"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.

Lucky Number 8: Learning the Finer Points of Parrying and Saving My Manhood in the Process

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.

Taming the Chubby Crouching Tiger: Facing off Against Arnold.

"Hi," cried a squeaky little voice from my left-hand side. Once again, I looked around and saw nothing there. Then I looked down and saw Theo smiling back up at me. "Hey, kiddo," I greeted him, slapping his ungloved hand, which he held up for a high-five. For the second week in a row, the diminutive Theo has been my warm-up partner. Before each session, we would practice our lunges and disengages, battering the Tin Men in front of us.

"You ready to warm up with me," I asked. Theo gave his usual enthusiastic nod, his head of tussled brown hair bobbing back and forth. As we began to lunge and strike at the practice dummies, I felt my muscles stretching out. The blood pumping through them warmed my body, and I began to feel more and more limber. The wrist of my sword hand began to loosen as I disengaged and parried. And once again, Theo, the Academy's ten-year old swashbuckler, was putting me to shame with his energetic speed and technique.

After ten minutes of warming up, my instructor glided over, patted Theo on his head and led me once again to Fencing Lane Number 4. "So," she announced as a I slipped on my mask, "today you won't be sparring with me."

Oh no, I thought. I wasn't ready for another face-off with Monty just yet. My mind was suddenly flooded with visions of Monty laughing heartily as his foil scored point after point, while the other fencing students pitifully shook their heads at me.

"Instead," my instructor said, "you'll be sparring with Arnold."

Arnold?!

I hadn't seen Monty's sparring partner for a couple of months now, and I had actually begun to wonder whether he had quit, moved away or something else. Apparently, however, it was none of the above. I heard someone clearing his throat behind me, and I turned to face Arnold. His cherubish, forty-something face actually looked slightly chubbier, and his frame was slightly more rotund than the last time we saw each other. I smiled as we shook hands. "Been a long time, rookie," Arnold smiled back. "Yes it has," I laughed.

With that, Arnold slipped on his mask, backed up and reminded me why I should not underestimate his slightly paunchy appearance as he fluidly glided into a perfect en garde position. "It's time to see if you can mix it up with a different opponent," he called out as I assumed my fighting stance as well. I nervously looked over at my instructor, standing on the sidelines, not knowing what to expect.

Before she could give me any type of reaction, Arnold suddenly lunged forward and shot out his foil, forcing me back with a last-second parry four to my left. I struggled to maintain my stance and keep my footwork in line with his. Despite his apparent weight gain, Arnold's speed and agility had not suffered at all. He faked to the right, forcing my blade in the same direction. Then, at the last minute, he disengaged his blade around mine and caught me in the center of my chest before I could parry, knocking the wind out of me.

"Come on," my instructor yelled from the sidelines. "Why are you so slow, Otto?"

"Why is he so fast," I retorted, hearing Arnold let out a chortle at this. "C'mon, kid," he chided, "you can beat an old man like me."

That's exactly something that Monty would say.

I lunged forward, aiming for his heart, trying to catch him off-guard. As Arnold parried, I disengaged around his blade, but he saw it coming, and our blades began circling each other in a small metallic tornado. Back and forth we went, thrusting and parrying, our feet squeaking incessantly on the polished wooden foor, our foils clashing like mighty thunderclaps. Even my instructor watched in awe as I seemingly managed to hold my own.

"Wow," Arnold exclaimed with delight in between parries. "Looks like they have taught you a thing or two." As I aimed again for his upper chest, he feigned back...and then pulled off what is probably the most athletic feat anyone at the Academy has ever seen. After Arnold feigned back, he crouched down under my foil, and, looking like a chubby crouching tiger, glided in close and scored a hit just beneath my ribs with his foil.

It was over in less than two seconds. At that point, everything stopped. I heard a collective gasp of amazement from the other students who were observing the match. I turned to see little Theo standing beside my instructor, both of them gawking at Arnold with a mixture of admiration and pure shock at his athleticism, which has apparently remained quite undisclosed until now.

Arnold stood back up, and we heartily shook hands. "Good match," he huffed, his cheeks now cherry red from the exertion. "Thanks," I sighed, peeling off my sweaty mask and wiping perspiration from my forehead. Arnold patted me firmly on the shoulder with a meaty hand. "Not too shabby, kid. Still a little stiff and predictable, but you're getting there." I let out a wide smile as he turned around and headed for the locker room, grumbling about how his legs would be killing him the following morning.

I turned towards my instructor and asked, "Can you show me how to do that?" She admitted that nobody has ever seen Arnold pull off such a move before. I turned back to watch Arnold rubbing his belly and grunt as he awkwardly pushed upon the door to the locker room.

Hey, never underestimate your opponent, especially a chubby crouching tiger.

The Ten-Year Old and The Tin Man: Learning Advanced Maneuvering...The Hard Way (Of Course!)

The lopsided practice dummy in front of me resembled a freakish cross between The Wizard of Oz's Tin Man and a NASA training reject. Bolted to the studio wall, the practice dummy consisted of a rectangular torso padded with gaudy blue felt, an extended wooden arm meant to hold an imaginary foil and a plastic head covered with a makeshift fencing mask. Four other similar dummies (or "Tin Men," as I like to call them) lined the wall, some meant for left-handed fencers, while others were meant for righties such as myself. Each dummy's torso was marked with grey scotch tape patches on the left and right sides of the upper chest, meant to serve as target areas.

For the last fifteen minutes, I was rigorously practicing my lunges, disengages and thrusts to warm myself up for my lesson, starting with my left arm. The tip of my foil neatly struck the grey patch right above the Tin Man's heart (or where his heart would be if the Wizard granted his wish) with a loud TOCK! After nearly three months of punishing myself, I felt like I was finally making progress. I was focusing more on the tip of my foil, driving it towards my target with studied concentration rather than striking wildly. I was letting my sword hand lead my lunge rather than stepping into it first, which often tipped off Monty and my instructor during our past sparring sessions. As I continued to strike the Tin Man, I imagined myself in another duel to the death with Monty.

I know something you don't know, I pictured myself quipping to Practice Dummy Monty as I switched my foil from my left hand to my right, astounding him with my prowess. I am not really left-handed!

"Hi," I heard a squeaky voice chirp from my right side, snapping me back to reality. I turned around, but didn't see anyone there. Then, a little tuft of brown hair suddenly appeared at the bottom of my line of sight. I looked down and was confronted by a small boy, staring at me with a mop of brown hair, a dimpled smile...and a sabre in his gloved right hand.

"Hello," I said nervously, not sure if this diminutive fencer was going to shake my hand or chop it off with the sabre. "You're getting better," the small boy said. Apparently, he had been watching me for the past few weeks and thought that my form was improving. "Why, thank you, young man," I smiled, not sure if I quite believed that this child was appropriately qualified to be commenting on my fencing technique. "How long have you been fencing," I asked.

"Since I was five," he replied brightly, puffing his little chest out with pride.

"And how old are you now?"

"Ten. And I've been doing sabre for the last year."

Well. Looks like I stand corrected.

"My name is Theo," he said, sticking out his tiny, ungloved hand, which I shook while introducing myself. "Can I practice with you," Theo asked. "Sure, kiddo," I smiled. And with that, Theo stepped in front of the practice dummy next to me, and in unison, we began lunging together at our respective Tin Men.

"Increase the width of your stride," Theo advised, catching me off-guard with his surprising insight and articulation. "You'll get a lot more speed. And lift the hilt of your foil more when you hit. It'll help you follow through."

I'm getting fencing tips from a ten-year old, I thought. Geez.

"Ooo! I wanna show you another move," Theo said excitedly after a couple of minutes of practice. I watched as Theo stood before his Tin Man in a picture-perfect en garde stance. Then, he began to vibrate the wrist of his sword-hand back and forth, like an oscillating rubber band. "This is to fake out your opponent," he explained. Then, his sabre suddenly flashed towards the left side of his Tin Man's chest, and at the last second, Theo struck the dummy's right side, the tip of his sabre landing effortlessly and precisely on the grey patch adorning its chest, causing my jaw to drop in awe.

"Hey," I exclaimed. "That's pretty good, Theo. Can you show me how to do that?" With that, Theo began enthusiastically schooling me in this new maneuver. According to him, this move was all about timing. I oscillated my wrist back and forth, then shot out my sword hand, only to lose my grip and have my foil clang against the practice dummy's helmet and clatter onto the floor. Theo scratched his head. "Let's try it again," he said. "This time, do it slower and wait 'til your wrist is directly in line with the target."

Obeying the little fencer, I tried the maneuver again, this time controlling my wrist as I oscillated my foil back and forth, keeping my eye on the tip and waiting for it to line up with the grey patch on my Tin Man's chest. Then, when my eye caught my foil lining up with my target, I faked left, then struck to the right, hitting my Tin Man right above its would-be heart. Theo flew his arms up in victory. "Yayyyy," he cried out. "You did it, Otto! You did it!"

"I have a good instructor," I smiled widely as Theo and I started to jump up and down, giving each other high-five's. We excitedly began punching the air, celebrating my victory as a student and Theo's successful lesson. It was clear that this little boy was enamored with the sport, and who could blame him? In the past three months, I understood how learning each new move could be a thrilling and educational experience for almost anyone, young or old. Then, we heard someone clearing her throat behind us. We suddenly stopped mid-way through our celebration and turned to face my instructor, arms crossed and staring sternly at us.

"Ummmmm....hi," I waved sheepishly. After a long pause, with Theo looking as if he were caught behaving badly in school, my instructor finally let out a broad smile. "I see you've learned something new," she said. "Thank you, Theo." She went up to him and patted him on the head. "Your parents are waiting for you."

"Okay," Theo sighed, disappointed that playtime was clearly over. He turned and gave me another dimpled smile. "See ya next week, Otto!" And with that, he scurried to his parents, waiting at the back of the studio, dragging his sabre behind him.

"He seems like a good kid," I observed. "He's great," my instructor said. "But sometimes he gets a little too excited. Now, let's see how well he taught you." She motioned for me to follow her.

"Who's his teacher," I asked as I walked with my instructor to Fencing Lane Number 4, weaving my way in between other fencers spinning and sparring about the room.

My instructor turned to me when we arrived in the lane and smirked. "Monty."

Of course.

Monty vs. The Rabid Hyena: The Amateur Fencer Takes on the Master!

Drip- SPLOOSH!!

Drip- SPLOOSH!!!

Drip- SPLOOSH!!!!

Each bead of sweat sounded like a thunderclap inside the closed space of my helmet as it dripped from my chin to my chest. The air was warmer and more stifling than ever. My sword arm felt like a lead weight. My vision was beginning to swim. And in front of me, all I could hear was Monty's hearty, bellowing laugh.

Show off.

My fingers ran over the numerous depressions on my chest pad, where Monty had effortlessly planted his foil countless times over the last twenty minutes. Damn it, I thought. Some re-match this is turning out to be. It seemed that no matter how quickly I parried, how powerfully I lunged or how spry my footwork, Monty was two steps ahead of me. During our latest match, I feigned a lunge to his left, forcing him to open up his chest. As I disengaged and attempted to circle my blade to his exposed right side, Monty's foil was already planted squarely above my sternum before I was even halfway to my target. I, on the other hand, had yet to score even a single hit.

More expletives came from behind my mask.

"You, dear boy," Monty proclaimed, "are like-"

"A lazy dog! A clumsy windmill! I know! I know!"

Monty paused and smiled his white, toothy grin. "Actually," he quipped, "I was going to say a rabid hyena." I expressed my appreciation for my new title with a deep sigh of humiliation.

"But," Monty said, "I must say that you are getting faster!"At this my eyes perked up. Although Monty was a little harsh at times as an instructor, he was also just as quick to compliment students on their improvements. "Larger lunges, grizzly," he would bellow one minute at a particularly hirsute student, only to pat him on the back ten minutes later after that same student demonstrated a smooth downward parry and hit combination. "Excellent, ol' boy," he would shout, slapping Grizzly on his hairy shoulder. "No hitting like a pansy," he would glower at another student, only to then whoop and congratulate her with glee when Pansy landed a hit- a most palpable hit- squarely in the center of a practice dummy's chest.

"So," Monty said. "If you want to beat me, you have stop trying to force the blade straight through into me. Your moves are too predictable. Take, for example, our last bout," he lectured as he suddenly whipped up his foil in an elegant, distracting flourish before lunging forward. I instinctively engaged him in a parry to the left and shuffled back out of range, just as my Romanian instructor had taught me. "Good," he bellowed. "Now, think back to what your next move was." At this, I pushed his blade further to the left, exposing his chest and then disengaged from him, again circling my foil underneath his and making a beeline for his sternum. However, just as before, my own chest pad met the tip of his foil before I was even halfway there. "You see," Monty smiled. "You have to think outside of the box. Remember, you're not always confined to these straight-nosed techniques of block, hit, block, hit. Fencing is a creative art, not a mechanical one. Think...." Monty paused to circle his free hand in the air rather foppishly. "...like an artist."

I had to smile at Monty's sheer enjoyment of not only the sport, but of the flair he added to it. No matter how harsh his criticisms, he always knew how to put some class and charm into his lessons. Once again, Monty shuffled towards me, again lunging furiously towards my chest. Again, I stepped back, this time parrying his blade downward in an attempt to expose his upper torso. As soon as I saw my opening, I went in for the kill. And once again, Monty's blade stopped me dead in my tracks.

DAMN IT!

A third try with a parry to Monty's right and a lunge. Once again, Monty halted me before I could blink.

A fourth try with a parry to the left and a double disengage. And again, Monty thwarted my diabolical scheme in a whirlwind of steel and speed. "Had enough," Monty asked, noting with concern how I was beginning to tire.

By this time, I was nearly ready to pass out. I could barely stand on my own two legs. The only thing I could picture was the enormous dinner I was going to cook myself if I survived this. And that cocky son of a bitch Monty was standing there, not even breaking a sweat.

And yet....

"Again," I called. Monty threw his head back and let out an enormous bray of delight. "That's the spirit, m'boy," he yelled, twirling his sword in circles as he bounded towards me. He lunged at me twice, each time forcing me back with quick parries. As Monty went for his third lunge, I parried to the right, opening up his chest once again. Monty smiled as he calculated that I would make the same mistake. Think outside the box, I repeated. Don't just block and hit.

I disengaged Monty's foil and circled mine under his, just as before. Monty once again brought up the tip of his foil towards my chest, grinning as he predicted teaching me yet another lesson in humility.

That's when I mixed things up a little.

At the very last second, I drew my sword arm back from my usual beeline strike. Suddenly, I saw that twinkle in Monty's eyes disappear. His grin instantly vanished, only to be replaced by a furrow in his brow and a dimple in his weathered cheek as he cocked his head sideways in a moment of...what? Hesitation? Confusion? From the legendary Monty?

Whatever it was, I seized the opportunity. I circled my foil from right to left, causing Monty distraction as he struggled momentarily to block my blade. I slowed the speed of my wrist as I circled my foil under his to the left. As he followed to block, I then instinctively flicked my wrist, batting his blade away and opening up his torso. From there, I disengaged around his foil once more and drove mine forward....

...only to be met with Monty's foil clanging against mine, blocking my tip less than an inch from his solar plexis. As I looked back up, I saw that Monty was actually catching his breath! "Close," he panted, slightly unnerved, "but no bottle of scotch just yet, m'boy." And there was that white, toothy grin once again.

UGH! my mind screamed. I was so close! As we both stood back up and saluted each other, Monty straightened his back and took a deep breath, standing there, still as unbeatable as ever. "But," he remarked, "now you're starting to think outside the box. It's not anything you can practice at home. You just have to keep sparring and thinking."

As I hobbled back to the locker room, I was replaying those last moments of the match in my mind. I couldn't believe it! I was less than an inch away from settling my score! Less than an inch! I couldn't believe that he stopped me....

...but I'm getting closer, I thought with a smirk. Rabid hyena, my ass.

The Lazy Dog versus the Lethal Rabbit: Humility, Footwork and the Triumphant Return of the Amateur Fencer State-Side!

"Dear God," my instructor sighed.

She was staring wide-eyed at my awkward lunge and how precariously my foil was sent careening into the padded chest of the practice dummy before me. I looked up, expecting to see her beaming at the dynamic new stance and technique that I had melded into my fencing style after observing Ho Sum and the other wu shu students back in Hong Kong.

No such luck. "That...really sucked, Otto," she exclaimed, in her thick European accent.

Clearly, my attempt at emulating Ho Sum's prior demonstration of athletic prowess was not what I had envisioned it to be. During the plane ride from Hong Kong back to New York, I attempted to forget the constant, rumbling turbulence by focusing on the intricacies of Ho Sum's elongated stances and imagining how I would incorporate them back at the Fencing Academy, sending my instructor, Monty and the other students into a fit of gloriously jealous awe at my newfound fencing technique.

Instead, I saw my instructor now frowning at how clumsy my lunge appeared and how my foil nearly snapped in two after landing with a thud on the right side of the practice dummy's chest, when the target was on its left side. My stance was twice as wide as it should have been, causing me to nearly fall over in the middle of my lunge. My instructor cocked her head to the side. "What happened to your stance? You were making such nice progress! Did you practice at all during your vacation? This is unacceptable! And you say that you want to spar with Monty again...like that?!"

I assured her that I had been practicing in my hotel room during my vacation. I explained the magnificent wu shu demonstration I witnessed in Hong Kong and my attempt to incorporate fencing into martial arts and vice versa. I told her how I thought that a longer, more martial-arts-like stance would help my reach; or how more of a curve to my striking hand would help my speed.

My instructor simply shook her head at all this. "Learn to walk before you can run," she said, causing me to slump my shoulders in defeat as I stood up. "Come," she said, motioning to the adjacent fencing lane. "Let's get you back into it." With that, I moped over to the fencing lane, again mumbling expletives to myself while swinging my foil at nobody in particular. I sullenly assumed the en garde position, still embarrassed by the dressing-down I just received from my instructor. That's when I felt her sternly rapping me on the side of my mask to wake me up and pull me back into the present.

"Cheer up," she said, spinning her foil in smooth, circular spins, loosening the muscles in her sword hand. "Time to learn something new." I shook off my anxiety at these words. Whenever I attended these lessons, and no matter how much humiliation I took, this phrase always made the training worthwhile: Time to learn something new.

Determined to redeem myself by mastering whatever new challenge she threw my way, I regained my composure and straightened my back. "Today's lesson," she announced, "is speedy feet. Fencing is just as much about being quick on your feet as it is about being quick with your foil."

"I'm already quick on my feet," I said with a slight hint of defiance. "Really," my instructor quipped. Before I could respond, she batted my foil out of her way, lunged forward, and sunk hers into the left side of my chest. In the back of the room, I could hear Monty, who was watching us the whole time, chuckling as he taught a group of young students. "You'll need to be quicker than that if you wanna fight me again, dear boy," he bellowed out heartily.

You know what I said about shaking off the last of my anxiety? Suddenly, I felt like I needed another vacation.

"One thing Monty and I notice about you is that whenever you feign back, you always drag your feet," my instructor continued, "which slows you down and makes it easier to strike you." By way of demonstration, she assumed the en garde stance and moved to feign back just as I normally do. However, as she feigned back, she sloppily dragged her front foot across the polished wooden floor, causing the slighest of squeaks....just like I normally do. It was amazing how observant my instructor was, to the point where she could not only predict but also mimic my every movement. It was like watching a mirror image of myself...except...with longer hair and boobs.

"Your step must be lighter, with larger strides," she said, as she hopped back, lightly picking up her front foot by the heel, which added probably a good half second of speed and three inches of distance onto her retreat. There was no way she was within range of my blade. "Now you try."

She suddenly whirled her blade in a disengage to distract me and then thrust it forward at my chest. I instinctively blocked and jumped back, but I was too slow. My front foot dragged, allowing her to actually step on it and hold me in place while she brought the point of her blade just under my chin.

"You are like a lazy dog today," she yelled, loud enough for the whole class, including Monty, to hear. "You must be like...like a rabbit!" Again, this was loud enough for the whole class to hear.

Sigh.

"Again," she bellowed, as she recoiled and lunged mercilessly at my chest, not allowing me a second of breathing room. I again blocked and huffed as I sprung myself lightly back, but again, I was still too slow, lifting my front heel a second too late, allowing her to push her blade through my defense. More expletives emanated from behind my mask.

"Again," she shrieked, coming at me once more, as if her foil was magnetically drawn to my chest pad, which was now riddled with divits from the abuse it was taking. As her foil moved in for a third killing blow, I thought back to Ho Sum once again. In particular, I focused on his demonstration of how wu shu helped his fencing skills. I recalled how he smoothly scuttled his feet back and forth, darting in and out my range, without making a sound. I focused on his feet and how lithely they moved.

Then it dawned on me: Ho Sum didn't really jump back, but rather just...stepped, ever so lightly. Heel first, then toe. One quick movement.

I refocused on my instructor's blade, making a lightning beeline straight for me. I took a deep breath and just...stepped back, my back foot first, my front foot following, making sure my step was wide and landing on my heels first, then my toes. As I did so, I flicked the wrist of my sword hand downward, blocking my instructor's blade and opening up her chest. Then, without warning, I followed my gut and lunged forward in a counter-attack. Suddenly, one good move turned into two.

Why the hell not? Let's see where this takes me.

I saw my foil nearing the left side of my instructor's chest pad. My hamstrings stretched out, my biceps loosened and my heart began to race with anticipation as I realized that I couldn't miss! Ha! I was about to score my first point on my instructor, without any warning and with the element of surpr-

My instructor promptly batted my blade to the ground, causing me to fall over with it. I was sent sprawling over the gym's hardwood floor, my mask tumbling off my face and my foil rolling to the other end of the fencing lane. I turned over onto my back to look up at my instructor smirking down at me. Then, Monty's smiling mug entered the picture as he suddenly stood over me as well. Here it comes, I thought. Another dressing-down about how my stance was too wide, how my stride was too slow and how I still looked like a lazy dog rather than the lithe, lethal rabbit. I braced myself.

Instead, my instructor elegantly stuck out her hand to help me up. "Better," she said as she yanked me off the floor. "Your step was a little better that time. And your lunge was good. I almost didn't expect that," she admitted. When she saw me break out into a sweaty grin, she held up her long, thin index finger to stop me. "I said, 'almost.' "

She patted me on the shoulder. "We're done for today. I want you to practice this footwork, up and down your apartment, until your legs are tired, every day," she shouted as she walked back into her office. I unscrewed my bottle of Gatorade and took a gulp when Monty, with his impeccable timing, slapped me across my back, once again sending a wave of blueberry-flavored electrolytes and vitamins shooting up my nostrils. "We'll make a fencer out of ya yet, m'boy," he laughed heartily.

And then he was gone, leaving me standing in the fencing lane, all by myself, surrounded by the other fencers, spinning and parrying with each other as I wiped sweat from my face and envisioned the day when I would eventually be like them; when I would be able to lunge, parry, feign and spar without losing my balance, my foil or my cool.

With each lesson, I was getting closer to that point, and, despite the admonishment I received from my instructor today, it looks like I received a little help from Hong Kong after all.

Thanks, Ho Sum. M'Goi-Sai.