Deja Vu All Over Again Hot Olympic Fencing Style!

Déjà vu All Over Again Hot Olympic Fencing Style!

By Nick Evangelista

The best thing I can say about the fencing at the 2024 Olympics in Paris is that it is over. The public embarrassment of individuals attempting to saw each other in half with fencing implements, the dismal poking matches, and the overblown histrionics of the participants was a monumental boiling hot mess. For all the self-congratulations of the fencing community, the PR of posing with medals, and all the nonsense talk of “fencing greatness,” it was the worst exhibition of the sport I’ve ever seen in my own fifty-four years of fencing. Ugly, undisciplined, and out-of-control are kind descriptions of this latest high-level fencing train wreck. Not that I am surprised. I wrote about this dismal fencing trend twenty years ago, and, without a doubt, it has escalated to new depths in the ensuing decades. With that being said, it might be interesting and enlightening to read my assessment of Olympic sport fencing in 2004, published that same year in Fencers Quarterly Magazine:

OLYMPIC DREAMING

Much has been made of the American fencing gold and bronze medals at the recent Summer Olympics 2004 in Athens Greece. And it certainly was a feat; that is, if you only consider the sport qualities of what took place. And that, as one might suspect, is where the USFA is coming from. It continually congratulates itself for a job well done. One gets the impression that we are now at dawn of some Golden for American fencer. The sky’s the limit.

 Yay!

I must have been watching some other Olympic Fencing

I’m confused. I don’t recall seeing any superior fencing during the Summer Olympics. Aside from the pomp and hype and glitz, the fencers I saw on TV—to be fair, fencers of many countries—were lumbering, off-balanced tanks, who swatted wildly and postured histrionically across the Olympic fencing strips like ill-mannered brats in some martial kindergarten pageant.

The whapping was energetic, as was the bouncing and the leaping and the poking, but it was only that. Three weapons fenced as one. But it was the Olympics and so there been some grand design there.

 Don’t you think so?

Olympiggies

We have an image in our brain of Olympic splendor, the joy of victory, the agony of defeat, pure sport for the love of sport, just as Baron de Coubertin, the founder of the Modern Olympics in 1896, envisioned it. This is correct, isn’t t? Well, maybe not. This is an electronically implanted brainwash. Here’s an awkward question: what about the drug-taking to enhance performances, the administrative scandals, the professional athletes reinvented as amateurs, the excessive nationalism, the pouty athletes--especially Americans—who complain when they only win second or third place medals, and the obvious greedy grab for the cash?

Is the Olympics even about sport anymore? Athletic Competition is just a side issue. Maybe it should be recognized for what it really: money-driven entertainment. It is the ultimate reality sport show, whose most purposeful goal is commercial domination of the airwaves. But, like most reality shows, if you have a life, the Olympics is bone brittle boring. It is a chore to watch. Shouldn’t the Olympic Games be something more?

I guess not.

A suggestion: beer helps!

Dream On

But let us get back to Olympic fencing.

So, the United has grabbed two fencing medals. Great! It is a very nice athletic achievement. Notice I said “athletic,” and not “fencing.” I might ask another awkward question at this point: was the U.S. really cooking, or was everything on those Olympian pistes just mundane?

How dare I suggest anything but the notion that U.S. fencing has made the quantum leap in its evolutionary progress? Oh, what a poor spirited Scrooge I am to rain on American fencing’s golden moment. The USFA has suggested that Olympic gold has spurred the spirit of fencing in the United States. American Fencing Magazine recently ran an article titled, “Fencing is Cool and Hot: Taking Advantage,” which is bout fencing’s new public image, and how to capitalize on it. AF said the word “hot,” thus, it must be so.

Well, we might end up seeing somebody’s picture on a Wheaties box, or a “fencing” moment with Jay Leno or David Letterman, but that will probably be the extent of fencing’s hotness.

Of course, fencing does not need to be “hot” to exist or prosper.  Fencing has existed for hundreds of years without a superficial link to the masses. “Hot” implies fads, and fads never last.  Is that all the USFA can point to in order to attract fencers? It wasn’t what drew me to fencing when I started taking fencing lessons thirty-five years ago. It was fencing’s timelessness.

Non-Fencers Speak

Moreover, if the USFA thinks that America was impressed with Olympic fencing—and it obviously does—I believe it is more than sadly mistaken.

 How do I know this?

I teach fencing (have you already guessed this?), and sometimes I wear a jersey with my school’s name on it. This is good, simple, free advertising. It gets the word around that there is fencing in the area, and it receives immediate feedback. When there is a question like, “Oh, do you fence?” or “I’ve always wanted to learn to fence,” out comes the trusty business card.

During the Athens Olympics, my shirt brought out other questions and comments, ones even I was surprised to hear: “Was that fencing I saw on TV? It was so boring.” “Why did those fencers’ heads light up. That was kind of weird.” “Those fencers were just kind of swatting at each other.” “I though fencing was kind of neat until I saw it on TV. What happened?” “Is that what you teach?” “Those fencers were sure snotty.” “What was all that screaming and fist clenching about? They all seemed so angry.” And, most telling, “I turned the channel when the fencing came on.”

Some of the remarks I fielded were quite hostile. No big deal when it’s only a couple of people. But I kept hearing these kind of rumblings over and over again, maybe on three dozen separate occasions. And this was always from non-fencers, who do not know me or my traditional fencing agenda. And this only from those who actually saw my shirt. I finally stopped wearing the offending apparel. Déjà vu can be a real bitch.

I might add, many of my students were also pelted with negative fencing comments. This leads one to wonder just how many other people left unimpressed by what they saw on the Olympic fencing strips. Hundreds? Thousands? Millions? I don’t know. Make up your own mind.

The USFA may think it has scored a major sporting triumph this year, but I don’t think they realize just how poorly fencing may have come off to the viewing public. To be sure, the impressionable will be impressed, and  some of the fencers’ parents. But that is about it. The USFA, in the end, is only fooling itself.

Why Comment?

There will be those who read my words, and simply dismiss it, saying, “What a complainer!” So, why am I saying anything? Mine won’t be a popularly held view, especially when Olympic Medals are hanging from American necks. Shouldn’t anything Olympian automatically be revered and bowed down to?

I will say this one more time: I was not impressed with the fencing I saw at the Olympic Games. And, again, this is not just an American thing. The Europeans provided their share of ugliness, too. The fencing was strong and fast and aggressive; but did it aspire to anything that might be called great? The answer to that is: no. To quote Shakespeare, it was at best, “sound and fury signifying nothing.” Simply put, some people got some expensive doo-dads for running around and poking each other.

I think I have some discernment regarding fencing, and I know what I see. I don’t need to look at the results—somebody always wins and somebody always loses—I look at the process by which those results were achieved. “Process” is the tool by which ends are reached. When you have two bodies trundling heavily at each other, somebody is bound to hit something. When there is no physical opposition from either body, both will hit. One of the two will hit sometimes microseconds ahead of the other, or they will hit exactly at the same time. If one is then labeled victorious in that collision through the electronic manipulation of time, should the results impress anyone? This is sport fencing. In the Olympics or anywhere else it  is entrenched in the world, all of it the same scoring box-oriented nonsense. Worthy of praise and awards of gold? Maybe in the Bizarro World.

The USFA tells us that we have witnessed a great feat in Olympic fencing in 2004, with n American fencer grabbing a gold medal. But have we witnessed greatness? I do not think so. Put the win in context. Look at the running, the slapping and poking, the bad manners, and the clownish performance art that was were put on public display and tell me with a straight face that this was superior anything. Then, as the USFA has done, insist that fencing is moving to new heights, and that U.S. fencing will be leading the way. They seem to believe that the winning of one fencing gold medal is enough to motivate an entire population to take up fencing.

 Why should this be so?

Only those interested in aggression and bad manners will be impressed. To think anything else is a hopeless delusion, and does nothing to further fencing in the real world. For years, the USFA has been lowering its standards to appeal to a fast-food mentality. This is a dead end with no escape. This leads to six-year-olds fencing sabre, and the perfection of method acting histrionics to convince poor officiating to accept touches that even God couldn’t decipher. But this is the expected thinking of an organization whose number one stated goal is not to further fencing for the values it imparts, but to create a successful international fencing elite.

What fencing needs is order and constructive, intelligent thinking to move it forward. If fencing is to grow in appositive way, it must be fencing itself that causes this growth, and that means a fencing with solid standards.  The USFA needs to stop patting itself on the back, because the job is not well done, it is fried to a crisp. Fencing is not simply a “win” delivery system. It is also an art and science and a life skill. Maybe, one day, the USFA will get the idea of presenting fencing for all its actual virtues. But most likely it won’t, because, frankly, they don’t seem to know what those virtues are, beyond the colors gold, silver, and bronze.

Why am I saying anything now if fencing is doomed? Because I love fencing—the real fencing I grew up with—and I would like to see that fencing, with the logic of the sharp point, flourish and prosper again, especially in the United States. But in over one hundred years of AFLA/USFA guidance, it has not done that. The inmates running the asylum say, “Get used to it.” I won’t do that.  Let’s get real about fencing. We have eyes and minds to judge what’s going on in the fencing world.

 Were you impressed by the fencing in the 2004 Olympics?

BACK TO THE FUTURE 2024                                                                                    

To my traditional way of thinking, the fencing of the Paris Olympics was not fencing, any more than golf is fencing, or hopscotch is fencing, or checkers is fencing. It, too, is another something. It feigns fencing, because all the accoutrements of the game are still there. But sportfencing (one word) is not fencing. As presented in 2024, it displayed all the subtleties of a summertime roadkill. The running, the screaming, the hopping, the leaping, the poking, the nonsensical exchanges, the absurd gymnastics, the disregard of basic rules, the tantrums, and the ever-present cheap theatrics of it all, were a cry for help. But there is no help for something locked tightly in triviality, its only expressed meaning to conjure up flashing lights on a mechanical device. A mechanical device, by the way, that holds the life force and subverting intelligence of sportfencing: electricity. Take away the watts and volts, the mechanical device falls silent, and all you have left is the sound of sportfencers pounding away mindlessly on each other. Technology will forever circumvent all attempts at developing either genuine skill or mastery in an otherwise shallow game of bean counting. To insist the aforementioned expenditure of Olympic energy this past month was fencing is a postmodern delusion.

To the eyes of someone who has been fencing without pause for fifty-four years, the disorganized mess of sportfencing is a dead object, but I am sure it will die much deader deaths as time goes on. Such is the way of the world. As sport fencers used to say about the flight from traditional fencing into the wonderful world of flick mania in the 1980s, Get used to it.

 And so it goes!

A Moment in Fencing Time: The Duel

A Moment in Fencing Time: The Duel

By Nick Evangelista

This is not a fiction, a parable, or a flight of fancy a la Alexandre Dumas. As is the case with much of my fencing writing, it has been wrung from my own personal experience, sometimes with much discomfort.  I serve myself up as both good and bad examples, mainly because fencing is made up of good and bad experiences. How we adjust to these will determine our fencing future.

The following was an important event for me, a life defining moment. I offer it to the odd reader with the hope that it inspires someone to regard fencing, not simply as a game of acquiring touches, but as a method of adding to their personal growth as a Homo sapiens. In this sometimes-impersonal world of technology and artificial--and often remote--stimulation, we need all the human input we can get. Life is about experiencing life in our face. The Romans had a saying, Magnae res non fiunt sine periculo. That is, Great things are not accomplished without danger. Real, real, real life is a challenge, rightly sometimes tagged, a pisser!

Here, then, is my story:

As I made a speedy retreat down the fencing strip, my opponent’s foil point, bobbing and weaving rhythmically high in the air, kept pace with me step for step. There was no escape. Suddenly it shot out and downward, slamming against my sternum with the unyielding force of a stove poker. Despite the protective layers of a padded fencing jacket, pain exploded in my chest. A hollow shriek from the electric scoring machine off to one side taunted me. “Red light. Touch right!” the bout director shouted, pointing an accusing finger at me.  “The score is One to zero.”

I stood there staring at the floor, groaning into my fencing mask. With my free hand I rubbed the spot where I’d been hit, the hurt lingering like an echo. I did my best to smooth out the rumple on my lame vest where the attacking blade had left a neat little crater. Gripping my electric French foil in my damp, chamois-gloved right hand, I fell into a weary on-guard position. I was doomed! There, maybe twelve feet away on the narrow fencing strip, loomed a World Professional Fencing Champion, confident and without mercy. I closed my eyes for a long moment, in a vain attempt to block out his overpowering presence. But there was no place to hide….

The evening had begun innocently enough. The great room where we fenced—as wide and deep as an airplane hangar—was thrown open to the friendly sounds and smells of the warm Hollywood summer night. The hall was filled with fencers, some sitting around chatting, some practicing footwork in front of the room’s full-length mirror, some bouting vigorously. The loud click-clack of contradicting blades perforated the evening’s otherwise unhurried  embrace.

The Maestro, Ralph Faulkner, the Boss as he was affectionately called--former Olympian and movie fencing master--was at his regular teaching spot next to the ancient, cracked blackboard where the day’s students were listed.  I was teaching, ensconced in my usual spot off to one side of the room. After years of study and apprenticeship, and a happy stint of fencing my way around Europe, I had been made the old master’s assistant at the famous Falcon Studios fencing salle.  The Boss thought highly of me. I had become heir to his rich fencing knowledge, the one student chosen out of all his students to carry on the tradition of his traditional teaching style and thought. 

Often, I would be working with students for six hours at a stretch---sometimes longer—with almost no breaks between lessons. Then, teaching became an exercise in endurance. I taught until I was done. But on this evening lessons zoomed by, and I found I had some time for bouting. I congratulated myself on my good fortune. It wasn’t often I had free fencing time. I had absolutely no inkling of what was to come.

I began working out with a student on the school’s antique electric scoring machine. It was a giant device, housed in a large, black leather carrying case. When it was opened, with its dials and gauges, it looked like something a traveling executioner might tote around to carry out freelance electrocutions. The student and I would fence a few touches. Then, we’d discuss this attack or that defensive move. Nothing terribly competitive, just fun, with a bit of learning thrown in.

I was so intent upon what we were doing, I never noticed when He arrived. The Champion. But suddenly, he was there, hovering, watching, staring at me, through me. I sensed his presence and looked over. He dropped his fencing bag like a dead body, striding purposefully toward me. Without hesitating, or offered greeting, he stopped a few feet away from me. I looked over at him, and said hello to be polite “Nicky, we must fence now,” he said emphatically, never taking his eyes off me. There was no hint of please in his voice or manner. It was a demand, not a request, a demand to be obeyed. No way out. I nodded. Fencing etiquette compelled me to agree.

I immediately felt a wave of anxiety flow over me. I didn’t want to face the Champion, not now, or ever.  I knew why he was here on this particular evening. He was after me. And this was no paranoid delusion. At one time or another, since he had come to Southern California from Europe—where he had been a successful master—he made it a practice to fence with and beat every fencer who showed up at our school. Experienced, inexperienced, it didn’t matter.  It wasn’t enough that he was an acknowledged champion of his profession, he had to show everyone he was their superior. With this fact in mind, thus far, I was the only one left who had escaped his indomitable onslaught. I was keenly aware of this, and obviously so was he. Up to this point, by always being busy with teaching, I had been spared the “privilege” of being publicly thrashed by this god of fencing. That grievous oversight was about to be rectified.

The Champion was a world-class competitor, ranked number one in the world as a professional fencer in sabre and number five in foil. He was a fencer with few rivals. But, for him, this fact couldn’t simply be understood or implied, it had to be demonstrated forcefully to all concerned.  The Champion couldn't fence with Mr. Faulkner, because the Boss was in his 80s. Besides, challenging a fencing master in his own domain would have been a breach of fencing tradition.  I, on the other hand, as Maestro Faulkner’s protégé, was not covered by any such convention.  In a way, the Universe had volunteered me.  I was the symbol of everything the Faulkner School of Fencing stood for. I was also the final obstacle to the Champion’s adamant statement of complete superiority. He had to make certain that all the denizens of Falcon--but especially the Boss and me--clearly understood I was his inferior. It wasn’t just a bout, it was conquering the Faulkner School of Fencing, including Mr. Faulkner, forever.  If there was to be peace in Falcon Studios, it must be a Carthaginian Peace.  Totally destruction, not a creature or blade of grass left standing. The proving, however, was something I would rather have not faced in this lifetime.

To be honest, I was aware that I’d been dodging the Champion for some time. Maybe not overtly. But I always felt secure in my industry. My teaching was my armor. And that was the crux of the matter. I was a teacher, after all. I worked with every student that came to our school.  I had given most of them their introduction to fencing. I had achieved a position of authority and respect. These people believed I knew something. What would they think if I was ground into atoms right in front of them?  And this was clearly the fate that one person in the world was anticipating for me.  The Champion wanted to crush me and all signs of my ability as a fencer.  I knew everyone would be expecting me to hold my own with him, but I personally doubted that I could. The entire school, and the Boss, would then be a witness to my mediocrity. I think to be exposed for our weaknesses in a public arena is everyone’s fear. Still, even the Catholic Church, with its emphasis on soul cleansing confessions, allows for private disclosure of one's failings. But here I was about to be stripped naked publicly, my fencing defects, whatever they might be, revealed to the world. I didn’t want to lose what had taken me years to build up. This was my life. It was also, in a way, the life of Falcon.

But by purposefully seeking me out this day, the Champion had brought the matter to a head. He had thrown down the gauntlet, a challenge as meaningful as any issued in the heyday of dueling. A duel is a duel if you have something to lose. Be it reputation, money, possessions, or life. If I said I was too tired, or too busy, or too anything, it would have been clear I was backing down. I was trapped. Not fencing would have been more humiliating than being creamed on the fencing strip. I wondered how the Champion knew I’d be free this evening. He had fencing acquaintances at Falcon. Had someone tipped him off? Panic makes you think strange thoughts. Most likely it just was.  Just time on the Cosmic time clock.  Dinosaurs. The Fall of the Roman Empire. The Spanish Inquisition.  The French Revolution. Me.

Using the electric scoring machine made the meeting even more convenient for the Champion. Modern competition fencing weapons are wired to score touches electronically. Both fencers are hooked up, via extension cords, to a piece of machinery that both detects and announces when a blade has made contact on an opponent, on target or off. There is a small depressible button on the end of the blade. When it is pushed in fully by contact, it establishes an electrical connection that triggers the box. It is not unlike pressing a doorbell. For fencers, it’s ding-dong, your dead, metaphorically speaking. With the box’s flashing lights and blaring buzzer, there would be no doubt when a touch had been scored. One, two, three, four, five touches! Bout over. Everyone would know I had hit the fan.

As I waited for the Champion to suit up, I did my best to bolster my resolve. After all, I might not lose badly. I reminded myself I was a very good fencer. But, but, but I was not the Champion.  The Champion was six feet, four inches tall, and two hundred, twenty muscular pounds of lightning responses. Furthermore, he had been trained and molded in Europe’s best salles, from a very early age, into a polished fighting machine. The Champion was ranked among the finest fencers the modern world had produced. I, on the other hand, was five feet, eight inches tall, one hundred, thirty pounds, had been fencing for almost six years, and, most definitely, I was not the Champion. There was not a lot of buttressing I could do with my starkly uninspiring facts.

I suddenly felt the borders of the fencing strip closing in on me. Forty feet long, six feet wide. It didn’t seem like much room to maneuver in. And as the Champion approached, his reach resembling an extension bridge, the maneuvering space seemed to grow smaller by the second. I was thinking a football field would have been worth a lot of money about now.  People, I noticed uneasily, were already drifting over to watch the carnage. An anonymous encounter was out of the question.

The Champion slowly attached the cords that connected him to the electrical circuit we were now sharing. “Are you ready, Nicky?” he said amiably, his voice full of a mocking self-assurance that told me I had already lost the day I was born. He was saying to me, in his own professional way, he could make it a thousand touches to zero if he wanted to. He really wanted to rub it in. I had, for him, escaped my fate for far too long. “I’m ready,” I replied, my stomach flopping over. I ground my teeth together to keep them from chattering.

Then, it was time to begin….

The first touch had been delivered. I stood there reliving it over and over in my mind, taking it in like some kind of penance. The explosion down the fencing strip, a freight train caught in a tornado, the attacking blade whipping through the air like a swarm of bees, the touch hitting like a meteor strike. The Champion knew what he was doing. A warning of things to come. Intimidation is a proven negotiating tool. I folded inward.  I cannot beat this man. I cannot beat him. He can’t be stopped.

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a pause in the eye of my storm. Something inside me, my inner compass, spun around. This wasn't what fencing was about. I stepped back and shook my head, realizing what I was doing. My negativity was a slap in the face. Wait a minute. I’m not approaching this like a fencer. I’m giving in to an idea, a preconceived notion. I’m not just being beaten; I’m fashioning my own downfall.

That provoking jab of the Champion’s foil blade into my reality, meant to put fear into me, had done me a service. It snapped me out of my despair and made me start thinking. There was no point in dwelling on the outcome of this encounter. It was going to be whatever it was going to be, whether I worried about it or not. If I was going to accomplish anything, I had to forget about winning and losing. I needed to fill my head with fencer thoughts and get on with the business of fencing the way I’d been taught. I needed a plan. I needed a strategy.

There are four questions to be asked in fencing:  What is my opponent doing?  How are they doing it? What can I do to counter it? And, finally, Can I do what I’ve chosen to do?  What, how, hypothesis, test: these are not only the steppingstones to understanding every opponent in fencing, but they are also the essence of critical thinking, and the foundation of ages-old scientific inquiry.  Thinking is ground zero. We are the weapon.

The rest of my life began.

"Fencers ready?"

“Ready.”

“Fence!”

I launched an attack, a one-two. Feint into sixte, deception into quarte. Not as fast or as forceful as the Champion’s onslaught, but well-timed and deliberate. My intent had caught him off guard. He had expected to keep me totally on the defensive. I touched him on the chest. My light blinked green on the scoring box.

"Touch left," said the director, with a hint of surprise in his voice.

Then, I got another touch. A coupé into sixte. That one surprised both of us. Suddenly, I was ahead. Now, I felt loose and ready for action.

Two touches to one.

This was followed by an insane, straining fleche into quarte, and that hit, too. I’d caught him in preparation. Was I fencing? I was fencing!  Score: three to one.

But now, the Champion hunkered down, realizing he had underestimated me. Using his powerful footwork to threaten me, he moved forward aggressively, got me to fold and run, instead of thinking strategically. He hit me with the fastest disengage into sixte on the advance I had ever seen. When I finally tried to parry, it was too late. His blade simply pushed mine aside like a straw.

The crowd began to grow on either side of the fencing strip. The bout had become the center attraction at Falcon Studios.

A moment later, I did a coulé-disengage from quarte into the low outside line of seconde. The feint of coulé in the high line masked my true intent. Coulé-disengage, dessus-dessous. I had once been told that no one could watch a well-framed feint of coulé running down their blade without making a forceful parry of opposition, which would then tell you immediately when to derobe off their blade. This was no exaggeration. Even better, the Champion did not know I was familiar with low line actions. I had tried nothing in the low line thus far. Surprise is always a potent factor in fencing.

Four. I was at four touches.

Now, I needed only one more to win.

But the Champion came back with a crushing, unstoppable beat-straight hit. I should have countered with a non-resisting parry to channel his energy away from me. But I’d hesitated for just a second, which caused me to absorb all the power of his beat.

The score was now four to three. The next action came out of nowhere. The Champion launched a muscular disengaged into quarte. More strength. I parried contra de sixte with a croisé. The croisé, a parry and riposte in a single flowing action, with leverage behind it, unknown to many, magically displaced the approaching lightning bolt into empty air. My foil tip and the Champion’s line of sixte met. Physics versus insistence. One light on the scoring box, Green.

I couldn't believe it. I did it. Five touches to three. I won! I really actually truly totally won!

Pause.

Sort of.

Pause.

I thought.

Pause.

The Champion switched to Plan B. Fencing is sometimes called physical chess. So, when your King is cornered, what do you do? The old one abdicates, and you crown another King.

When I extended my free hand to shake his, the Champion stepped back, pulling his hand away. “Nicky, you know we are going for ten touches.”

No, I did not know that. I think this was a bit of improvisation that would never have materialized if the score had been turned around the other way. But what could I say?  Liar, liar, liar! Pants on fire! To a world champion fencer? I don't think that would have helped. I just shrugged. My spirits plummeted. This was the end. The Champion had obviously minimized my potential, even more than I had. But now he was surely going to pull out all the stops. He took off his mask for a moment to wipe the sweat from his face. It was a face without humor, a face that was determined and confident of victory. The Champion was thinking of what to write on my tombstone.

But…!

I pulled myself back together. I regrouped my forces. The Champion was messing with my brain again. Just the same, I would not be bullied. No mind games. If he was going to win, he was going to have to out-fence me. I reminded myself I was still in the lead.

The Champion did not get his wish. Over the next few minutes, we traded touch for touch. I had never fenced this well in my life. Letting go of losing, letting go of winning, I just fenced, finding myself, finding my potential.

I brought the score to nine-seven with a quick parry-riposte in quarte. The Champion, I thought, was slowing down a bit.

Déjà vu. Once again, I was one touch away from winning, this time really winning. I could do it. There would be no continuations. Just one touch. But some touches never materialize when you need them. They linger in the air, like the image of the Holy Grail.

Fencers ready?

"Fence!"

Abruptly, the champion lifted my foil tip into high septime with a horizontal flip of his blade, slamming a touch square into my solar plexus. It was meant to hurt more than any of the other touches, not just to shake me up, but to make me afraid. It did. It took me a minute to catch my breath.

The score was nine-eight.

Sweat dappled the ground around the Champion’s feet. His chest heaved, and he tapped the floor impatiently with his foil blade. The crowd pressed closer. Even the Boss had come over to watch the outcome of the match.

The director held up his hand. “Fencers ready?” A slow nod. “Fence!”

The Champion advanced on me with an aggressive burst of speed, his blade waving back and forth menacingly to throw me into a panic. This was his favorite move. He’d used it on me for his first touch. I suddenly realized I had seen him use it repeatedly on other fencers. Based more on sabre actions than foil, it was nevertheless daunting. I realized what he was doing, but I fell into his trap, anyway. Sometimes, just knowing isn't enough. You must feel what you are doing to be in control. I retreated three steps, reacting without thought, my blade beating the air wildly, my body tightening. His previous touch had accomplished the result he wanted. He's sucked me into his trap. He forced me to run away and open my guard. His weapon, shooting out and downward in a deadly arc, found its mark just beneath my sword arm.

I looked down helplessly, shaking my head.

The score was tied: nine touches to nine.

Lungs laboring, I stooped over, my left hand resting on my knee, my foil blade tip on the floor. I thought about the distance I had traveled in my mind since the bout began. From self-styled loser to an opponent with purpose. Now, I was one touch away from actually winning. But so was the Champion. And he was used to winning.

I realized abruptly that I wanted this bout more than anything I had ever wanted before in my life. But it had nothing to do with merely winning or losing. The Champion could beat me, and no one could possibly fault my performance. Even Mr. Faulkner would be pleased with my fencing. It was something else, something that had more to do with who I was. It was about completing the journey and becoming. Becoming what? A real fencer? A real fencer, yes. That was it. With the whole thing boiling down to a single touch, that one touch was all touches for the rest of my life. Could I reach down deep inside myself, and control that which had once mastered me? Could I create, under the greatest pressure of my life, one unknown something that would truly say, this is fencing.  Or would I be left at the gate looking in? The fight was not with the Champion but with myself.

The director glanced in my direction. “Are you ready?” I took a deep breath. “Yes.”  He looked at the Champion. “Are you ready?” “I am.” This was it. “The score is tied nine to nine, la belle. Fencers ready?" A long, long pause. "Fence!”

I focused with a snap.

Now, there are moments in fencing when ability and true potential intersect, and you transcend your usual approach to technique and strategy; when the veil lifts and the truth of the fencing experience becomes apparent, crystal clear, converging to a fine point of awareness. Where this recognition comes from, I have no idea. But when it descends, it feels like a gift.

For me, it happened here.

I looked at the champion, and instantly I knew what he was going to do. I thought to myself, he’s going to try the same attack he just hit me with. He can’t help himself.  I was certain of it. Maybe it was the way he came on guard. Or the way he held his blade. Or the way he shifted his weight to his front leg.  I simply knew. It was also his favorite foil attack, and it had just worked extremely well against me. I was obviously susceptible to his bait. I had flinched. I had backed down from this attack twice.  It would also be an insult to hit me with the same attack twice in a row. It seemed obvious he would pick this a move to end our bout with.

I also knew if I retreated, as I had before, if I locked into his fanning blade motions, attempting to parry, as I had before, he would have me for sure. I would be fencing his game. His speed and strength would shoot his point right through my defenses, and the bout would be over. No matter how fast or far I retreated, he would follow me to the ends of the earth for that final touch. How satisfying for him.

All this passed through my brain the instant I came on guard. I also knew what I had to do. Yet, I wondered, would I have the self-discipline to carry out my plan? I relaxed, breathing deeply, fighting back a tension that was attempting to wrap its paralyzing fingers around me.

The room grew still. Suddenly, the action is now, forever the present….

The Champion steps forward.

 Everything is in slow motion. In my mind I am both fencer and observer. I see everything clearly, with an unhurried sense of peace and certainty. I hold my breath. Sound fades away.

The Champion raises his sword arm first, his foil point dancing in the light. His feet float above the floorboards, carrying him, like a huge wave, toward me. There is murder in his movement.

 I feel the thump of my heart, the push of blood through my veins. Or is that the beat of the universe?

 He comes on, but I hold my ground. I do not retreat this time. I won’t retreat, I tell myself, I won’t. Instead, I simply extend my arm straight into the Champion’s advance—a counterattack-- a stop thrust, a tactic as old as fencing. My foil is an extension of my body, of my nervous system. It is part of me, responsive.

 The Champion has been ambushed. He did expect me to back down. He tries to change his plan. As he comes forward, he swings his blade in a huge circular parry, to scoop my blade helplessly out of the way.

 With a tiny twist of my fingers, barely visible—the French call it doighte-- I deceive the savage, desperate sweep of his blade. Motion blends into motion with the softness of water meeting water.

The Champion, to his surprise, misses my blade entirely. It is there, but not there. Two bodies opposed yet working in perfect harmony.

Carried forward by his own momentum, the champion falls onto my waiting foil point. It hits him neatly square in the middle of the chest. The blade bows deeply, then relaxes.

I don’t hear the buzzer on the scoring machine, but I look over slowly to see one light, my green light, flashing.

Suddenly, I hear a voice. The director. “Touch left. Bout!” he announces in long drawn-out words, lingering forever in my ears.

The image of one touch freezes in time….

It was over. I looked at the Champion. The Champion looked at me. I had won. I had beaten him. We shook hands. “Thank you,” I said, and meant it. “Nicky, my boy…!” the Champion returned, crushing my hand in his giant paw. He meant that.

Still, at that moment, I felt like he was my best friend in the world. Maybe, in a way, he was. He’d inspired me to fence the best fencing of my life. He was, of course, a much better fencer than I was. I know that. And he would most likely always be that. But, in those brief moments of exchange and opposition, he helped me see how good I could really be. I’m sure he’d have chosen otherwise. Oh, well…!

A life was changed.

I glanced over to where Mr. Faulkner was standing.

He nodded once, then turned away, heading off to his office.

Fencers quietly began packing their equipment bags to depart, no one saying anything to me.

The class, for the night, was over.

When everyone was gone, I put the folding chairs away and slowly swept the fencing room floor.

Although this bout, this contest, this duel, took place over forty years ago, I remember it as though it happened only yesterday.

 (c) Originally published in The Inner Game of Fencing, by Nick Evangelista (2000)

That's Not What You're Teaching Me

That’s Not What You’re Teaching Me

By Nick Evangelista

It never fails.

When one of my students watches a fencing video somewhere on the internet for  a few “expert” pointers, or just out of curiosity, I am eventually met with the inevitable  accusation, “That’s not what you’re teaching me!” And I always reply in a calm voice, “No, I’m teaching you to fence.” And here they look like at me with questioning “lost soul” eyes. I shrug, “We live in a post-modern world where things that aren’t are.”

They don’t understand, being denizens of the Twenty-First Century, that the world hasn’t always been what they see on their cellphone screens, and maybe never was, even with the words “certified” and “consensus” attached to them.  “Official” can be purchased, and conventional thought may wither with age. I am from another planet called the Twentieth Century, which, although having many faults, it still had a straightforward underpinning epitomized by tradition and a sense of mastery, a work ethic that demanded an old-fashioned, Old World sense of quality and honesty that transcended the superficial. That is the world I grew up in.

I explain to students:

Fencing was once another game that had its roots in something called, The Logic of the Sharp Point. The idea was to hit and not be hit. This was a hard and fast concept embedded in rules and honored by masters of the Old School--French, Italian, Spanish mostly--for whom fencing wasn’t a game but a way of life founded in principles of survival that weren’t to be trifled with. This was the fencing world I inherited from my teacher, and which I will follow, as an unbroken thread, to the end of my days. To my way of thinking, this link to the past gives real meaning to what I pass on to others.

Fighting with swords, as a martial art, was the impetus for fencing for centuries, the things one learned to stay alive in antagonistic encounters. Besides potentially extending one’s longevity, these behavior modifications had a positive effect on both the psyche and the body, even if it didn’t turn one into a killing machine. When fencing shed its lethal its lethal origins, it was still a problem-solving device, an engaging exercise, a confidence builder, a map to the past and future, ennobling the spirit and making the body and mind a more durable whole.

But then, one by one, the old fencing masters died of old age, and there was no one left to hold back the tide of change. New “masters” filled the void. There was talk of speeding up the game, simplifying it, making it relevant to modern times. I heard it said a million times, “That’s the way they do it in Europe now. Fencing is changing. Get used to it.”  The powers-that-be announced that fencing was evolving; but to me, as the process, refitted to athleticism over mastery, it was fast being lobotomized into a one-note scramble, sans defence, to simply hit first.

Today, official fencing, called “sport” or “Olympic” fencing, is built around the ubiquitous electric scoring machine. I like to describe it as modern fencing’s “life support” system, because modern fencers couldn’t operate effectively without it’s flashing lights and buzzing buzzers. Without it, fencing would die in a deafening din of physical gibberish. In this incarnation of fencing, we see the one note Logic of the Scoring Box, which presents the simple premise of hitting your opponent before he/she hits you, a modern equivalent of Old West quick draw shootout. Most exchanges, if you could call them that, are over in seconds. It’s boring. And that is all we are left with. Well, that and childish displays of imagined brilliance by fencers trying to convince the officials, through their over played exuberance, that they deserve the touch over their opponent’s equally over played exuberance. A question: should performance art truly be part of fencing? Remove the innards from the game, and all you have left is a stuffed animal that looks like something it isn’t.

This incarnation of fencing, fermenting over the last forty years, reflects the modern demand for instant gratification which can only be arrived at by cutting loose five thousand years of striving for mastery. It’s a video game on steroids. Yes, a different game. Once upon a time, fencing was a life skill, a way of thinking and doing that transcended the fencing strip. When I see modern fencing, with its bellowing, running, leaping pokers, I say to myself, “Well, it is a sport. And it certainly is an athletic sport. But what’s the point of it?” I have been fencing for over fifty-one years, and I still find newness and challenges hidden within my fencing’s boundaries. That’s because there is so much to discover in the traditional game of fencing.

This is what I tell students who ask me that godawful question. And, by the time I finish, there is a long moment of silence before we go back to the lesson proper, and I say, “Let’s get you on guard.”

No one ever asks me for clarification on this issue.

Form and the Free Arm in Fencing: Then and Now

Form and the Free Arm in Fencing: Then and Now

By Nick Evangelista

Angelo’s L’Ecole des Armes, 1763.

Much of the modern fencing world rejects traditional form as being old-fashioned and lacking any significant relationship to the modern sport. And, yet, as Maestro William Gaugler, founder of the first fencing master program in the United States, at San Jose State University, in 1982, points out so aptly in an article appearing in Fencers Quarterly Magazine (Fall, 2002), function—or the skillful application of foil, epee, or sabre—flows out of proper form. Established form, honed over centuries, can be accurately viewed as a “fine tuning mechanism” for fencing.

The great Helene Mayer (left), sometimes described by her opponents as a “brick wall,” because of her solid, unbreakable stance. A bout during the 1936 Olympics.

One might argue what constitutes “proper” form, but it is clear that the best form would be those attributes that produce a balanced condition for a fencer, so that he or she often achieves an expected positive result. On the other hand, no matter the success of any attack, collisions, falling down, repeated poking and jabbing, or bizarre twisting and gyrations would put said action outside the realm of good form. Well, it worked, anything for a touch, and the end justifies the means, should not be excuses for sloppy or brutal fencing. It should be noted that sometimes bad actions work simply because a fencer’s opponent made a bigger mistake than he or she did. To my way of thinking, the bottom line should be, What if these weapons were sharp? That should be a fencer’s line in the sand. That is what makes fencing fencing. Anyway, a sensible person might think that. Denizens of sport fencing world have disparaged me in print for saying this.

Practical Form Historically Speaking

Since traditional form in fencing was developed in an age when men were still fighting to the death with sharp swords, we might draw from this that the ideal form would, by necessity, be those actions which insured a good chance of survival in any personal combat situation. Being able to hit an opponent, say, without being hit would be a critical, since a tie with deadly weapons would be a disaster for all concerned. There then would be nothing fanciful, extraneous, or meaningless in one’s form, for these attributes would get someone killed very quickly. All rational fencers would shrink rapidly from behaviors leading to negative conclusions. Also, it would have been poor business practices for fencing masters to teach anything but good form—since anything else would produce dead non-paying students. It is from these realities that fencing’s practical cause-and-effect approach arose.

Traditional Versus Sport Approaches to Form

Formless sport fencing in action.

To achieve mastery, you need some something to anchor you, to give you a center from which to move freely and effectively. This is form. Or, more to the point, traditional form. In fencing, it is a way to direct the body as a balanced whole. But, today, there are those who have arbitrarily deemed traditional form to be obsolete. They reason that we aren’t fighting duels anymore, so they look to the scoring box alone to give what they consider “meaning” to their game. Furthermore, if making the light go on the machine is the point of it all, then cut out everything else that slows down this outcome, and focus just on the touch. Speed, strength, and aggression replace mastery. Why do they think this way? First, seeing fencing as nothing more than a sport--and the purpose of most sports being to accumulate more touch downs, goals, points, runs, or whatever than the other guy in a specific time period--they reduce fencing to its lowest common denominator. This doubtlessly comes from the single-minded sport mindset that asserts that winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing, a concept that has probably turned more athletes into assholes than any other sports concept. It also muddies the waters for fencing, because it refuses to admit that any sport could offer something beyond ego gratification or entertainment. The value of traditional fencing—and within traditional fencing, the purpose of form--never enters the picture. Form, to the modern sport mind is simply something some other people once did. But fencing isn’t just about feeding electric impulses to a glorified doorbell or amusing spectators.  It’s about a process mastered, both physically and mentally, that changes the person participating in the mastery in a positive way. The acquisition of skill embodied in traditional fencing form becomes the touch, with or without technology. A great touch, denied by no obstacle, is just that, a great touch. Achieving this, the glaring lights and the strident buzzing of an intrusive mechanical appliance become redundant. If not that, we are left with… what? Random exchanges resembling freeway collisions, off-balance and cramped twisting and jabbing, the absence of clear, clean outcomes on the fencing strip, personal histrionic displays implying success to impress judges, and an increase in fencing injuries, both self-inflicted and those dealt to others.

Explaining the Free Arm

On guard and ready for action.

So, what is it specifically that has thrown modern fencing into a tail spin? Do modern fencers fence on their toes like ballerinas? Do they fencing with their eyes closed? Do they fence backwards with their blades stuck between their legs? Well, maybe some do, but that’s not the real problem. The problem has to do with the free arm. The free arm is the lynch-pin of traditional fencing form. Once a valuable fencing tool, the free arm’s only point today is to hang limply at the fencer’s side. Previously, fencers held up the back arm, straight out from the shoulder at a 45-degree angle, and then straight up at the elbow. The hand was relaxed.

So-called “advanced” sport fencers believe that holding the free arm up to be an affectation of another age, a useless holdover of polite, artsy, eighteenth-nineteenth century fencing, sort of a dance of the sugar plum swordsmen. Moreover, it is asserted by many sport teachers that holding the free arm up causes the shoulders to become tense. The rationale, then, is that dropping the arm “keeps the shoulders relaxed, and so promotes freer movement.” Sounds good. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. Not even close.

A highly credible centered lunge employing traditional form during a fencing bout.

The free arm does have a purpose in fencing.* Actually, it has a number of purposes, all of which are lost when the arm is allowed to dangle like a piece of overcooked linguini. Certainly, for students new to fencing, there is some initial tension in the shoulders when adopting the traditional fencing on guard position, but this quickly passes as you grow into it.** I have been fencing for over fifty years, and I can assure you that this is so. That being said,  I would suggest that dropping the free arm is just a quick fix for lazy fencers.

So, what do we gain by employing the free arm in the traditional fencing style? First off, the free arm held up acts as a counter-balance, pure and simple. It keeps the fencer upright, promoting a balanced position whereby body weight remains distributed equally on both legs. This is a good thing for fencers who don’t want to fall down. Moreover, this balanced stance ensures the fencer will lunge from the back leg rather than stepping with the front foot, which, in turn, increases forward acceleration and distance covered. Holding the arm up at a forty-five-degree angle from the torso also keeps the body angled in relationship to an opponent, giving the opposition as little straight-on target surface as possible to attack. Finally, the back arm snapping back straight, palm up, serves as a rudder, like on a boat, enhancing point control. At the same time, the arm being thrown back will add to the acceleration of the lunge. As far as I can tell, all of these outcomes are positive things.

  Salle de Kamikaze

Attacker and defender, both are leaning unsteadily through this awkward exchange.

Now, let’s look at the fencer who has been seduced by the Dark Side of the Fencing Strip. He drops his sword arm because this is what he has been taught to do. Opps! When he moves quickly, he loses his balance. Without a counter-balance, his weight shifts to his front leg. Now, all he can do is step or run or jump at his opponent. He is constantly off-kilter. If he has fenced for a while, he probably has, or will, hurt a knee or ankle--front, back, or both—since his weight shifts unevenly as he moves. Not surprisingly, sports medicine studies focusing on fencing injuries since the 1980s have cited the aforementioned body parts as the most likely areas to be injured in the modern sport, blaming “poor fencing technique” as the chief culprit for said mishaps. Serious head injuries caused by fencers colliding is also mentioned in the above surveys.

Their free arms dangling limply, neither fencer is in a position to establish a strong advantage over the other.

However, even without injuries, the fencer who adopts the above modern approach puts himself or herself into a less than advantageous position on the fencing strip.  When the free arm is down, the sword arm shifts sideways toward the outside line, opening up the inside line; and the chest squares to the opponent, exposing the entire target area to an easy attack.  The fencer’s feet immediately slip out of alignment, destroying any remaining ability to lunge effectively. Not surprisingly, the on-guard position being a holistic enterprise, when the sword arm moves to the outside, wider parries are the result. And, to be sure, dangling at his side, his free arm will not help him with his lunge, his balance, or his recovery. Many modern fencers, faced with the inability to perform an adequate lunge, simply resort to running, leaping forward, or jumping high into the air for their sole sources of locomotion. Is it any wonder that sport fencing matches so often descend into incomprehensible jab fests? This a dead-end for intelligent fencing.

But, to be fair, such fencers will always have relaxed shoulders.

Nice trade-off!

*As a reminder, when I am talking about fencing--unless I specify otherwise--I am talking about the dynamic traditional art and science of fencing that I was taught by my fencing master Ralph Faulkner, which is also the fencing I teach. When I talk about sport fencing, modern fencing, post-modern fencing, Olympic fencing, classical fencing, or historical fencing I feel like I am talking about the multi-dimensional Marvel Cinematic Universe.

**There is a dynamic in sport called the SAID Principle. This stands for: Specific Adaptations to Imposed Demands. This means that when we make new physical demands on our body, it immediately begins to adjust to these new requirements.

WHY?

Why?

 By Nick Evangelista

Why do I teach what I teach?

Today’s fencing, sport fencing, Olympic fencing, with its athletic explosions of frenetic irrationality,  is as far away from true fencing’s intent, content, and spirit as fencing has ever been its centuries old existence.  True, this current incarnation of fencing, the escrime d’jour, is the recognized purveyor of the game, but it is neither an art nor a science. It is simply organized chaos that seems to be growing more chaotic and incomprehensible as time goes on. God save us from the inspiration of the individual fencer. It takes but gives nothing back. There is nothing to give back. I could never support this, much less teach it.  I need more, because from the beginning of my training I realized I was being shown a treasure. I had to pay for it with my time and effort and dedication; but, eventually, if I wanted it enough, it would be mine. It wasn’t the stuff of daydreams. It was a real system guided by both mastery of form and logic.  Who could ask for anything more?

If you are a sport fencer reading what I have just written, you may well call my observations a rant, and proclaim to the heavens that I am full of it, and that today’s fencers are the greatest fencers who have ever lived. It wouldn’t be the first time I have encountered such sentiments from the sport community. My books on fencing, and my time publishing Fencers Quarterly Magazine have brought me numerous examples of sport fencing’s umbrage over the years.

As a final qualifying note, I do have a degree in History, which I would suggest, at least theoretically-speaking, steers me in the direction of critical thinking, a necessary ingredient in any kind of meaningful discourse. By way of this notion, in college, I had a professor who would tell students before essay tests, “I don’t care what your feelings are. Give me ten reasons for what you’ve stated is so.” I have always tried to follow this directive.

So, what about those greatest fencers who have ever lived? I have seen discussions online regarding these fencing people, and, by and large, the named all seem to be denizens of the twenty-first century. Not surprisingly, I suppose. By my estimation, these picks, based on the present state of fencing skill, simply show profound ignorance, bias, and a provincial sense of history.  A short list of true champions might include such names as Lucien Gaudin, Helene Mayer, Aldo and Nedo Nadi, Ellen Preis, George Piller, Edoardo Mangiarotti, Alex Orban, Ilona Elek, and Christian d’Oriola. That they lived and breathed and fenced in the primitive twentieth century in no way diminishes their relevance to the fencing world when we talk of champions, real champions. Some of them actually fenced their entire lives without the dubious support of fencing technology. Once upon a time, fencers achieved greatness through measured ability rather than artificial manipulations designed to make sense of nonsense.

Aside from the aforementioned comparisons of skill, growing up in a fencing world where fencing was still fencing, I have personally witnessed the sport of fencing devolve to its present level for a half century, giving me a unique eye-witness point of view. This is why I have suggested previously that today’s champions would be nothing without their electronic crutches. By the way, I do not speak of electric fencing as a bystander. I have fenced and competed with electric foil and epee, and so I know their pitfalls. On the other hand, the best bout I ever fought in my life was fenced with an electric foil, so I also know, when used in moderation, their strengths. If anyone asks, I simply supply the necessary cautionary tales.

And what is the biggest problem I see with electrical fencing? What I worry about most is when I see skill and intelligence being measured in electronic interventions, because these “accomplishments” can be easily mistaken as valid benchmarks of human achievement. And this, in fact, is exactly what has taken place. Fencing as fencing has been dehumanized and robbed of thought in a mindless dash for an electrically generated impulse.

The fencing of post-modern concepts, the fencing of now, is a system victimized by a technological brainwashing of its own making. Behavioral Psychology, the science of response conditioning—that is, behavior modification--observes how bells and whistles, rewards and punishments, interventions, and modeling can alter thought and action. It really doesn’t take much effort, especially when the motivator possesses powerful incentives. Unfortunately, becoming trapped in something bigger than one’s self without a roadmap is a pitfall of modern life. Worse, as the system becomes more intricate and invasive, we become smaller and more dependent upon it. Instead of internalizing the system, the system internalizes us. When I watch videos of gymnasiums full of fencers running back and forth on fencing strips amid flashing lights and strident buzzers, all I see is assembly lines full of bean counters.

An illustrative true story: A few years ago, a student of mine was fencing for a large south-western university club, when, one day, he showed up for practice in his fencing jacket and jeans. An assistant coach looked at his pants, and asked, “Where are your fencing pants?” My student said, “Where I learned to fence, we always fence in jeans when we practice.” The coach looked puzzled. “You can do that?” He nodded, adding, with a grin, “And sometimes we even fence outside.” “You can do that?” the coach said again. “Oh, you must have had a very long extension cord.” Figure out the final reply for yourself.

Taking the above thesis beyond the fencing piste, I sometimes wonder if mankind isn’t already morphing away from Homo sapiens into some sort of hybrid, perhaps Homo electronicus, a human that can neither think nor act effectively without the benefit of artificial prompts. Can anyone these days, married to their cell phone, operate effectively in the world without their electronic teat? Are we that far away from Homo electronicus right now? I do not own a cell phone/smart phone/iphone. I have never recognized a need for one.

For my own part in the story of our species, I teach fencing as I always have, as a human skill supported by the mastery of a long-perfected system. When I wrote my book, The Art and Science of Fencing, in 1996, I said, without hesitation: “It is human beings who carry out the manipulation of the foils, epees, and sabres. We aren’t machines on the fencing strip. Fencing isn’t some cold, impersonal mechanism, but a vigorous, red-blooded, highly personal expression of mind and body.…Human experience, after all, is the essence of our art.…It is important for beginning fencers to realize they are part of something deeply rooted in man’s existence.” Today, twenty-six years after setting down those words, I still believe this more than ever. I will always champion human mastery over technological interference in fencing.

 This is why I teach what I teach.

In Praise of 10 Historical Fencing Masters

In Praise of 10 Historical Fencing Masters

By Nick Evangelista

Marozzo

1.)    Achille Marozzo: for his early attempt to bring an ordered system of combat to fencing. Opera Nova (1536).

Agrippa

2.)    Camillo Agrippa: for his stressing the value of the thrust. Tratto di scientia d’arme (1553).

Fabris

3.)    Salvator Fabris: for consolidating the best ideas fencing had to offer during the 16th century. Scienza e pratica d’arme (1606).

Capo Ferro

4.)    Ridolfo Capo Ferro: for popularizing the lunge, and insisting that fencing engagements should be carried out in a linear fashion. Gran simulacro dell’arte e della Scherma (1610).

Besnard

5.)    Charles Besnard: for establishing the superiority of French theory and practice over the Italian school during the 17th century. Le maistre d’armes liberal (1653).

Liancour

6.)    Wernesson de Liancour: For removing from the French system of fencing the majority of theories and practices that were either outdated or manifestly false in the mid-17th century. Le Maistre d’armes, ou l’exercice de l’espee sculle dans sa perfection (1686).

Danet

7.)    Guillaume Danet: for his general fencing principles which became the basis for foil fencing in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Art des Armes (1766).

Hope

8.)    Sir William Hope: for his numerous books on the small sword. Various titles (1687-1729).

D. Angelo

9.)    Domenico Angelo: for establishing during the mid-18th century the concept that, beyond its martial origins, fencing could be employed for exercise, and as a sport to enhance health, poise, grace, and character; and for writing a book that became a showcase of French fencing for decades. L’Ecole des Armes/The School of Fencing (1763, 1765, and 1767).

H. Angelo

10.)  Henry (Harry) Angelo, son of Domenico: for fully defining and expanding his father’s notions on the healthful benefits of fencing, and for welcoming everyday citizens as potential students, not just “persons of rank,” as his father imagined. During the late 18th century, when fencing was otherwise fading away as a martial discipline due to the ascendency of the pistol as a dueling weapon, his insights infused new life into the art. His book, A treatise on the utility and advantages of fencing, giving the opinions of the most eminent Authors and Medical Practitioners on the important advantages derived from a knowledge of the Art as a means of self-defence and a promoter of health (1817), was the medical verification of his ideas. He also published a less ornate, and cheaper, version of his father’s The School of Fencing (1787 and 1799) to further promote his strategies. In addition to the aforementioned, he was the first fencing master to publicly promote the concept of fencing for women. The author and biographer of the Angelo family, J.D. Aylward (The House of Angelo, 1953), described Henry Angelo as having “a shrewd business head with a gift of turning circumstances to professional advantage.” Moreover, as it turned out, what he thought was also good for fencing.

Letter to a Sport Fencer After His Visit to My University Fencing Club in 2015

Letter to a Sport Fencer After His Visit to My University Fencing Club in 2015

By Nick Evangelista

Hello,

It was an interesting experience meeting you earlier this week. But I have to be honest with you, the aggressive fencing you have been taught and displayed on Tuesday does not even remotely fit into what I teach, and I cannot permit it in my club for a number of reasons. 

First, our fencing club was created to be a place where individuals could come to learn to fence, not fight for their lives. We do not charge opponents, we do not flick, we do not yell, and we most certainly do not pin our opponents against walls in an effort to demolish them. These things fly in the face of everything I believe fencing should be. This is not the Middle Ages. Nor is it Fencing Fight Club. It may be common fare elsewhere, but I do not deal in that type of sport sensibility. 

By the way, it is very poor fencing etiquette to come into a school, and tell students they are doing things wrong, because they are doing what I have taught them-- at least to the best of their abilities-- and in criticizing them, you are likewise criticizing me. Also, I give my students the opportunity to make mistakes, because this is part of the learning process. I have been fencing for 47 years--between me and my fencing master we share 110 years of unbroken fencing experience--and I do not make up what I teach. There is tradition and logic in what we do here. If you have experienced something else, I can only say you are in error.

I teach a long-established system of fencing based on finesse and strategy, not the anything-for-a-touch approach, sometimes described as “the inspiration of the individual fencer,” that is prevalent in the present competitive fencing world. This is not the Olympics or the World Championships, and I really don't care how "champions" do it. Where students eventually take their fencing when they leave me is up to them, but from the starting point of this club, I require behavior that absolutely no one is allowed to violate.

Moreover, I believe the type of fencing you have been trained in to be dangerous.  With the amount of aggressive energy, you put into your attacks—as an example, the exchange where my student's foil blade was bent backward into an L shape in the forte when you ran onto it—someone will eventually be injured. I have to say, I have never seen anything like that particular blade bend in almost 48 years of fencing. * I can do nothing less than maintain the highest level of safety for everyone in the group, including you. This should be obvious. Not only because a serious injury would result in the club being shut down, but also, most certainly, because of law suits, which would be disastrous for all concerned. In all the years I have been teaching, I have never had a student injured beyond the occasional bruise or welt. This is because one of the hallmarks of my teaching is personal control. I plan to keep my safety record intact.

In a way, I blame myself for what transpired when you were here. I should have checked you out before I let you fence with anyone. I did not, which was my error. But I will not repeat my mistake. I cannot let you bout in the fencing club again until we have sufficiently modified what you have been taught. The only thing I can offer you now is for you to take lessons with me in the club setting until we have accomplished this. I am speaking of learning the measured skills of the traditional French school of fencing. Needless to say, this regimen excludes all forms of pistol grips, French weapons only. The alternative is to not fence with us again. This is for the safety of all concerned, yourself included. **

You have to understand I founded this club, I am the fencing master, and so my word and judgement—based on traditional fencing principles and critical thinking--are the law of the land in this matter, no exceptions.

 Sincerely,  

Nick Evangelista

Maitre d’Armes

Explanatory Notes:

 *With some judicious pounding from my five pound maul, after about an hour I was able to straighten out the L shaped blade. It surprised me! My student is still using it. Two more miracles and I’m going for sainthood.

 **Not surprisingly, the individual in question did not return to the club.

Location, Location, Location

Location, Location, Location

By Nick Evangelista

Once upon a time, as the story goes, I had a problem with the internet. I was dogged by an incorrect reporting of my fencing school’s location. It was not of my doing. As a matter of fact, I have no idea how this particular information managed to be listed, or who posted it. Since 2002, I have only reported to the world that I am located in Springfield, Missouri. I have left my exact address open for reasons that I will explain. This being said, trusting the internet, you would believe, if you hit on your favorite search engine that my school address was: 637 W. Tampa St., Springfield, MO 65802. This, I must tell you now was and always has been, WRONG!!!!!!!!

Unfortunately, for nearly eighteen years, I tried at various times to get this canard expunged from the public record without success. Hence, it became the “official” non-location of the Evangelista School of Fencing.  Of course, I had never taught at this address. In fact, I had never even been to 637 W. Tampa until I decided to visit the location out of curiosity. It was easy to find. It was right in the middle of the industrial section of town.  I thought from the outside it looked like an abandoned liquor store. But, as it happened, it was occupied, and being occupied it turned out to be a Head Start Center for preschoolers. I can only wonder how many millions of people had gone to this place over the years expecting to see fencing, only to leave thinking my school must have gone out of business, mainly due to the commercial awfulness of where it was situated.  Or maybe because I was an incompetent teacher of fencing. I will say, though, there was plenty of parking space.

Occasionally, I would get emails from individuals asking if it would be alright to visit my “fencing school” on Tampa, to which I reply, “Not if you ever plan to meet me.” I’d then explain the above scenario, which made me sound, I think, screwy at best. At the very least, it may have been suspected I was lying to them in hopes of avoiding creditors. Or maybe I was in the witness protection program. Especially since I did not then, and still do not, publicly identify my location in Springfield, as a matter of course.

The question then becomes: why didn’t I, and still don’t, pinpoint where my school could be found? The answer is quite simple: my fencing studio is located in my home, and so I discourage foot traffic and drop-ins. I offer private instruction set up by appointment only. With this in mind, I don’t want people showing up when I am eating dinner or taking a bath, or when I am sleeping. Nor do I want curious people intruding on my private lessons.  Family members and friends are welcome if the student so wishes, but this is my only deviation from private. Private means private.

The reason for my choice is school locations to me is simple. Many years ago, when I was fencing my way through Europe, I much enjoyed those tiny salles that were situated in some fencing master’s home. They were warm and friendly, unlike the large, impersonal venues where I could easily be ignored or viewed as an outsider. Never was I treated with anything but kindness in any fencing master’s home studio. This must have made a strong impression on me, because many years later, when I began teaching on my own, no matter where I was living, this was where I set up shop. Even when I lived on a farm, I immediately made a space for giving fencing lessons. To me, fencing and home are one and the same.

Anyway, not long ago, with much perseverance, and maybe astounding luck—and I’m not exactly sure what/why/how/when I did what I did--I managed, happily, to have this advertising curse exorcised. Therefore, if you want to get in touch with me, don’t be looking for me on Tampa St. among the running, screaming, jumping tots (no, I don’t mean sport fencers). Send me an email here from my website, and ask me about lessons. Once we hammer out a day and time for your lessons, I will give you my address, and directions, and we’ll take it from there.

I generally respond to inquiries immediately.

Do Fencers Hate Me?

Do Fencers Hate Me?

By Nick Evangelista

The computer age has given rise to many noxious entities over the years, some of the worst being cyber-bullies, pundits whose chosen concern is to condemn, and those who simply hate and have an easy venue for spreading it. I lump all these together here because they are all predators looking for victims. They invade, even ruin, lives because it gives them a sense of power.  Also, since they generally operate cloaked in the internet’s provided anonymity, it is reasonable to assume they are by and large lifelong cowards. I am well-acquainted with this type, whether they come as individuals or as groups. Once you create anything—like authoring a book, for instance—and present your work to the public, you automatically paint a metaphorical bull’s-eye on your forehead, and hand out metaphorical rocks suitable for throwing from dark places. This has been the case for me since my first book, The Encyclopedia of the Sword, was published in 1995. Of course, this is nothing new in the world. It has doubtlessly been the case forever. Assassins work best in the shadows. The sad part of my experience with self-appointed blackballers is that I wasted any time at all feeling bad about what they had to say. The good part was I got over it quickly. If you are bothered by such entities in your life, simply consider the source. These creatures of the night have no more power over you than you give them. In fact, they probably have no real power at all in anything, or they be busy doing it instead of trying to piss on you. The great Lord Byron once wrote: “Seek roses in December, ice in June…before you trust in critics.”

Here’s a story:

If you’ve ever visited a certain onlinefencingsite, you may well have encountered an article called, “Why Fencers Hate Nick Evangelista.” The title continues to pop up on internet search engines, so I know it still graces this popular watering hole for sport fencers. Whenever I see the title of the article listed, I can’t help being amused by the singularly pre-biased title. You don’t even have to read the text to know where the drift of it is going. It doesn’t ask the question, “Do Fencers Hate Nick Evangelista?” Nor does it offer a single specific group as opposition, “Why Sport Fencers Hate Nick Evangelista.” It also doesn’t suggest that the hatred expressed therein may be a less than universal opinion, “Why Some Fencers Hate Nick Evangelista.” The implication of this ad hominem diatribe, through its negative title alone, demands that if you become a fencer, you will instantly be consumed by an overpowering hate this Evangelista guy, without even knowing who he is.

I, of course, am the Evangelista guy in the question of hate. Not to be confused with the baseball player Nick Evangelista, or the Nick Evangelista who was convicted of killing his girlfriend by rolling her up in bubble wrap, or the Nick Evangelista who, I am told, owns a lovely bed and Breakfast in New Jersey, or, last but not least, not Nick Evangelista the underwear expert. Just me. I might add, for all this welling hatred being projected at me, I have never felt inclined to hide from my detractors.  I always sign my name to everything I write about fencing. No pen names or handles or anonymouses. I take pride in my work gleaned from over fifty years of fencing, and I stand by it. I explain the whys and wherefores of everything I say.  If there is any flack from my prose, I am not overly moved by it. Sometimes I even include pictures of myself, so those who hate me can see who they are hating. To be sure, I never see who they are. I don’t care who they are. But I certainly don’t hate them. Actually, I think they are kind of silly for wasting so much time grousing about me. Why don’t they just fence? Or whatever it is they do.

Sometimes, I do have to laugh at the criticism that has been lobbed at me. My all-time favorite observation on my writing from a discerning detractor reads: “I have never read one of Evangelista’s books, but I know he is wrong.” I will never be able to live down such an eloquent critique of my fencing ideas. Another message that came to me suggested: “You talk through your ass.” My reply to this, “Oh, he thinks I’m a ventriloquist.” Someone else was upset because I wear an old Santelli mask with a snap-in bib when I fence, something I do because it is comfortable, and it has served me well for thirty years. If I feel like it, I will wear it for another thirty. And yet another detractor reasoned I couldn’t be a very good teacher because I wasn’t operating in some big city.  To that, I can only say, been there, done it, but I prefer the daily pace of smaller.

I could be outraged, saddened, or discouraged by such petty negativity. Instead, I will let my book, The Art and Science of Fencing, which has been selling for twenty-six years, speak for me. It is the bestselling fencing book of all time. Which is a lot of time! I have to admit I have been aided in this achievement by Amazon.com, something which Ridolfo Capo Ferro and Domenico Angelo were conspicuously lacking during their lifetimes. Moreover, no matter what any of those who are enraged by my written words say, despite their loudest negative objections, Evangelista books continue to sell.  This may well create a paradigm clash for some. This metal dilemma is produced when reality runs into personal notions and personal notions lose. Paradigm clashes then generate what is called cognitive dissonance, which may be explained as an extreme apprehension that one’s foundational world view just might be incorrect. Maybe that’s what the haters hate the most about me. Generally, paradigm clashes are handled by individuals by ignoring or distorting the facts. I might add, I have more book titles in the offing.  More hatred, please.

Now, someone reading this might say, “But how does all this apply to me? I’m not an author, or a fencing master, or anyone special. I’m just a person, and the bullies won’t leave me alone. They just keep picking on me. What can I do? Sometimes I wish I was dead.”

My answer: Whoever you are, wherever you live, there will always be bullies. The Internet and social media make them ubiquitous. Remember, though, your life is your own business. What anyone says about you doesn’t mean a thing. Calling you ugly, stupid, or a loser doesn’t make it so. Remember, bullies are trespassing on your private property when they criticize you. So, one more time: bullies have no real power, unless you surrender yourself to them. Conversely, when you deprive them of your attention, they eventually blow away like the dead leaves of autumn. Some may keep knocking on your door to be let in longer than others. Don’t open the door. Number one on your dance card should be to find that which that makes your life shine, whatever it might be, and follow that to wherever it leads you.

One more story:

Winston Churchill, who guided England successfully through World War II—and who, at the same time, was hated by many who opposed him for his efforts—was once approached by an individual who complained how he was being attacked constantly in the media. Churchill , an old hand at fending off detractors, simply replied, “So, you have enemies. Good! That means you stand for something.”

As for me, I stand for simple things:  tradition, honor, truth, and mastery.

My vast contingent of hating haters? I have no idea what they stand for, or what has become of them. Are they still hating? Are they still fencing?

Not interested.

A Moment in Fencing Time: Doing for the Sake of Doing

A Moment in Fencing Time: Doing for the Sake of Doing

By Nick Evangelista 

Evangelista, Faulkner, and Ganchev

It’s interesting how life plays out one’s significant moments.

I believe I have become an able fencing master not only because of my ability to convey fencing information effectively, but because I have paid attention and learned from the experiences only doing and doing and doing can impart. It goes beyond memorizing facts. Doing illuminates the feelings, colors, and textures of fencing. This is the stuff of fencing that you only get by having your face rubbed in it. What you do with it is up to you.

Case in point: out-fencing a great World professional champion, George Ganchev. A defining moment for sure, maybe the defining moment of my life. But when it came, it came without fanfare. There were no medals or trophies. I was not gathered up, and carried around the fencing room on the supporting shoulders of my cheering teammates. No one even came up to say good job. In fact, no one said anything to me. The entire club had watched me fence, and their response was matter-of-fact. Everyone just packed up their fencing bags when the bout was over, and went home.  Ten minutes later, I was engaged in janitorial chores, straightening up chairs, bagging trash, and sweeping the studio floor. After I was done with my chores, I packed my fencing bag, and quietly let myself out of the school.

Not a movie ending.

And yet, strangely, it seemed right, all the puzzle pieces in place.  I thought about it. I’d done my best, not for any reward beyond doing my best. My bout with George came down to one final touch—one yes or no--and I’d pulled it out of the fire. The reward was the experience, grasping this moment in fencing time and making it my own. Doing it, to have done it. How many people are allowed a defining moment in their life? How many people even recognize when they’ve had one?

 Then, again:

 The next fencing day.

Saturday afternoon.

Mr. Faulkner came up to me as soon as I entered the school.

“You know,” he said, “you really beat George the other night.”

“What do you mean, Boss?” I asked.

“Well, after everyone was gone Thursday night, George came back to the school, and wanted to talk.”

“Oh…?”

“That last touch you made on him, he talked about it for a whole hour.”

I had to fight back a laugh.

Sometimes the universe chooses to smear a little icing on your biscuit.

I just said, “Ah,” and nodded.

My venerable Fencing Master stared at me for a long moment with a curious look on his face, and then walked away chuckling to himself.

Without another word being uttered, I was satisfied with that.