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.
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.
"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.
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