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....