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.
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