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....
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