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.