EPTIt’s this stupid fucking competition. He pulled his jacket over his head and flung it at his bag, where the rest of his wretched equipment laid. In this stupid fucking country. He ripped off his Nike Ballestras. In this FUCKING hall. He kicked off his breeches. A fencing competition on the tiny, hot, humid, tropical island of Singapore. In an air condition free, poorly ventilated sports hall. In a fencing suit. I’m going to melt.
Beep beep beep goes the hall. The round robin matches were still going on, but he was done-diddly-done. Hal went 2-3 in poules; if he weren’t eliminated from the poules, he’d be pitted against the top seed in the elimination rounds. Not the comeback I envision. Maybe the one I deserve. The eminent sage Captain hindsight, all seeing, ever vigilant, makes an appearance once again. You know what, perhaps if you trained harder. Had you not lost that point. Maybe with more sleep…
Hal sat up cross-legged and whipped out two bottles of JIM BEAM COLA from a grocery bag. Fresh catch from 7/11, Kentucky straight bourbon! Pop went the cap; Hal closed his eyes and took a swig. It burned, but it was a cool burn, a soothing burn, like chopped aloe vera on a fresh blister. Come 8pm tonight we’ll be chasing girls together once again! He pulls the bottle to his lips and pauses, half-opening his left eye. Satisfied that no one paid attention, he continued his drink.
‘“The brackets for the direct elimination matches are now, please proceed to the DT table to check your placing. Thank you.”
The next mouthful sent shivers down his spine. Wait for me. Hal tucked the bottles away and scurried over to the DT table. Moment of truth! He scanned the placings document. Nope nope nope, there. Rank 27, not quite ELIM, but 5 places close. He scoured the brackets. Second seed, Gregory Luk; his would be opponent placed rank 2 after poules. Could be worse, could have been the first seed. You have to be realistic about these things.
“Gregory Luk and Hal Wu Please proceed to piste five, thank you!”
Yeah that’s me.
Hal rummaged his bag in search of his elusive fencing headgear. It’s a fencing mask, not a helmet, he remembered his fencing coach correcting him. It wasn’t in the bag. He spun around a few times before realising it was at his feet all along. Looking up at him, mocking him. Nervy Hal, kicked out of the first round, what will we do with you?
Mask. Check. French grip epees. Check. Body wires. Check. A target with a horizontal line cutting through was stamped onto each piece of equipment. Leon Paul London, Iconic British Equipment. All aboard! Set course for our imminent ELIM at piste five! Hal dragged his equipment.
“Joshua in the semis, you confident?” Jackie said.
“What if I lose to him?” Greg chuckled, eyeballing Hal as he trudged past.
“Cannot!”
Jackie was Gregory’s girlfriend. And the honourable referee for our glorious battle today. Beaten in front of his damsel, how romantic. A spare crowd, mostly Greg’s supporters, gathered nearby, chatting amongst each other, waiting for the match to begin.
Click. Hal hooked the back end of his body wire to the electrical scoring box. Click. He latched the front end to the Epee. Jackie held up a bright red keychain looking thing with two strips of metal attached to it. Both strips had a little gap at the end to slot into the epee tip. The thicker strip made sure that the distance required for the tip to be at full depression wasn’t shorter than it should be, while the latter tested that a point registered only when the tip was fully depressed. She tested Hal’s weapon, her boyfriend’s, then produced a small metal tube from her pocket. Hal squatted down immediately, holding his sword up, tip pointed towards the ceiling. The tube slots onto the tip of his Epee. This test ensured that a point was scored at no less than 750 grams of pressure.
Satisfied with the state of his weapon, the referee placed the testing equipment on the floor, and picked up the remote for the scoring box. A guard test was followed, where a fencer tested his opponent’s guard by giving it a nice poke, testing the grounding of the guard so points weren’t scored by hitting the guard. Following the time ordered tradition of fencing, the code duello, Gregory gave Hal the cursory salute, and Hal returned the favour. Did he just sneer at me?
“Engarde. Pret. Allez!” Ongad. Pray. Ahhh-leeee.
The match began.
Gregory advanced. Hal rescinded into the piste. The Dom leading the sub. He was unrelenting. Forward, forward, forward, he had no respect for his opponent. Hal sunk further and further into the back of the piste. I’m running out of piste. Hal knew he should do something, but his legs were anchors, and his arms were dead. He flailed his Epee around in circles in a feeble attempt to threaten his opponent. Hal was running out of ideas and Greg was closing in fast. He who thinks, often strikes last! He remembered Maestro Seth yelling at him during his training sessions. Now.
“Halt!”
“What!” Hal pulled his mask up and scowled at the referee.
Jackie shook her head and jerked her thumb towards his feet. “You’re out of the piste.”
Hal looked down and realised that the grey line indicating the end of the fencing piste was well in front of him. Stupid stupid stupid, an amateur mistake! With a groan, he pulled his mask back over his piste and walked back to the middle of the piste. Someone in the crowd let out a loud cough.
The match started again, and both fencers broke into a ‘bounce’, an evasive manoeuvre where a fencer hopped back and forth in an attempt to disguise his distance. He who thinks first strikes last! Pushing off his forefoot while kicking with his back foot, hips twisting, eyes trained on the bib of his opponent’s mask, Hal produced a textbook flèche. A good flèche! He imagined Maestro Seth would have proclaimed. But the little man inside of him had other ideas. You’re pointing the wrong way. Quickly it’s not too late. Don’t miss, don’t miss, don’t miss! Fear gripped him. A drip of piss soiled his boxer-briefs. The Epee’s point veered off by a fraction. Compounded by the velocity at which he was moving, he completely and utterly missed his target. On the bright side, his opponent was gracious enough to extend his hand and allow Hal to run into the point.
The referee raised up her left forehand. “Point!”
Let’s go for his feet. According to the great maestro, self-talk was a sure-fire way to kill competition anxiety. However Hal’s head was a big hodgepodge of blaring voices, many giving conflicting advice.
Be patient Hal, he will falter and when there’s an opening you will go-go-go! No Hal, the time is now, you need to be aggressive, remember that a dominant fencer is a champion fencer.
“Silence!”, a loud voice bellowed.
If the others heard, they paid no attention and continued their silly squabbles. Hal lunged low, aiming to score a touch on Greg’s feet. Greg, hopped back, his Adistars just shy of Hal’s point, and lunged forward, scoring a third point.
Half-time. Toast to you Jim. Sam forced down the carbonated beverage and let out a satisfied burp. Better. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but more likely the liberation of having to beat his opponent, the brobdingnagian burden of competition now off his shoulders. He turned to the scoreboard. Six-one. He examined his surroundings. Most of the crowd had dispersed, and what was left was not paying attention.
I’m going to lose this, but I refuse to make it easy. He promised himself to last through all three, three minute rounds.
“Allez!” the match continued.
Slowly, the fear clouding his thoughts began to ebb out. Out goes the fear and now we will find what’s left. As the seconds ticked off the clock, as his doubt abandoned him, he could feel something else deep inside of him. He imagined it was his resolve. Six-one, can you do it? “I have to,” Hal whispered. You’ve fenced him before, you’ve seen him fence. You know his habits, and you know how to win.
All you need to do is win. Fencing Clffnotes by Maestro Seth.
Point control, passable. Foot-work, nimble. Blade-work, lacklustre. Hal knew he wasn’t the most talented fencer; he was an incredibly limited fencer, but limited fencers were often mistaken for bad fencers. Sure, Hal knew people talked behind his back, mocked him when he lost and faulted him when he won. He fences the wrong way! That was fine with Hal; he loved being underestimated. The better fencer lost! Maybe. Maybe there was a right and proper way of doing things in the piste, but Maestro Seth had no patience for such frivolous customs. You do not need to out-fence someone to beat him, all you need to do is win!
Greg feinted to Hal’s left, and went for a bind to his right. The sixte, he always binds to the sixte. His bind is a strong bind and a fast bind, but also a wide bind. Hal stepped back and disengaged his opponent’s attempt to lock his blade at the sixte. He’s open at the wrist. Hal lunged for the wrist and his opponent instinctively parried to the quart. Nope, saw that coming. Just as Greg’s blade was about to make contact, Hal dropped his point and lunged to the knee. Point to me.
Habits are hard to kill. Find the little flaws in his technique and he will start to think, and he who thinks first, strikes last.
Touche, touche, double touche, touche! Toooooosh. The battle raged.
Hal stole a glance at the score board. 12-13. I’m a point away from breaking even. Hal shook his head. No, I’m three points from winning. The tables had turned and now Greg was the nervy one. No longer possessing any confidence in his defense, Greg was throwing out all sorts of whimsical and flamboyant attack combinations. Opposition lunge to the sixte into an attack to the foot into a flick-fleche to the back. Even the top fencers in the Olympics were rarely that creative.
Hal was starting to encounter difficulties reading his opponent. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Both fencers bounced up and down the piste, back and forth, engaged in a heated battle of will. Hal grew suspicious of the immediate change in tempo; Greg was avoiding all engagements at first blush.
1 minute left on the clock, I’m one minute away from losing and he knows it. He’s stalling.
It dawned on Hal that it was the third and final bout. He fleched his opponent. Greg raised his blade up slowly, poising himself to defend the attack. Hal had made a fatal error, he started his attack too soon.
Or so he thinks. Unbeknown to Greg, this was a dirty trick Hal developed in Maestro Seth’s fencing studio, where people knew that Hal’s choice of attack was the flèche. The flèche is a surprise attack, remember that Hal!
Greg pulled his Epee up to his face in a manoeuvre similar to wiping one’s face with the sleeve, and his blade connected with the foible of Hal’s Epee. Just like the fencers back at the studio, he defends the flèche with a Prime. Sam drew his arm back at the last second and his blade broke free from the clutches of the Prime, an action that the extra distance from his opponent allowed him, and he started working on his opponent. Like a nice cut of meat.
Jab. Jab. Jab. Greg stumbled further into the piste, swinging his blade in circles, desperately parrying Hal’s attacks. Like a windshield wiper and its futile attempts at defending the impending torrent of debris. Jab. Jab. Jab. With every attack, he closed in on the 13th point. The break-even point. Jab. Jab. Jab. Every semblance of technique vanished from the exchange. Jab. Jab. He spotted the little yellow stain on his opponent’s bib. Jab. He whiffed Rexona Ice-cool roll-on wafting from Greg’s Allstar jacket. Jab. Chuff, chuff, chuff goes Greg. Jab. He saw his opponents face bared teeth, saw the fear in his eyes.
Beep goes the hall. A green square lit up on the right side of score board, registering Hal’s point. Fourteen all. Sudden victory. Or sudden ELIM.
The unusual silence of the hall screamed at Hal, breaking his concentration briefly. A huge crowd was spectating their match now. No doubt none cheering for Hal, but that was fine. After all it’s your game to lose Greg.
“Allez!” Ahh-leeee.
Hal sprung past the starting line, pressing his opponent back with a flurry of feints and attempts at the wrist. Step after step Greg conceded valuable piste. Hal stopped his advance. Mike peaked down and found his back foot well behind the end of the piste. Hal could feel the hair on the back of his opponent’s neck stand, he could see his eyes grow wide behind his mask. Hal had won, and indeed he won. A touch to the foot that earned him half-hearted claps, scowls and whispers from the crowd.
Hal didn’t win the competition that day; his next opponent rolled him over without breaking so much of a sweat. Later in the evening, he did a different kind of bouncing around Clark Quay in search of easy love, his drunk and infantile behaviour earning him more scowls and whispers, but that was fine with Hal. It was a fine day for Hal. After all, he’d finally overcome his greatest opponent.
