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....
