be relaxed and don't be afraid to take risks." With that, I introduced myself. "That's a cool name, by the way," she said, revealing a dimpled smile.
Why the hell not? I thought. Let's see where this takes me.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Lesson #2: The Parry (Foils and Flowers- the Fencer's Idea of Romance)
For the week after my first lesson, I awoke at 5:30 a.m. nearly every morning and spent a good twenty minutes of my workouts groggily lunging across my carpet, holding a broom stick that served as a makeshift foil and thrusting it at a small bullseye taped to my wall, while Linkin Park blasted from my desktop speakers. Just picture it: a grown man, half asleep in his pajamas, spinning a broomstick wildly about his apartment at imaginary opponents while trying to wake himself up by declaring to nobody in particular, "HELLO! My name is Inigo Montoya....."
One morning, an elderly woman in the apartment building across the street was staring at me through her window in disbelief, probably wondering whether she should call the police or an exorcist as she watched me clumsily flail about. But I didn't care. My first fencing lesson had opened my eyes to a whole new environment, and I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to be as good as those kids who were expertly parrying and attacking. I wanted to continue absorbing new techniques, trying new stances and testing my limits. I couldn't wait to re-enter that room and hear the clashing of the blades, feel the excitement of the students and get my butt kicked again by this crazy Romanian instructor who was half my size.
Finally, it was time: I once again found myself standing on the hardwood floor at one end of Fencing Lane 4, with my instructor scowling at me from the other end. "Salute,"
she commanded. With that, we both engaged in the standard greeting between fencers (besides stabbing your opponent, of course): we raised and pointed the tips of our foils at each other. Then, we flicked our blades up so that they were parallel with our noses (kind of like what you see in those commercials for the U.S. Marines). Finally, with another flick of our arms, our blades would swish downwards towards the floor.
Speaking of Marine drill sergeants: "Let's see your stance. En garde!" she rumbled.
I assumed the position, with my front, right foot pointed straight forward and perpendicular to my rear, left leg. My right, gloved arm was slightly bent and holding my foil while I "pinched" close to the hilt with my thumb and index finger. "Better," my instructor smiled as she came over and brought my elbow closer to my side to correct my posture. After five minutes of advancing, retreating and striking the grey patch on her vest, she seemed fairly pleased with my progress. "And now we lunge," she said.
This was it. Zorro the Astronaut was about to have his revenge.
She stepped back as I steadied myself, relaxed my shoulders and focused on the tip of my foil. "And.....LUNGE," she shouted. With that, I kicked out my right leg, raised my sword hand and allowed my foil to make its way to the grey patch. The tip landed squarely in the center of the patch with a satisfying THUD. I did it! I was so happy that I left myself in that classic lunging pose seen on the posters lining the gym walls above me. Ha! I thought. I must look exactly like the Dread Pirate Roberts! Cary Elwes, eat your heart out!
"No," my instructor said to my disbelief, her helmet shaking from side to side in disapproval. I didn't understand. What did I do wrong? I had pinched my grip, held my footing and kept my eye on the blade. "What happened," I asked sheepishly. "You're much too stiff," she explained. Boy, I thought. Everyone's a critic.
"Fencing is not about punching your foil into the opponent," she continued. "It is more elegant than that. The lunge is a smoother motion with your arm. Extend your arm more before you kick your leg out, and let your body guide the sword to my vest." She could see that I was still confused. "Think of it this way," she said. "Rather than punching your sword out as if to hit me, do it as if you're giving me the foil, and it will help you follow through more. Think of it as if you're giving flowers to a pretty girl." She paused for a moment. "Except....it's a sword to the chest instead of flowers."
How romantic.
We then moved on to my very first parry. The parry, as it turns out, is one of the most foundational maneuvers in fencing, as it both blocks an attacker's blade and transfers the ability to counter-attack (also known as "priority") to the parrying defender. Therefore, a parry is used not only to protect yourself, but also to create an opening to land a point during a match. "So," she said, "we start with Parry Number 4." This parry turned out to be, at first blush, a surprisingly simple movement. My instructor had me hold the foil in the usual en garde position, as if holding a pistol, with the tip of the blade pointed at her.
"Now, watch me," she commanded, standing beside me and imitating my stance. With a flick of her wrist, her foil whipped up across her torso to her left shoulder, meant to deflect a strike to her chest. "Think of it like flicking your wrist backwards to open a can of soda. Notice how my elbow does not move. It's all in the wrist. Now you try." She then moved in front of me and prepared to attack me. I readied myself to parry.
Then I blinked.
Before I knew it, I heard a great swish and found her foil planted squarely in the center of my chest. My attempt to parry had absolutely no effect on her foil at all. Rather than batting her foil away, the tip of my own foil somehow ended up lodged in the dark mesh of my mask that protected my face. To my amazement, when I let go of my foil...it was still lodged in my mask, dangling limply like a long, pointy booger hanging from my nose. I could hear the other students start to snicker at this sight. Oh well, I thought. At least the protective mesh really works.
"Oh my God," my instructor exclaimed. "Are you alright, Otto?" I tore my mask off and yanked the foil out with frustration. "Fine," I huffed. "I think I need to work on that." For the remainder of the lesson, I practiced the parry, each time learning a new, minute detail. For example, when one parries, the defending fencer's forte (or the stronger part of the blade) strikes the attacker's foible (or the tip of the blade).
"For next week, I want you to practice keeping your elbow still with the parry," my instructor advised. "Also, practice the follow-through with the lunge. " I sighed in frustration at how sloppy my technique was. "Don't worry," she said encouragingly, patting my back. "It takes time."
As I hobbled back to my car, drenched in sweat, it dawned on me how much I still had to learn, not only about fencing, but about my own impatience. I was still too stiff because I wanted to impress my instructor. I wanted to become perfect too quickly. Maybe that's why I was punching my blade too hard. There was a lot more work to be done. I had to become more fluid in my technique, more....elegant. But I wasn't going to give up.
Which meant that the elderly woman across the street was about to get more of a show....
One morning, an elderly woman in the apartment building across the street was staring at me through her window in disbelief, probably wondering whether she should call the police or an exorcist as she watched me clumsily flail about. But I didn't care. My first fencing lesson had opened my eyes to a whole new environment, and I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to be as good as those kids who were expertly parrying and attacking. I wanted to continue absorbing new techniques, trying new stances and testing my limits. I couldn't wait to re-enter that room and hear the clashing of the blades, feel the excitement of the students and get my butt kicked again by this crazy Romanian instructor who was half my size.
Finally, it was time: I once again found myself standing on the hardwood floor at one end of Fencing Lane 4, with my instructor scowling at me from the other end. "Salute,"
she commanded. With that, we both engaged in the standard greeting between fencers (besides stabbing your opponent, of course): we raised and pointed the tips of our foils at each other. Then, we flicked our blades up so that they were parallel with our noses (kind of like what you see in those commercials for the U.S. Marines). Finally, with another flick of our arms, our blades would swish downwards towards the floor.
Speaking of Marine drill sergeants: "Let's see your stance. En garde!" she rumbled.
I assumed the position, with my front, right foot pointed straight forward and perpendicular to my rear, left leg. My right, gloved arm was slightly bent and holding my foil while I "pinched" close to the hilt with my thumb and index finger. "Better," my instructor smiled as she came over and brought my elbow closer to my side to correct my posture. After five minutes of advancing, retreating and striking the grey patch on her vest, she seemed fairly pleased with my progress. "And now we lunge," she said.
This was it. Zorro the Astronaut was about to have his revenge.
She stepped back as I steadied myself, relaxed my shoulders and focused on the tip of my foil. "And.....LUNGE," she shouted. With that, I kicked out my right leg, raised my sword hand and allowed my foil to make its way to the grey patch. The tip landed squarely in the center of the patch with a satisfying THUD. I did it! I was so happy that I left myself in that classic lunging pose seen on the posters lining the gym walls above me. Ha! I thought. I must look exactly like the Dread Pirate Roberts! Cary Elwes, eat your heart out!
"No," my instructor said to my disbelief, her helmet shaking from side to side in disapproval. I didn't understand. What did I do wrong? I had pinched my grip, held my footing and kept my eye on the blade. "What happened," I asked sheepishly. "You're much too stiff," she explained. Boy, I thought. Everyone's a critic.
"Fencing is not about punching your foil into the opponent," she continued. "It is more elegant than that. The lunge is a smoother motion with your arm. Extend your arm more before you kick your leg out, and let your body guide the sword to my vest." She could see that I was still confused. "Think of it this way," she said. "Rather than punching your sword out as if to hit me, do it as if you're giving me the foil, and it will help you follow through more. Think of it as if you're giving flowers to a pretty girl." She paused for a moment. "Except....it's a sword to the chest instead of flowers."
How romantic.
We then moved on to my very first parry. The parry, as it turns out, is one of the most foundational maneuvers in fencing, as it both blocks an attacker's blade and transfers the ability to counter-attack (also known as "priority") to the parrying defender. Therefore, a parry is used not only to protect yourself, but also to create an opening to land a point during a match. "So," she said, "we start with Parry Number 4." This parry turned out to be, at first blush, a surprisingly simple movement. My instructor had me hold the foil in the usual en garde position, as if holding a pistol, with the tip of the blade pointed at her.
"Now, watch me," she commanded, standing beside me and imitating my stance. With a flick of her wrist, her foil whipped up across her torso to her left shoulder, meant to deflect a strike to her chest. "Think of it like flicking your wrist backwards to open a can of soda. Notice how my elbow does not move. It's all in the wrist. Now you try." She then moved in front of me and prepared to attack me. I readied myself to parry.
Then I blinked.
Before I knew it, I heard a great swish and found her foil planted squarely in the center of my chest. My attempt to parry had absolutely no effect on her foil at all. Rather than batting her foil away, the tip of my own foil somehow ended up lodged in the dark mesh of my mask that protected my face. To my amazement, when I let go of my foil...it was still lodged in my mask, dangling limply like a long, pointy booger hanging from my nose. I could hear the other students start to snicker at this sight. Oh well, I thought. At least the protective mesh really works.
"Oh my God," my instructor exclaimed. "Are you alright, Otto?" I tore my mask off and yanked the foil out with frustration. "Fine," I huffed. "I think I need to work on that." For the remainder of the lesson, I practiced the parry, each time learning a new, minute detail. For example, when one parries, the defending fencer's forte (or the stronger part of the blade) strikes the attacker's foible (or the tip of the blade).
"For next week, I want you to practice keeping your elbow still with the parry," my instructor advised. "Also, practice the follow-through with the lunge. " I sighed in frustration at how sloppy my technique was. "Don't worry," she said encouragingly, patting my back. "It takes time."
As I hobbled back to my car, drenched in sweat, it dawned on me how much I still had to learn, not only about fencing, but about my own impatience. I was still too stiff because I wanted to impress my instructor. I wanted to become perfect too quickly. Maybe that's why I was punching my blade too hard. There was a lot more work to be done. I had to become more fluid in my technique, more....elegant. But I wasn't going to give up.
Which meant that the elderly woman across the street was about to get more of a show....
Sunday, June 14, 2009
En position! Lesson #1: Zorro the Astronaut vs. The Grey Patch
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.
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.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Introduction: Taking it to the Hilt! A Little About Me and My Very First Blog.
Hi there! And welcome to my very first blog. I've never been too savvy with these sorts of things, but in the past, many of my friends have pointed me to several different blogs they created. One common theme I noticed was the fact that many of my buds blog to tell the world about their hobbies, their travels and their experiences. In short, blogging is a cornucopia filled with all of life's little passions. It soon donned on me that (1) it was time to give myself a new creative outlet; (2) many of my friends find blogging to be a wonderfully cathartic experience; and (3) I recently fell into a new hobby that has quickly become a passion and one of the highlights of my week. So, I figured that it's time to give in to the blogging craze and throw my hat into the virtual ring.
And what exactly is this crazy new passion that I am so anxious to share with you? Judging by the title of my blog, I'm guessing that you already know. That's right: the elegant (and very painful) art of fencing! So, many of you are probably wondering what would compel an ordinary joe like me to engage in a hobby that entails lunging at your partner with a large, pointy stick, coming away with numerous bruises on my chest, icing my quadriceps in the shower...and then returning the following week for more. I mean, really...how the hell do you even call that a hobby?! What on earth is behind this madness, and is there any method to it?
Well, the answer is that there actually is a story behind this madness, and it's not just a random whim (to which I admit I am sometimes prone). If you follow me on my adventures, you'll also see that there is indeed a very precise method to fencing, which I'm still learning through blood, sweat, tears and many packs of ice.
So, let's start with what's behind this madness and how I got into this whole thing. You see, many moons ago during my former college life, I spent a summer as a starving stage actor in a tiny theater troupe puttering around Ontario, Canada, and what an eye-opening experience that was! We met many faces, made many fans, slept on stage floors together, ate lousy take-out food, traveled on barely any money...and had the times of our lives.
But I digress.
During our tour of dramatic duty, my buds and I had the distinct pleasure of performing in summer productions of "Henry V" and "Romeo & Juliet," each of which required about a month or so of stage combat training, most of which happened to encompass the art of fencing. Not only was I developing a love for all things written by the good Bard, but I was also enthralled whenever I heard our blades clashing together, mastered a new parry, or heard the great "swoosh" that my blade made every time I lunged forward and felt my quadriceps paying for it. There I was, a 21-year old, snot-nosed brat, discovering that fencing is a true art form and an exquisite sport, encompassing and developing each and every mental and physical aspect of one's being. I was hooked. I wanted to do this forever. Of course, as I was to find out many years later, real fencing is a far cry from stage fencing.
Flash forward nine years later and about two months ago. My former life is a distant but wonderful memory. There I was, now living in Westchester, New York, driving home one warm, sunny evening along Saw Mill River Road through Hawthorne. As I drove, I reflected on this past year, which has seen me through many experiences, both good and bad. I began to think that I've been wanting to re-visit some of my oldest hobbies. I needed something regular in my schedule that I could call my own. I needed something to unwind; something that could make me feel as good as I did when I was that 21-year old, snot-nosed brat (as opposed to the 30-year old, snot-nosed brat who writes this blog that you see before you).
Then I saw it.
Approaching on my right-hand side was a small office park. In the middle of all the I.T. companies, law offices and obscure educational institutions, I saw a small, glowing, barely noticeable sign over an entrance that would eventually lead me to a whole new world. It was a sign for the Fencing Academy of Westchester. I hit the brakes and pulled into the office park. As soon as I pulled up to the Academy, and even before I entered the building, I could already hear the distant sounds of blades clashing together, instructors yelling out directions and fencers whooping gleefully as they scored points. Immediately, all the wonderful memories from all those years ago came flooding back into my mind.
This was it. This was what I was looking for. The fencing gods had given me a second chance, and I had to take it. And, boy, was I about to pay for it.....
And as for the method to the madness? Follow me on my blog, and join me as I learn how to lunge, parry, disengage, draw and attack through lots of trials, countless errors, and myriad pulled muscles. A word of caution: don't take any of the stuff on my blog as actual fencing advice or instruction (believe me, I'm the last person you want as a fencing instructor). The purpose of this blog is simply to share with you the trials and tribulations of my quest to learn more about this wonderful, ancient and elegant art form, which I hope makes for some fun reading for all of you.
So, throw on your mask, pick up your foil, and en garde! Bienvenue a mon histoire.
And what exactly is this crazy new passion that I am so anxious to share with you? Judging by the title of my blog, I'm guessing that you already know. That's right: the elegant (and very painful) art of fencing! So, many of you are probably wondering what would compel an ordinary joe like me to engage in a hobby that entails lunging at your partner with a large, pointy stick, coming away with numerous bruises on my chest, icing my quadriceps in the shower...and then returning the following week for more. I mean, really...how the hell do you even call that a hobby?! What on earth is behind this madness, and is there any method to it?
Well, the answer is that there actually is a story behind this madness, and it's not just a random whim (to which I admit I am sometimes prone). If you follow me on my adventures, you'll also see that there is indeed a very precise method to fencing, which I'm still learning through blood, sweat, tears and many packs of ice.
So, let's start with what's behind this madness and how I got into this whole thing. You see, many moons ago during my former college life, I spent a summer as a starving stage actor in a tiny theater troupe puttering around Ontario, Canada, and what an eye-opening experience that was! We met many faces, made many fans, slept on stage floors together, ate lousy take-out food, traveled on barely any money...and had the times of our lives.
But I digress.
During our tour of dramatic duty, my buds and I had the distinct pleasure of performing in summer productions of "Henry V" and "Romeo & Juliet," each of which required about a month or so of stage combat training, most of which happened to encompass the art of fencing. Not only was I developing a love for all things written by the good Bard, but I was also enthralled whenever I heard our blades clashing together, mastered a new parry, or heard the great "swoosh" that my blade made every time I lunged forward and felt my quadriceps paying for it. There I was, a 21-year old, snot-nosed brat, discovering that fencing is a true art form and an exquisite sport, encompassing and developing each and every mental and physical aspect of one's being. I was hooked. I wanted to do this forever. Of course, as I was to find out many years later, real fencing is a far cry from stage fencing.
Flash forward nine years later and about two months ago. My former life is a distant but wonderful memory. There I was, now living in Westchester, New York, driving home one warm, sunny evening along Saw Mill River Road through Hawthorne. As I drove, I reflected on this past year, which has seen me through many experiences, both good and bad. I began to think that I've been wanting to re-visit some of my oldest hobbies. I needed something regular in my schedule that I could call my own. I needed something to unwind; something that could make me feel as good as I did when I was that 21-year old, snot-nosed brat (as opposed to the 30-year old, snot-nosed brat who writes this blog that you see before you).
Then I saw it.
Approaching on my right-hand side was a small office park. In the middle of all the I.T. companies, law offices and obscure educational institutions, I saw a small, glowing, barely noticeable sign over an entrance that would eventually lead me to a whole new world. It was a sign for the Fencing Academy of Westchester. I hit the brakes and pulled into the office park. As soon as I pulled up to the Academy, and even before I entered the building, I could already hear the distant sounds of blades clashing together, instructors yelling out directions and fencers whooping gleefully as they scored points. Immediately, all the wonderful memories from all those years ago came flooding back into my mind.
This was it. This was what I was looking for. The fencing gods had given me a second chance, and I had to take it. And, boy, was I about to pay for it.....
And as for the method to the madness? Follow me on my blog, and join me as I learn how to lunge, parry, disengage, draw and attack through lots of trials, countless errors, and myriad pulled muscles. A word of caution: don't take any of the stuff on my blog as actual fencing advice or instruction (believe me, I'm the last person you want as a fencing instructor). The purpose of this blog is simply to share with you the trials and tribulations of my quest to learn more about this wonderful, ancient and elegant art form, which I hope makes for some fun reading for all of you.
So, throw on your mask, pick up your foil, and en garde! Bienvenue a mon histoire.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
