Ever since last October, when seeing Mandy Patinkin (you know, "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya...") in concert rekindled my love for romance, swordplay and mustaches, I'd been dying to fence. Really, I had been dying to either fence or save a mistress, but fencing sounded safer. I asked Chandler Coble, my friend, co-worker and fierce-fencing guru, if she'd be willing to teach me and she agreed. Maybe it was the suave new facial hair festering on my upper lip that convinced her.
Chandler and I met in Jackson Gym to fence. And by "to fence," let me be clear, I mean "to humiliate myself," in all likelihood blinding the Tufts fencing squad in the process. Luckily, nothing of the sort happened, and I even learned a lot about fencing (and mustaches) in the process.
Fencing rule number one: you cannot fence in pajama pants and Birkenstocks.
I had anticipated wearing my typical getup, but, apparently, that would have been "not suitable at all." So, I arrived in long socks, sneakers, athletic shorts and a filthy exercise shirt. Our first formal lesson came in the gym's basement, where Chandler dressed me in spare fencing gear. The off-white pants were a bit too small and the faceless helmet a bit too big, but the lesson fit just right. I felt empowered in my new suit.
Fencing rule number two: everyone (or was it no one?) looks sexy in fencing gear.
After we had taken care of my dress, our attention turned to what I consider the second most important part of fencing (second to the mustache): the sword.
Fencing rule number three: there are three types of swords, but it's all very confusing.
I quickly learned that the three fencing weapons are the foil, sabre and ?©p?©e. But really, I learned that hardly anything physically distinguishes the swords from each other. Any fencer would likely disagree, but I'm not any fencer. What distinguishes the swords, rather, is the set of rules applied to each one. For example, the foil can't target the arms or legs while the ?©p?©e can. Chandler and I then each took an ?©p?©e and began the more advanced lessons upstairs.
Fencing rule number four: there are seven more varieties of parry than I thought there were.
How many maneuvers can you think of to avoid being stabbed? I could only think of a few, three namely: duck left, duck right and run away. Fortunately, after Chandler showed me footwork too complicated to describe here and attacks too gruesome to recount, she opened my mind to the expansive world of parries. Learning to defend myself may have been the most valuable of Chandler's lessons. If only I could do it well.
Fencing rule number six: Chandler is too nice.
We were then ready to fence. Again, just to be clear, by "fence" I mean "humiliate myself." She could have dominated me easily, but instead, humoring me, she toyed with my newfound skills. She then dominated me anyway. It would have been a shutout but for a single hit when I accidentally poked her thigh. It was a proud moment, despite my lack of intention.
Have I learned much about fencing? Some, but nothing I couldn't have learned from Wikipedia. What I really learned was more about Chandler, a friend, and my own inability to wave a sword about menacingly. It's a day I'll enjoy remembering every time I sit down to re-watch "The Princess Bride" (1987). Even though I'll never be Inigo Montoya, I know some day Chandler will. I can hear it now: "Hello. My name is Chandler Coble. You sought my teachings. Prepare to fence."
Adam Kaminski is a freshman who has yet to declare a major. He can be reached at adam.kaminski@tufts.edu
