Stumbling To Success: Frankenstein, Little Yoda's and Unlikely Sources of Inspiration While Learning the Art of Fencing

This just wasn't working.

No matter how hard I tried, somehow every muscle in my body felt cold and stiff.  Rather than the lithe, flexible, Inigo Montoya-esque fencer that I would like to think I'm gradually becoming, today I felt more like Boris Karloff's Frankenstein as I lumbered about the fencing lane, my feet slamming to the floor like a  pair of falling trees every time I clumsily lunged towards my instructor.  Each parry that I mustered up came a split second too late, allowing her to easily slip her foil past my defenses.  After a few minutes of slow-paced sparring, my instructor sighed and angrily yanked off her helmet.  "Otto, what's going on," she stammered, "Where is your mind today?"

Since coming so close to tying up my challenge match with Monty, I had been constantly replaying the final moments of our bout in my mind.  Admittedly, losing to him after training so hard was a tad discouraging.  How could his blade have beaten mine after such a close fight?!  Even someone as good as Monty had to have a kink in his armor, a way around his seemingly unbeatable strategies.  Since that fateful battle, I started to wonder if I was even cut out for this sport or if I was simply wasting my time.  Over the past few months, I had pulled nearly every muscle in my legs, been humiliated in front of both the kids and adults alike, and now I lost twenty bucks in a challenge match that I felt I could have won.

It also didn't help that my instructor was enthusiastically giving me a stern dressing-down.  "You're not concentrating at all today," she scolded, "and this type of mindset will cost you points!  You have to be more focused, Otto!  You have to think of your blade, your opponent's blade and nothing else!"

Having no excuse for my less than stellar swordsmanship this evening, I simply asked her what I should do to improve.  "Let's take a five-minute break so you can stretch out your muscles.  Then we'll warm up some more with a little target practice with the Tin Men," she sighed, motioning over to the practice dummies at the other end of the studio, whose drooping helmets and slumped wooden shoulders made them look like defeated underdogs.

Somehow, I could relate.

I sighed as I peeled off my helmet, wiped the sweat from my brow and  trudged over to the far wall, plopping myself down on  the polished wooden floor to stretch out my calves and shake off the last of the winter cold from my bones.  As I felt my calves and hamstrings painfully elongating while the warm blood-flow through them quickened, I looked up as a shadow suddenly entered my view.  Standing over me was everyone's favorite little fencing dynamo, Theo, and a gentleman who I've never seen.  He appeared to be in his late forties, balding, with a large handlebar mustache and an equally large belly protruding from his "Valhalla High" sweater.  I cocked my head at the sight of this extremely odd pairing.

"Hey, kiddo," I said to Theo, high-fiving him as he ran up to me.  "Otttoooooo," he squealed with delight, flailing his little tuft of brown hair about as he pointed to the gentleman beside him.  "This is my dad."

I immediately jumped up and shook the man's outstretched, beefy hand.  "Very pleased to meet you," I smiled.  Theo's father broke into a wide grin as he vigorously pumped my hand.  "It's a pleasure," he rumbled in a thick Bronx accent.  "My kid's been talking my ear off about you, and he wouldn't let me leave before meeting you.  The name's Tony."

"Otto," I introduced myself, "and believe me, the pleasure is mine.  Your son has been giving me some great fencing pointers.  He's already a fantastic little swordsman."  As we continued to chat, I found out that Tony was a volunteer firefighter in Westchester and worked during the day as a teacher.  He initially started taking Theo to fencing lessons to help his son build confidence and respect for others.  "Why fencing," I asked.

"Well,"  Tony said, "his mom and I had tried everything from baseball camps to soccer camps because we wanted to keep Theo active, but nothing seemed to stick.  We'd come across this place several times in the past, and Theo had wanted to try it out.  The next thing you know, here our little guy is competing,  learning and loving it. I just wish it was a little cheaper."

"Wow," I whistled, "that's great that he loves it.  Hopefully I can be that good one day."

"Theo certainly thinks you're coming along, as do I," Tony commented. "We've both seen you training around the Academy for a while, and I gotta say, you've progressed quite a bit."

"Well, it certainly doesn't feel like it today," I admitted, slashing my blade through the air at nobody in particular in a small fit of frustration.

Tony laughed, "So I heard."

"Really?"

Tony nodded.  "Your instructor used to teach Theo, and she told us about your little match-up against Monty. She actually thought you fared surprisingly well for a guy who's only been at this for a few months.  She's also thinking of putting you up for a re-match."

"Really?!"

Tony nodded again.  "Oh yeah. But," he held up a finger, "she also told me that you need a clearer head and more focus to hone your technique, which all of us think is improving steadily."  Tony clapped his large hand onto my shoulder as he saw me mulling this over.  "Look, kid," he said, "we all have those days when it feels like we're not firing on all cylinders.  It happens to the best of us, even to guys like Monty or your own instructor.  But we all see how much you enjoy this sport, and you're starting to progress.  It's a learning curve, like anything else in life."

"YEAH," Theo chimed in while spinning his own little foil around in a confident flourish.

Boy, I thought, everyone in this place is like a little, wise Yoda.

As I shook Tony's hand once more and patted Theo on the head before they left, I realized that he was right.  Whenever one learns a new skill,  he or she will always stumble a few times while advancing.  The key is to persevere, take everything in stride, and above all, remember that this is a form of fun, and life could be much, much worse.  Besides, if my instructor really was thinking of a re-match with Monty, this would give me a solid, tangible goal to work towards.

Hey, you never know: sometimes in life, the biggest gifts come from the most unlikely donors, like a ten-year old kid armed with a sword and his jovial, handlebar-mustachioed father.

Go figure.

Attack of The Underdog: Betting, Beer and Battling Monty In a Fight To The Finish!

"Are you ready?"

My instructor cocked her head sideways as she watched me practice a few lunges and disengages in front of the mirror.  "I think so," I said, mustering all of the confidence that I could find in my belly as I sparred with my own reflection.

This was it.  After several months of parrying, lunging and humiliating myself before my instructor, it was time to see how I fared in a match where money and alcohol were at stake.  It had been some time since I sparred with the adults, so I didn't quite know what to expect.  "Just remember," my instructor counseled, "to always keep the blade in the Parry Six position, which will give you increased mobility in blocking your challenger's attacks.  And remember not to drag your back foot when lunging forward."

It was decided that I would fight my as-yet-unnamed challenger to the best of five hits using my new Visconti grip foil.  My instructor would keep score, while the rest of the adults would watch and learn, although it was beyond me what, if anything, these more experienced adult fencers could learn from an amateur such as myself.

"Who am I fighting, anyways," I asked as I sat on the polished wooden floor and stretched the remaining winter cold out of my calves.  Almost as if in response to my question, the door to the men's locker room flew open, and out sauntered Monty, smiling broadly as he spun his foil at me.  You're joking, I stammered to myself as I turned to my instructor, who simply smirked  and shrugged her shoulders, mouthing the words, "Good luck."

Talk about being the underdog.

"Well, m'boy," Monty announced, "shall I decide whether you'll pay that twenty bucks by cash or by check?"  

The small group of adults let out a low chuckle.  I sighed and continued to stretch out my legs.   "Don't declare victory just yet," I challenged, springing up from the floor and bouncing up and down on my knees, spinning my own foil at Monty, who peered over the hilt of my blade and smirked.  "Ahhh," he noted, "I see that you've been taught how to use the Visconti grip."  In response, I sliced my Visconti through the air in front of Monty with an intimidating swish, causing Monty to let out another hearty laugh from his weathered face.  "Excellent," he proclaimed.

With that, my instructor called us to Fencing Lane Number Five, where the rest of the adults, including  my cherub-cheeked romance counselor, Helga, and Monty's partner in crime, Arnold, sat to watch  my fight to the finish. Monty and I saluted each other before our small audience, pointing our foils  at each other, swishing them upwards vertically and then slicing them downwards.  A sudden surge of adrenaline shot its way through my body, making me realize that this would turn out to be my most intense sparring match to date.  I sank down into the en garde position, readying my blade in the Parry Six Position, with my wrist cocked slightly outwards from the center of my body.  I relaxed my shoulders and felt my fingers comfortably wrapped around the Visconti pistol grip.

"Allez," my instructor yelled out.  Monty immediately leaped forward, whirling his traditional French grip foil in a distracting circle, forcing me to quickly step back as he let off two blindingly fast lunges.  While I successfully blocked the first with a quick Parry Number Four, my moment of pride was short lived as his second strike drove its way through my next parry and caught me in the center of my chest.  "Point to Monty," my instructor announced.

Once again, I resumed my fighting stance.  This time, I went on the offensive, faking a lunge to Monty's left and then disengaging under his blade to catch Monty on the right side of his chest.  I could feel the pistol grip of the Visconti increase the flexibility in my wrist as I spun my foil.  However, Monty telegraphed my move and easily parried, swatting my blade aside as if it were an annoying gnat.  He then countered towards my lower torso, forcing me to block with a Parry Number Eight.  "Good," Monty cried happily, causing me to grin behind my mask. 

Once again, Monty's compliment got the better of me as he caught me just above my heart in my moment of distraction.  Within fifteen minutes, Monty had scored four hits to my chest, while I had scored only twice.  I needed to pick up the pace.  Inside my helmet, sweat poured down my cheeks.  My breathing came out in quick huffs.  I lunged forward, feeling my already exhausted calves cry out in pain.  As Monty parried my lunge, I suddenly saw his upper torso open up, at which I quickly disengaged around his lowered foil and just barely caught the hit, turning two points into three, prompting our small audience to actually let out a bout  of enthusiastic applause.

"Come on, Otto," my instructor cheered from the sidelines, "make us buy you the first round!"  Another chuckle emanated from the old timers.  I eat pressure for breakfast, I thought, narrowing my eyes as I once again assumed the en garde position.  This was it.  I couldn't let Monty score the fifth and final hit.  I felt my pulse pounding inside my head as I gripped the Visconti tightly and tensed every muscle in my body.

"Allez," my instructor blurted out, at which I lunged forward, letting off a rapid succession of quick slices, lunges and disengages, doing my best to drive Monty back and distract him before moving in for the kill.  At least for a while, my plan was working.  Monty was forced backwards, lithely shuffling as he smoothly but urgently parried each of my strikes.  For just a moment, I detected what seemed like slight apprehension and uncertainty in his movements.  I decided to take advantage of his momentary hesitation and drive my foil to the right side of his chest, gripping the Visconti as I pushed it in for the kill.  And suddenly....THUD! My mind reeled as I heard the sound of a blade sinking into clothing.  Did I just actually tie it up with Monty?!  Did I just land another hit on the master himself?!  This was too good to be tr-

"Point to Monty," my instructor announced.  "Monty wins."

I sighed in defeat as I looked down, realizing that Monty's foil had reached me first and caught me in the middle of my torso.  The audience broke out into applause.  Monty slid off his mask, approached me, and offered his ungloved hand, which I took.  "Not bad at all, m'boy," he smiled as he patted me on the back.  "Thanks," I grinned while wiping the perspiration from my face.  "That was intense!"

Monty laughed and announced, "Let's hit the bars!  First round is on our valiant underdog!"  As I hobbled off to the locker room, I handed Arnold a twenty dollar bill for him to begin ordering drinks.  As I set down the foil and wiped my face with a towel, I replayed the fight in my mind.  I almost had him, I thought as I reviewed the last few seconds of the match.  Somehow, I needed to find the kink in Monty's seemingly impenetrable defensive technique.  I had to get faster. I had to have a re-match.

Somehow, the underdog would have his day....

The Visconti vs. The Belgian: New Grips, New Tricks And Taking The Art Of The Sword To The Next Level

In preparation for my death-defying match on which a whole twenty dollars of my instructor's money was riding, I needed an edge.  Although my lunges and speed were slowly improving, I was still having trouble with my grip on the foil.  No matter how many different ways I switched my handle, the foil would always tip slightly upwards whenever making contact with a target, causing my aim to falter ever so slightly.

So far, I'd been using the traditional French grip, consisting of a handle that's contoured to fit the curve of the hand and allows a practitioner to "post," or hold the foil closer to the pommel rather than the hilt.  Typically, the French grip is used by beginners such as myself.  While it's allowed me to increase my speed during sparring, it often tends to bend upwards, forcing me to constantly re-focus my aim.

"For your sparring match, we'll need to try something a little different," my instructor pondered as we perused the rack of neatly lined foils, épées and sabers.  "Something that can give you a little more stability."  She pulled a foil from the rack, its blade gleaming in the light as it slid out with a smooth swish.  She pulled another one from the rack and whirled both of them upside down to show me their handles.  "Otto," she announced, "meet the Visconti and the Belgian."

And so began another fascinating lecture into the intricacies of the fencing grip and how the subtle differences between them can translate into huge advantages for a fencer.  Unlike the French grip, the Visconti and Belgian foils are armed with pistol grips, which are contoured to be held literally like a pistol.  This particular type of grip was developed in the nineteenth century by an Italian aristocrat and fencing master who lived in Belgium and is referred to by my instructor as "Monsieur Visconti" and on the Internet only as "L. Visconti" (not to be confused with the other aristocrat and famous opera director, Luchino Visconti).  The elusive master was apparently a great advocate for the art of fencing and developed the pistol grip after losing several of his fingers in a tram accident.  Over the years, several varieties of the pistol grip developed, including the Russian, American, Chinese and German grips, just to name a few.

"So, what's the difference between the Visconti and the Belgian," I asked, cocking my head at the two seemingly similar handles.  As my instructor so eloquently explained, the Visconti grip has a trigger-like knotch on the top of its handle (much like the hammer on a six-shooter) that a fencer grips with the thumb and index finger.  This provides greater dexterity in whipping or flicking the foil during a match in a hammer-like fashion.  Conversely, the Belgian's trigger-like knotch is on the bottom of the handle and is meant to be gripped by the middle finger, which provides more balance and stability for the sword hand.

I gripped the Visconti and the Belgian in each hand, feeling my fingers tighten around the trigger knotches and whirling each one around in small disengages and lunges, like a deadlier version of Edward Scissorhands.  My instructor stepped in front of  me, and we sparred using each grip to see which one best suited my style.  As we parried and lunged back and forth, the Visconti grip certainly seemed to provide more flexibility in my parries and more stability in my wrist whenever I would lunge, with which my instructor agreed.  Back and forth we went with the Visconti, our blades slicing through the air and clashing together as we danced about. 

My instructor disengaged under my blade and thrust forward, a move which had normally caught me off guard in the past.  However, with the different grip of the Visconti, I gained a good half second of speed on my parry, enabling me to block her blade just before it landed on my chest.  I then countered with a strong lunge, my wrist feeling much steadier with the pistol grip as my blade made a quick, flashing beeline towards my instructor's chest.

"Good," my instructor smiled as I landed a quick hit onto the grey patch upon her chest pad.  "How does that grip feel?"

"I feel like I can move my wrist a lot faster with the parries," I observed, "and it feels a little lighter in my hand."

"I agree," my instructor said.  "The Visconti seems to suit you better in a fight."

I whirled the Visconti foil in the air a few more times, feeling the increased dexterity and flexibility, savoring the possibility that this could be my secret weapon during my upcoming battle. 

Now let's see how this holds up in a real sparring match....

Suiting Up For Battle: Preparing The Troops, Finding Darth Vader a Helmet and Placing Bets On The Winner.

"Welcome to 2010, mates," Monty heartily bellowed.  "Let's suit up!"

The air suddenly brimmed with the scent of stale perspiration as the fencers who had now been selected to form the Academy's elite competition teams began to strap on their chest plates, gloves, fencing masks and electrically wired padding, all of which had clearly not been washed in some time.  Monty, who volunteered to be one of the coaches, conducted a walk-through among the fencers, looking like a medieval general surveying his knights in preparation for an epic battle.  He would smile and chuckle as he tightened a boy's glove here or fastened a girl's helmet there, all the while shouting words of encouragement as he moved through the rabble of these excited athletes.  

Once dressed and equipped, the junior foil team (ages 8-12) then assembled in the first two fencing lanes for their practice rounds, while the intermediate épée fencers (ages 14-18) gathered in the wider, more advanced lanes close to the end of the studio.  One coach was designated for each group: the statuesque lady of the sword that we met back in November would train the junior team, while Monty would train the more advanced intermediate team.  As each coach gave their initial pep talks and rabble-rousing speeches, I watched as each fencer's chin would rise in confidence and their smiles would grow wider with each passing moment.

"You are now among the best fencers in New York State," the lady of the sword announced in a military tone.  "This competition will not be easy, but you were all chosen because of your exceptional skills."

"It's not strength that wins this game," Monty bellowed. "It's speed, wit and a whole lot of Gatorade!"  A chuckle rose from the intermediate épée fencers.

"Hey, Otto,"  Theo yelled, running up to me in a chest pad that practically swallowed half of his tiny body.  "What's up, kiddo," I said, high-fiving him.  "You look like a pro in that padding."  Theo smiled proudly and pointed at the small emblem of a sword in the center of his chest pad.  "The other kids call me 'The Flash With La Flèche!"

Theo then held up his helmet to me.  "Can you help me put this on," he asked sheepishly.  I nodded and cocked my head sideways.  "I don't know," I wondered, "but that helmet looks awfully big for you, kiddo."  Theo and I sauntered over to a nearby rack of neatly arranged fencing masks.  While we looked for a more appropriately tailored headpiece, Theo excitedly explained that the chest pad was bought as a Christmas gift from his mother, while his brand new foil came courtesy of his father.  The total cost for turning Theo into a pint-sized, sword-wielding dynamo: a little over three hundred dollars.   "So," I inquired, "which division are you competing in?"

"Junior foil," Theo beamed.  He explained his desire to make it all the way to the finals.  To accomplish this, he would have to get past five preliminary bouts against fencing students from New Jersey, Connecticut and even Massachusetts.  After that, he would travel to New Jersey, where the semi-final rounds would be hosted.  Finally, if he could make it past Jersey, the nationals would be held back in New York City in April.

"Wow, that's a lot," I whistled as I finally found a smaller helmet, fitted it over Theo's mop of brown hair and connected the back straps together.  I stepped back and observed Theo, who looked like a cross between a miniature Darth Vader and Zorro The Astronaut.  "Not bad, kid," I chuckled.  "You look deadly."

With that, Theo toddled off to the rest of his junior foil teammates, roaring with confidence as he waved around his little foil mightily while balancing the fencing mask atop his shoulders.  As I observed the entire studio, I could feel the energy coursing through the room as the intermediate fencers whooped and hollered while they parried back and forth, their electric buzzers going wild with points being scored almost every second. 

After observing some of the intense, whirling practice bouts, my instructor emerged from the ladies' locker room and beckoned me over for our lesson.  "Is there a competition for adults," I asked as I approached her, "because this stuff is pretty amazing to watch."

"Nothing this official," she answered.  "The adults just compete with each other for money or to see who buys the drinks.  But it can still get pretty intense.  Come next Thursday and find out.  In fact, we'll have you do a bit of sparring."

"And if I lose?"

"Then the first round of beers is on you, and I'll lose the twenty dollars I've already bet on you."

No pressure, Otto....