"GO!"- Speed, Coordination and Improving Reflexes Through Observation and the Circle of Death

In pursuing my goal of becoming the consummate swordsman, I've been beaten, bruised, poked, stabbed, chided and shown up by ten-year olds who could rival Zorro himself.  Yet, I happily return for more, as with each new injury and bout of humiliation I slowly improve.  However, during my latest round of self-punishment in the name of entertaining my adoring readers, I found out that just as much technique can be learned through simple observation. 

And believe me, this was a welcome alternative to my usual method of education, i.e. getting the snot royally kicked out of me. 

During my latest lesson, I arrived at the Academy to find my instructor in the middle of teaching little Lucy, the diminutive fencer who forced me to learn Parry Number 8 very quickly two blog entries ago.  She waved excitedly and yelled, "Hiiiiii, Otto!"  I approached them, shook hands with my instructor and patted Lucy on the head. "Hey, Lucy," I said.  "What are you learning today?"

"I'm learning the disengage," she smiled widely.  "Lucy," my instructor said, "show Otto what you can do."  My instructor slowly approached Lucy with her foil.  Lucy smoothly ducked her little foil under my instructor's and landed a hit below her ribs, letting out a bray of delight as my instructor congratulated her on a job well done. 

"Wow," I exclaimed.  "You learned that in one lesson?" 

"Yesh," Lucy nodded, speaking with a slight lisp due to her little gap-toothed smile. 

"Lucy and I will be a few more minutes," my instructor said.  I told them that it was no problem and that I would use the time to stretch.  As they went about the remainder of their lesson, I walked to the sidelines, dropped my gym bag and began stretching out my legs, loosening my wrists and warming up with a few lunges, all while taking in that wonderful sound of sabres, foils and rapiers clanging and clashing about the room.

As I sat on the floor feeling my hamstrings elongate and relax, my eye caught a group of seven or eight students at the other end of the room standing in a circle, each boy and girl about a half foot from each other, and all of them dressed in the freshly starched whites of the Academy's competition team.  They all held their foils upside down, with the tips touching the floor.  In the center of the circle stood one of the other instructors, a slim, striking blonde who had her hands clasped behind her statuesque back.  It seemed as if the students were waiting for a signal from her.  She looked around, making sure that all eyes were focused on her.  Then....

"GO," she yelled out.

Before she even finished her command, there was a uniform shuffling of feet.  Like a synchronized dance, the circle suddenly shifted, each student letting go of his or her own foil and immediately lunging to the left, reaching for the other person's foil and grabbing it before it could move or fall to the ground.  Round and round they went, increasing their speed with each command from their instructor.  One of the boys didn't make it in time, and the foil for which he was reaching clattered to the ground.  "You're out, Robby," the instructor quipped.  Robby cursed quietly and moped over to the sidelines.

As the drill continued, the instructor increased the frequency and speed with which she yelled, "GO," causing her students to start huffing and straining as they lunged.  More of them fumbled and were sent  grumbling to the sidelines.  "Damn," one girl yelled as she practically dived for a foil and missed.  "Crap," a boy stammered as his heel slipped due to a lunge that was too fast and too narrow.  Other expletives not suitable for this blog were uttered as more students were sent out of the circle.

"Speed," the instructor yelled at her students.  "Speed and coordination are the keys!  Focus on the handle of the foil and aim your hand towards it.  Don't hesitate, otherwise you'll be dead, just like in a match."

Soon, I began to grasp the purpose of this seemingly exhausting exercise: not only was it meant to improve a fencer's reflexes, but it also forced each student to adjust his or her stance and footwork to increase speed and enable him or her to make it to the next foil while under pressure.  I watched as the circle was narrowed down to four remaining fencers.  Each of them slightly widened their stances, lunged with larger strides and stretched out their sword hands in an effort to keep their foils from falling to the ground. 

Eventually, two combatants were left to duke it out for the title of Top Fencer: a very petite brunette; and a taller, lanky-looking boy.  They stood across from each other, their bodies tensed, perspiration pouring from their foreheads, their eyes darting from their instructor to each other.  All of the other students sat on the edges of their seats in suspense, as did I.  You could practically cut through the anticipation with a sabre.  Both of them were poised to lunge forward with catlike refle-

"GO!"

They both darted forward at each other's foils in picture-perfect lunges, their front legs smoothly stepping out and landing- heels first, then toes- with impeccable form.  The girl ably snatched up the boy's foil and whirled it around into a perfect en garde position.  The boy stretched out his arm for the girl's foil, but he overestimated his reach and his aim.  His hand shot over the top of the foil's handle, allowing it to clatter onto the floor and causing the boy to shake his head in defeat.  His classmates let out a collective, "Ohhhhhh!"

Afterwards, the brunette and the boy shook hands, and everyone was congratulated by the instructor on a job well done before heading off to their respective fencing lanes for some sparring.  My instructor, having sent Lucy toddling off to her mother, strode up beside me.  "You want to try that game," she asked. 

"I don't know," I answered.  "I don't think I'm fast enough."

"You will be if you practice it," my instructor said.  "Come to another one of the adult classes and try it with them.  It's a great warm-up and does wonders for your form and reflexes."  I agreed that this sounded like a great idea.  "Just out of curiosity," I asked, "which one of the adults has made it to the end of the Circle of Death over there?"

"So far, Monty has been unbeatable."

Of course....

Helga's Lonely Hearts Club: Lessons in Life, Love and Looking Forward Through The Art of the Sword

We've all been there in life. A wonderful relative unfortunately passes on. A childhood friend drifts out of touch as years go by. And, of course, almost everyone has sustained the proverbial broken heart. And everyone has their own way of dealing with these sad little curve balls that life seems to enjoy throwing our way. Some people take up bowling. Some people travel. Some people buy a pet. Hell, some people buy many pets.

And apparently, some people fence.

I had decided to switch up my schedule and see what it's like to hang out with the adult classes. Although I had previously sparred with Monty and Arnold, I'd been curious to see how the rest of the thirty-plus crowd rolls when it comes to the fine art of the sword. So, one brisk evening after work, I drove up Hawthorne's Route 9A, which was ablaze with bursts of yellow, purple and orange autumn foliage, to attend one of the adult sparring sessions.

When I arrived, I expected to find the adults relegated to a small corner in the studio while the other teenaged fencers whooped and hollered about the rest of the space. Instead, I was greeted by Monty, Arnold and four other jovial grown-ups in the otherwise empty and eerily silent studio. All of them were in their late thirties to early fifties, easily placing me as the kid in the group. However, they all sparred with just as much gusto and friendly competition as the teenagers that I'm normally used to seeing. "Hey," Monty called out. "Welcome to the big leagues, kiddo!"

"More like the old timers' league," Arnold chuckled, clapping me over the shoulder and guiding me to the group. Among them was Helga, a pleasant, plump lady in her mid-forties who hails from Berlin, lives in Westchester County and has a habit of giggling at every third word she says. She shook my hand and offered me a warm, red-cheeked smile as I told her my name. "Otto," she repeated in a beautifully articulate German accent, turning my name over in her mouth while looking quizzically at me. "How did you get a name like zat? Do you have any Deutsch blut in your family?"

"Nein," I replied, surprising Helga with my butchered, North American-ized and very limited German. "No German blood in my family." With that, Helga welcomed me into the class and offered to be my sparring partner, which I readily accepted. "So," she quipped as she slipped on her mask. "Your instructor tells me zat you have learned a zing or two quite well."

"Really," I asked, sliding into the en garde position. "She said that?" Before I could even finish that question, Helga launched into her attack with surprising agility and speed. Apparently, my instructor must have also taught Helga a zing or two, as her apparent compliment was immediately followed by a blink-and-you're-dead attack. I instinctively shuffled back and blocked her lightning lunges with a Parry 6, a Lucky Number 8 and then countered with a double disengage, which she easily blocked. She launched into a blindingly quick riposte, or counter attack, with a quick lunge to my left, followed by a smooth disengage under my Parry 4 and a hit- a very palpable hit- straight to my solar plexis, slightly knocking the wind out of me.

After fifteen minutes of getting the snot kicked out of me with true German efficiency, Helga and I plopped down onto a pair of stools for a break, sucking back Gatorade while watching Monty and Arnold clash with each other. "How did you learn to fence like that," I asked, panting through slurps of my drink while wiping perspiration from my forehead.

What followed was probably one of the most heart-breaking yet inspiring stories I've ever heard.

Helga was married to a businessman in Berlin who taught her how to fence. It was one of the first things that attracted her to him. She recalled how, during one of their first dates, he gently caressed her hand as he cuddled behind her and showed her how to lunge, circle and disengage. From that day forward for the next seven years, they fenced together almost daily. It was one of the great bonds of their romance and what eventually led to their marriage.

Until one day she returned home from work and found him in bed with another woman. Helga was so distraught that she left Germany altogether and moved to New York, where she went to school and started a new life as a teacher. After a few years of living here, she stumbled across the Academy and began fencing again.

I was surprised at how readily Helga volunteered this information to me. "So, why keep fencing," I asked. "Doesn't it remind you of your ex-husband?" I was worried that this question might re-open an old emotional wound. However, Helga simply nodded and sighed. "I still miss him every day despite all zat happened, my boy. But fencing is part of my own life too, not just the life we had together in Germany.

"I used fencing to channel all of my anger, my heartache and even my longing to have him back. And you know what? It helped. I regained my own focus through fencing. Fencing helped me grow back into a person who was healthier, happier and who realized zat, while I still miss him, it is simply what life has dealt me." She then nodded at Monty. "So now I take out my frustrations on him," she shouted with a smile.

"I only have eyes for you, love," Monty retorted in mock flirtation while parrying Arnold's lunge.  Helga cocked her head at my apparent reaction to her story. "Why the long face," she asked. "It's nothing," I said. "Just...your story is amazing."

A long pause ensued.

"Tell me about her," Helga finally said, catching me off guard.

At first, I refused. But in all fairness, Helga had just revealed one of her most personal romantic tragedies and her subsequent recovery. So, after some verbal fencing, her persistence in that charming accent won me over, and I finally took a deep breath and agreed to answer her questions.

Yes, it was a substantial and wonderful relationship, lasting a little over a year. Yes, we fell for each other almost immediately. Yes, she left me. No, she didn't cheat on me. Yes, the break-up was bad.

Yes, I started fencing to cope. Yes, I do feel more focused and stronger since I started. It's helped me to regain my confidence with each lunge that I do, each new parry that I learn and each drive that I take to the Academy, looking forward to these wonderful lessons.  Yes, I also had the planet's best friends and family to help me through. 

Helga patted me compassionately on the shoulder. "My dear boy," she sighed. "If it's one thing fencing has taught me, it's zis: always keep looking forward." I sighed as well. "That's easier said than done, Helga."

"I know it is, dear boy," she said. "But, just like fencing, a lesson in heartbreak will make you stronger and wiser. With each lesson in fencing, you become smarter as you learn a new parry, a new feign or a new riposte. Similarly, as time goes by with your unfortunate incident, you will become wiser and know what to look out for the next time.  I promise. But I know exactly how you feel. The pain doesn't subside easily, particularly with someone special who leaves like that."

I nodded at my wise, fencing Yoda as we both took sips of our drinks, bonding in our shared moment of silent reflection.

"Hey," Monty called out to us. "Break up the lonely hearts club over there and get your butts up here for some sparring." And with that, I shook Helga's hand, thanked her for her story and her advice, and stepped up to square off against Monty.  "Cheer up, lad," he smiled as I whipped up my foil. "Let's see what you got."

So, to anyone who's been poked in the chest with life's little sabre, take heart in this story, know that you're not alone, and for what it's worth, do your best to look forward.