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In
his first semester at Hunter College, Roy was required to take a
physical education course. He was a little over six feet tall, blonde,
blue-eyed, with a strong body developed while playing high school
football. On an impulse, probably based on silly swashbuckler movies
from his childhood, he signed up for fencing. He was placed in a large
class that shuffled up and down to the bored refrain from the teacher,
Neil, a young African-American, who was a member of the fencing team.
“Advance, advance, advance. Retreat, retreat, retreat. Lunge.” They
didn’t touch a weapon for two weeks. Then they were issued masks,
jackets, foils and an elaborate set of rules that governed combat. Neil
cautioned them not to fool around with the foils. They were instructed
to signal an opponent that they were attacking by extending the blade
and beating it against the opponent’s blade before lunging. They
learned two basic parries, numbers four and six, to defend the left and
right sides. They paired off and they were fencing. Roy had excellent
reflexes and was soon paired with the best student, who he easily beat
in free play. It was fun, but not what he had anticipated. There were
all sorts of conventions and restrictions that regulated how you stabbed
your opponent. There were no flamboyant duels.
One morning,
Roy was in the locker room changing into his uniform when the fencing
team came in. They were a quiet bunch, primarily engineering and math
students, very different from the locker room jocks Roy had known on the
high school football team. They didn’t look very much like athletes.
He stopped to watch them practice and saw a remarkable transformation.
The nerdy looking guys with piles of books suddenly looked like killers.
Two of them, using weapons larger than foils, were attacking each other
and defending themselves in a violent ballet of human motion. Roy
watched in fascination, until they took a break. They removed their
masks and one of them was Neil. Roy immediately went to talk to him.
“That was
great, Neil.”
He didn’t
recognize him. “Thanks.”
“I’m Roy,
from your fencing class.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“What’s
that weapon? It’s much bigger than the foil.”
“It’s an epée.
It’s like a dueling sword.”
Roy couldn’t
contain his eagerness. “Can I try it?”
“Yeah. Hold
the hilt with your thumb and index finger and use the other three
fingers for balance. Keep your knuckles against the bell and your wrist
straight. The bell will guard your arm up to the elbow.”
“How does
that work?”
“If you’re
in the right position, your opponent can’t easily hit you past the
elbow without your hitting him first. Put on the mask. I’ll show
you.”
Neil showed him
how to stand en garde, faced him, made some kind of movement that Roy
couldn’t follow and jabbed him hard in the facemask, jarring him.
Roy protested.
“You hit me in the head.”
“The whole
body’s the target.”
“Anywhere?”
“Right.”
“But you
didn’t extend your arm to announce your attack.”
“Right.
Whoever gets there first, scores.”
“What about
all those rules you taught us in foil?”
“They don’t
count in epée. It’s closer to the real thing.”
“I’d like
to learn epée.”
“Why?”
“It’s
exciting. Would you teach me?”
Neil was
reluctant. “I really don’t have the time.”
“Just for a
few minutes before or after class or fencing practice. Whatever’s
convenient for you.”
“You won’t
get extra credit for this.”
“I don’t
care.”
Roy was
persuasive and Neil gave in. “All right. Meet me tomorrow after
practice. It’s over at noon. What’s your name again?”
“Roy. Thanks
a lot. See you tomorrow.”
Within a few
weeks Roy discovered that he had a natural talent for epée fencing.
Neil was spending more time with him, two or three times a week, and his
progress was rapid. The other team members teased Neil about teaching
Roy, but he ignored them. Neil was a little taller than Roy, about
6’1”, with short, wiry hair, a thick featured, proud face, dark skin
and a strong body that looked smaller in street clothes. He was a
junior, an engineering student in his third year on the fencing team. He
told Roy that all members of the team fenced foil the first year, then
they could pick their weapon of preference: foil, saber or epée. Roy
was eager to join the team and Neil introduced him to the coach the next
day. Al Jones was medium height, heavy set, balding and the resentful
leader of a perennially losing team.
“Coach. This
is Roy Cafferty. He wants to join the team.”
Coach Jones was
abrupt. “Why?”
“I like to
fence and I like to compete.”
“Anything
else?”
“Isn’t that
enough?”
“Are you
willing to eat, drink and sleep fencing?”
“Definitely
not. But I’m a hard worker and I’ll give the team my best.”
The coach asked
suspiciously. “Are you a smart ass?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you take
orders?”
“Sure. As
long as they’re legitimate.”
“Are you a
locker room lawyer?”
“No, sir. But
I don’t like to be bullied.”
Neil vouched
for him. “He’s honest, coach.”
Jones was
doubtful. “You’re probably a trouble maker. Well, I’ll give you a
tryout. Come to the practice tomorrow morning at ten.”
“Thanks,
coach.”
“It’s Mr.
Jones, until you’re on the team.”
“Sure.
Thanks, Neil. See you tomorrow.”
They watched
Roy walk away.
Neil was
enthusiastic. “He’s got real potential, coach.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s in my
freshman foil class and I’ve been teaching him epée after practice.
The kid’s a natural born fencer.”
“He’s too
polite and self-possessed for a freshman. We’ll see what happens at
the tryout.”
The next
morning, Roy got to the gym early and waited impatiently for coach
Jones, who finally showed up carrying two masks and two foils. He handed
a set to Roy and watched critically as he put them on. He barked: “En
garde.” and studied Roy’s position, roughly correcting him with
pushes and shoves. “Advance. Advance. Extend. Lunge.” When Roy
recovered, coach Jones screamed: “I didn’t say recover. Now lunge
again and hold it.” Roy lunged and held his position. Coach Jones
tried to tip him off balance, but Roy held it, which seemed to irritate
the coach, who then put on his mask. “Let’s see what you’ve got.
Attack me.” Roy stood en garde and advanced on the coach, extended his
blade and lunged. Jones parried and riposted and Roy parried.
“Again.” This time, when Roy parried, Jones circled his blade and
hit him in the chest. “Why didn’t you follow the disengage?”
“What’s a disengage?” Jones turned to Neil, who was watching
attentively. “I thought you were teaching him?” “I didn’t get to
the disengage yet.”
Coach
Jones looked Roy up and down and said: “Well, you may have some
potential, but it’s hard to tell at this point. Maybe you should
finish the course with Neil and come back in the spring.” “That’s
six months away. I don’t want to wait that long. Neil’s class is too
big for any personal instruction.”
“I
think you should give him a chance, coach.”
“I
don’t know.”
Roy
was really worried that he wouldn’t be accepted. “Let me show you
what I can do with an epée.”
“What’s
the point? You don’t know enough to show me anything.”
“Tell
you what, coach. If I can touch you, will you let me on the team?”
“You
couldn’t touch me with my eyes closed. Ready?” Roy ran at Jones, the
way he had seen Neil attack, screaming at the top of his lungs, swerved
at the last moment and hit him on the shoulder as he went by.
“He
got you, coach.” Roy waited silently.
“You
couldn’t do that again in a million years.”
“I could if you
train me, coach.” The answer was begrudging, but wonderful. “Well, I
guess I’ll give you a try. But remember, no epée.”
“Yes, coach.”
Roy joined the
workout that morning, after being issued a uniform and gear. He loved
the disciplined workout and only looked occasionally with longing at the
epée fencers. At the end of Roy’s first week with the team, Hunter
had its first fencing match of the season versus City College. Roy rode
the more than half empty bus with the team to the City College campus in
Harlem. When they got to the gym there were more fencers than
spectators. The formality of preparations for the match was reassuring
to the nervous visitors. Roy watched avidly as weapons were wired
electronically to register hits that happened too fast for the judges to
follow. When the first bout started, the opponents lined up on the
fencing strip, a long, narrow, black sheet of rubber, saluted each other
with their blades and engaged. They may not have been the best fencers
in America, but they were exciting to watch. Roy studied the competition
in fascination, determined to be out there next year. The foil fencers
were rhythmic, the saber fencers were fierce slashers, but the epéeists
caught Roy’s rapt attention, because they had the intensity and focus
of duelists. The Hunter team was completely outclassed, except for Neil.
He fenced the first epée position with ferocity and elegance and easily
defeated his three opponents. Roy silently vowed that he would become as
good a fencer as Neil. The
final score was City 24, Hunter 3. After the match, Roy discreetly
congratulated Neil and sympathized with coach Jones and the rest of the
team for another dismal defeat.
The bus ride
back to Hunter was a bit depressing. Almost everyone was huddled alone
in their seats, brooding about the lop-sided loss. Coach Jones stared
stonily out the window, saying nothing to his disheartened team. Roy
spoke to them on an impulse.
“Hey, guys,
that was the first fencing match I ever saw and I was impressed.”
One of the
saber fencers, Mario, answered drearily. “With what, the other
team?”
Roy said:
“No. With our team.”
Mario was
confused. “Why? We lost.”
“That
doesn’t matter to me. Everybody tried their best and that’s the most
a team can do. It’s easy to feel good when you win. It’s hard to
keep trying when you lose. I’ve played football on teams where lots of
guys quit. That didn’t happen tonight.”
Robert, one of
the foil fencers, muttered: “We did lousy.”
Roy said:
“We’ll do better next time.” If Roy had stopped then he would have
made some new friends, but he went too far, as usual. “I can only root
for you now, but next year I’m going to fence epée and help us win
matches.”
Mitchell, a
junior who fenced second epée, was immediately insulted. He asked:
“Whose place are you planning to take?”
“Whoever I
can beat. Maybe yours.”
Mitchell
didn’t like Roy’s attitude. “You’re pretty arrogant for a
freshman who just saw his first fencing match. Why don’t you shut up
until you know what’s going on.”
Roy turned to
face Mitchell, as his temper started flaring, and he said with some
challenge in his voice. “Don’t tell me to shut up. If you can’t
talk to me politely, we could always meet privately and discuss the
importance of good manners.”
Before Mitchell
could say anything, Coach Jones intervened. “I don’t want any
arguing on my team. Cafferty was just trying to be positive. If he
annoyed anyone, I’m sure that’s not what he meant. Right, Roy?”
“Sure, coach.
I just wanted to be supportive. No offense meant, guys.”
Coach Jones
looked around at everyone. “Then this is a closed case. Let’s save
our energy for next week, against Brooklyn College.”
Most of the
tensions on the bus subsided, but Mitchell was still resentful. Allen,
another junior, who fenced third epée, joined Mitchell and wouldn’t
let him calm down. “That guy’s real pushy. He’s not going to make
first string until we graduate.”
Mitchell was
glad to find an ally. “Let’s make sure of that.”
Frank, the only
other freshman to join the team that year, sat down next to Roy. “You
really stirred up a storm.”
Roy wasn’t
sure if he was being critical. “Do you have any complaints?”
“No, Roy. I
just wanted to tell you that I’m going to fence epée next year and I
want one of those slots. So you and I have something in common.”
Roy was glad to
make a new friend. “Well, good for you. Maybe we can practice
together.”
Frank was
excited. “That sounds great. I can meet you two mornings a week on the
days the team doesn’t practice.”
“That’s
fine with me. We can get an epée for you from the equipment room. There
are plenty of old ones there. I’ll ask Neil to help us.”
Frank was eager
to begin: “Do you want to start this week? How about Thursday
morning?”
“Sure.”
The team was
livelier during the rest of the bus ride back to Hunter. Roy’s praise
had helped dissolve some of the bad feelings of defeat. When they said
good night, everyone except Mitchell and Allen said something pleasant
to Roy. He knew that it would be a long time until he’d get a chance
to compete in a tournament, but he went home, walking on air, feeling
like a member of the team.
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