Fencing Kid

When I turned the ripe old age of eleven, chess on a black and white board began to lose its mystique. I wanted to revitalize the game, to make it more life-sized, more audacious, and more thrilling. So that summer there were no more plastic pieces, no more conformist boards, and no more restrictive rules. Instead, I found myself dressed in dazzling white, frantically blocking the passionate slashing and methodical stabbing of three-foot long steel blades. I was inside a chess game, and I was playing it with swords. Never had I done anything so extraordinarily exotic until that day—the day I became a fencer and learned to play chess with style.

At first, my fencing style points didn’t come easily. After all, the ability to artistically fight with swords is hardly an innate talent for most people. I had trouble adjusting to the athletic demands of the sport while keeping healthy (i.e. getting enough “shut-eye" when the school year rolled around was often unpredictably difficult). One time, I even found myself at the end of a foil, in a place no foil dares travel, where the sun shines not, and where I felt extremely lucky to survive with any sense of humor. Slowly, however, I began to develop an appreciation for the mental facets of the sport. Dubbed “Physical Chess,” fencing appealed to the wittier thinker, the more cunning chess player who could see two or three steps ahead. I thrived in that atmosphere, but, in the process, I became obsessed with winning.

Still, even after a demoralizing loss to a seven year old girl with a target the size of my belly button, I ached for more. Something continued to draw me to fencing, and winning wasn’t it. For the past couple of years, fencing has been for me much more than just a tribute to Pirates of the Caribbean or an attempt to escape the stereotypes of the “nerdy” bookworm. When people ask me why I love to fence, I tell them that in no way is it because I’m adept at constructing quality fences (Honestly, I’m not). Instead, I offer an apology, for even after six years, I can’t really conjure words beautiful enough to describe fencing’s mesmerizing lure.

It’s an experience that captivates every nerve, every thought, and every emotion of my body. When people see fencing in action, they marvel at the violent concept of using swords to slash, whip, and stab, yet for me, the allure of the sport is far more subtle, and, at the same time, much more profound. From hearing the booming command to “FENCE!” resonating melodically inside my mask to admiring the picturesque arch of my foil as it reaches the target, I can’t help but find myself slipping into a breathtaking fantasy—loving every single minute of it. Fingers grasp tightly around pistol grips, and like a quarterback holding a football, I am awakened to power. Blade tips become the eyes of a snake as they weave cunningly around, over, and under parries until steel penetrate cloth. Elegant melodies of cold steel striking steel mesh beautifully with the complex rhythms of nimble shoes lunging and running. Shrieks of passion echo throughout the venue as each touch is recorded and heads turn, demanding subtle nods of admiration and envy. Glamorous specks of sweat fly as masks are flung upward in victorious celebration; hands are shaken, tears flow, and smiles remain forever. This is my realm of fencing, and I love nothing more than to lose myself within it.