En Garde, Ready, Fence!
45 touches make the match! Our fencing team is losing 30-21 to our longtime rival. As team captain, I am expected by my mates to close the gap and win the match, fairly or not. The thought flashes across my mind while connecting my épée to the scoring machine. The official checks my equipment. I recite my mantra, - one touch at a time, one touch at a time. I salute all, don my dark mask, and strike a tense pose. “En garde!” barks the referee, “Fence!”, and I am hurtling into mid-air before the word fully leaves her lips.
Before fencing, I was that Brooklyn kid who stealthily coveted Saturday early morning cartoons while my tired parents caught up on the week’s sleep. One Saturday it all changed.
Rousted from bed before ‘cartoon-time’, confused and bleary-eyed, they flung sports clothes in my face. Crumpling into the Volvo wagon, I fell asleep among my sisters until being rousted for the second time…. in Manhattan? This was not Great-gran’s apartment building, and it was not Sunday’s visit. Mom swept us through the dingy lobby and into the dusty elevator. As the cabin squeaked up the cables, I could already hear the sounds of buzzers and the clashing of metal. When the elevator doors popped open, I was walloped by the sound of feet pounding the floor with footwork drills and the acrid smell of sweaty bodies. “37, 38, 39, 40…” one voice barked. Another even louder, “I DON’T HEAR EVERYONE COUNTING. DO YOU WANT TO START FROM ZERO?”
My eyes locked with the sideways glances of row upon row of pudgy children, all ages and races, doing jumping jacks like their lives depended on it. Towering over us, athletic-looking adults prowled among the rows pulling out slackers. One man with distinct dark, African skin and kinky hair, yet warm,
Japanese eyes, greeted, and interviewed each of us. This was Peter Westbrook, renowned Olympian. With his approval, we quickly found a place among the other kids; the rest is a blur.
Ten years of Saturday instruction with the Peter Westbrook Foundation (PWF) have taught me fencing from several Olympians, The Foundation’s focus is on raising underserved city kids through the discipline and lifestyle of a fencer, and without the opportunity provided by the club I would have never given fencing a second thought, it being an expensive sport and myself being a part of a large family.
When told to select among saber, epee or foil, I chose saber, my big sister epee. In time, I would change to fence foil for years, and finally, as my body grew in strength and developed my final arm reach, I instinctively ‘grew into’ the epee. My instructors told me I learned quickly, which is why I allowed to join the program a year early.
PWF pushed me into weekend tournaments around New York and encouraged the discovery of other sports, so I have played tennis and run track for almost as many years. This created a sometimes hectic logistical nightmare of actively participating in multiple sports at once and school, but through the guidance of my club’s tutoring network and my family I managed. Finally, it led me into the NYC Public School Athletic League fencing finals.
If you had asked my seven-year-old self what an epee was, I wouldn’t have known, but as I stood on that en garde line, and as I flew towards my opponent, I had the culmination of ten years of fencing experience guiding my arm, and the point of my blade found its mark. So the bout continued that way, with each touch I scored, robbing Staten Island Tech’s team of its confidence in their victory, and giving us the final resounding victory 35-45. When I scored the final touch to victory, my team’s tension exploded into whoops and cheers. What may have seemed like an effortless comeback victory was the result of a decade of practice and work and I can not wait to see where it takes me.
Written by Yehia Ellis
Photographed by Ayman Siam
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