Fencing can broaden horizons
By Jay Cridlin
Editor In Chief

All my life, fencing had just been something you put up around cattle. But that all changed Oct. 2 when I donned a mask and went en garde with the Fencing Club in Reynolds Gym.

I’d been curious about the organization since it became chartered last year, largely because it seemed like such a unique club to form on campus. Who fences anymore? Does the university have an unusually large population of French noblemen?
Nonetheless, it sounded exciting. I’d never fenced at all, but I’ve long known fencing was in my destiny.

As a child, whenever someone would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say, without even looking up from my Micro Machines, “A 16th-century Bolognese lanceman. Or a pirate.”

Still, I was unfamiliar with the sport. I didn’t even know the official name of the sword. A foil? A rapier? A fencing stick?

Turns out “foil” is just one type of sword, as are “epee” and “sabre.” But believe you me: once you get a sword in your hand, you’re not thinking about what it’s called. You’re thinking about what it would feel like to whomp a rotten cantaloupe with your fencing stick.

For mental preparation, I stood nearby and watched as more experienced fencers took their turns. Here’s my impression of a fencing bout: Crouch. Crouch crouch crouch. Crouch crouch lunge chingchingching WHAP! It’s grand entertainment.

It’s quite graceful, too. The fencers hold rather rigid poses as they fight, crouching back and forth along a straight line without twisting or turning their bodies. From the side, then, fencers appear almost two-dimensional, giving them a strong resemblance to early Nintendo characters such as Metroid or Mega Man.

Some of the fencers offered me a word of encouragement.

“You can get some pretty nasty bruises,” sophomore Kristin Halfpenny said. “In the heat of the moment, they’re not trying to barely touch you. They’re going for you.”
That’s … good, I thought. Still, I was eager to get started.

Senior Erin McCarthy, former Fencing Club president, showed me some of the basics, such as how to hold the foil and how to crouch in a gentlemanly manner. She showed me how to advance, how to lunge and how to parry, or knock away someone else’s blade.
At first, I thought I was doing quite well. I’m lunging, I thought. I’m thrusting! I’m parrying! I’m … gasping for air … and getting very tired … I — gasp — need to sit down … I need an oxygen tank the size of the Spruce Goose …

Fencing is not easy, let me tell you. The fencers have such an economy of motion that you basically use only your thumb and index finger to control the motion of the blade. But all that lunging and crouching causes cramping like you wouldn’t believe in muscles you didn’t even know you had.

After a few minutes of practicing and fetching multiple drinks of water, I felt confident enough to put on a fencing jacket, which resembles something out of the Sports Illustrated Strait Jacket Issue, and prepared to face my enemy: a junior appropriately named Phillip Parry.

Parry had been dominating matches all evening, which was good. I wanted to fight the best. Had Errol Flynn himself sauntered into Reynolds Gym, I would have made chicken noises in his general direction.

I set my feet, crouched into position, adjusted my grip, pointed my sword and bit the bullet. When I looked up to face Parry, though, I only saw a white blur accompanied by a swift crouch lunge SWIFF!

The blur pulled back, and Parry held up a finger to indicate that he’d nicked me.
“You already got me?” I asked, stunned. “Yup,” Parry nodded.

Such was the tone of the match. I did manage to land a few hits without taking any serious blows, but I got the sense Parry was taking it easy on the new guy.
I told him to treat me like I was a gold medallist. “Take your best shot,” I said.
Not smart. On the audio tape that I was using to take notes, you then can hear the following sound: chingchingchingWHAPaaaaow! In case there was any confusion, the “WHAP!” is parry’s foil lashing across my back, and the “aaaaow!” is me whimpering in pain.

So I wasn’t exactly the Lance Armstrong of strong-armed lancers. I was more like the Adonal Foyle of foil Dons.

But I can’t think of a better way to get a little exercise while legally brandishing a deadly weapon. For anyone who is interested, I say the Fencing Club is quite a worthwhile pastime.

And since I may just return in the future, I can personally guarantee you that there will be at least one fencer there you can easily defeat. Just be careful with your fencing stick.