"Fail again. Fail better."

It would be nice to win sometimes but, apart from the occasional lucky bout, it's not going to happen. At the club championship there was a moment in pools when I was 4-1 up. Then my opponent either started concentrating or saw one of the errors I was making and won every point. 5-4 isn't a disgraceful defeat, especially in foil which I barely fence these days, but I'd have liked to win.

At least I didn't come up against my son, who was doing rather better despite very little practice. He won his first D.E. before being eliminated.

Then there was a pause to watch the other bouts and the tightest final I've ever seen, between a very good 14-year-old and a foil specialist aiming at the master-of-arms trophy. The points were long and exhaustingly fought. It was six seconds short of the 9-minute mark when the 14-year-old drew level and the score stood at 13 all. The older fencer fleched and scored. 14-13 and 2 seconds left. We all knew what had to come next. At 9 minutes the match would be awarded to the leading fencer. The 14-year-old had no choice. He fleched, but his opponent was waiting and caught him with a hit, just as time was called.


There was a brief pause before epee began. Non-fencers may have a glamorous idea of a fencing championship. There are moments of glamour, when passing children pause and stand in awe. It should be dramatic and romantic and lunch should involve a lavish feast with silver tankards of good ale or glasses of deep red wine.

It's not quite like that. There are a couple of vending machines, selling cold drinks, crisps and chocolate. They can help but, as Sunday lunch, they're not the best feast imaginable. We'd brought picnics and flasks of tea and coffee to the leisure centre and nibbled between bouts or while watching. Strong black coffee kept me going (more or less) during the morning and cheese, biscuits and apples were a satisfactory lunch. Jaffa cakes were produced and shared. It was cold in the leisure centre, even in fencing gear so it seemed a shame to discard the foil lame I'd borrowed.

In epee, I lost focus. I forgot how to fence. Usually foil helps me prepare for epee but at the championship I was slow, inaccurate and lacking in strategy. I recall - with amazement - one nice wrist hit, but apart from that I offered no real opposition. So of course, I did what I'd decided in advance and proceeded to sabre.

The decisions was ludicrous. I'd held a sabre for thirty minutes in total, in three short sessions. I thought I could just about remember the grip and I had a hazy idea of the en garde position. I knew three defensive positions, fve ways to hit and two parries. The club is stronger in sabre than any other weapon and the keen sabreurs were raring to go. My main aim was not to blink when the blade hit my mask. At least sabre has the warmest kit.


By this stage, the level of aggression from fencers was pretty high. The master-of-arms title was wide open and all the sabreurs were keen to do their best. But at last I wasn't the only woman in the hall (though I was the oldest person). A sabreuse arrived with another woman fencer in support and both offered advice and encouragement. The most useful advice was "They won't be so aggressive with you." Watching the opening pool fights, I hoped this was right.

I imagine my opponents must have held back - probably rather obviously - as I managed occasional hits. The women cheered me in my first bout, which helped, and there was a cheer when I managed a cut. Most of my hits were flailing accidents since I had no idea of appropriate technique but one cut to the inner arm delighted me. And in the D.E. I went out 15-5 - the same score as I'd managed in epee. In epee that was disgraceful but in sabre creditable. I finished the day, seven and a half hours after I began, thinking that at least I was still standing and I'd only fallen over once.

Walking home, I was exhilarated. I'd fenced all three weapons for the first (possibly the last) time. But again I wondered why I fence. I'm not going to be a good fencer. For a few years, I may manage to improve a little, but it's a continuing battle against age. In a few years I'll start getting worse.

The backpack with mask, jacket, breeches and plastron was a familiar weight. The swords jangled gently in the bag on my shoulder. I looked at the stars and thought the most hopeful motto I could find came from Waiting for Godot: "No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."


Note:
In my previous post, I mentioned the case of Jahongir Sidikov. His deportation to Uzbekistan has been delayed, pending a review, but the British government has stated that deporting dissidents to Uzbekistan is government policy. I can hardly believe this. Anyone who wishes to learn about Uzbekistan, should read Craig Murray's book: Murder in Samarkand in Britain, or, in the United States, Dirty Diplomacy: the Rough-and-Tumble Adventures of a Scotch-Drinking, Skirt-Chasing, Dictator-Busting and Thoroughly Unrepentant Ambassador Stuck on the Frontline of the War against Terror. (That American title has a certain something - length for a start.) If you wish to help Jahongir, please follow the links, search on google and do what you can. (There's a Facebook group too.)

fencing v. football

(This post is late. I've been concerned with the fate of the Uzbek asylum-seeker Jahongir Sidikov - not that there's much I can do. I feel powerless and angry.)

It wasn't my most successful evening of fencing but I enjoyed it all the same.

Attendance was sparse. The England v. Croatia match started at the same time as fencing. Evidently most epeeists and foilists and sabreurs were football fans - or masochists. I couldn't believe the game would turn out well. Even though sports journalists talked up England team's chances after the Israel-Russia result left them in with a chance of going to Europe (all they needed was a draw) the signs didn't seem good. When I heard the manager was using a new goalie and had dropped Beckham from the starting line-up, I was convinced hope was gone. It's not that Beckham is a consistently good player - he never was that and now age is against him - but the team as a whole plays better when he's on the pitch.

I forgot the football in a semi-energetic warm-up (I was tired and not trying very hard) and then looked for a bout. There was one other epeeist - a young man much faster and better than me - who made a good attempt to conceal his disappointment at finding me his only opponent. I encouraged him to ask other fencers to do some epee and, after our bout, was pleased to see he found better competition. Almost all my hits on him were doubles, even though he was hardly trying, but I did manage one touch to his hand which pleased me.

The sabreurs were most numerous. I hesitated to ask the hard-hitting men for a bout but a quiet, hard-hitting teenage girl offered me some practice. One particular slash to my right arm had me shouting "ouch!", at which she apologised and was deeply concerned. I assured her that I expected to be hurt when fencing and continued. She continued to look concerned. I suppose I'm a grandmotherly figure in her eyes.

My second attenpt at sabre was against a woman who started fencing when I did and is now a skilled sabreuse winning medals and trophies. After a few hits, she started to show me how to improve - mostly be moving much faster. I still wasn't very fast but she assured me there was a great improvement so I felt rather pleased. Unfortunately my only means of getting through her defence was epee-style, with the point.

I still don't understand right of way in sabre. And it's strange not being able to go for the legs - or the toes.

My son finally challenged me to a bout at foil. It's ages since I've fenced him but I used to be able to land a reasonable number of hits, even though I've only beaten him once or twice. He was very out of practice so I had hopes. As I was picking up my foil, I heard my mobile phone ringing. A friend thoughtfully let me know the half-time score in the football: Croatia 2 - England 0. I passed on the news. There was no great gloom. Some of us reckoned we'd done well to avoid an evening of despair. Others were anti-football and glad they'd be able to avoid the European cup games next year.

I was soon more concerned with another defeat. My son beat me 15-3 - even with a friend of mine acting as ref. (Usually we fence without a ref and argue the points to absurdity.) He kept repeating the same attack, which turned out to be an excellent strategy since my attempts to parry it ended in failure. He is taller than me and his arms are longer. I did a bit more foil with a smaller woman and landed the occasional hit.

It sounds like a chronicle of failure but by the end of the evening I was exhilarated. I'd fenced three wepaons against a range of opponents and I was still standing. Best of all, I felt I'd learnt a little and improved just a little bit in each. This may not give me any chance of doing well in the club championship. If I can borrow club sabre kit I may indeed try all three weapons and come last in each. Someone has to come last and the practice will be good for me. I'll enjoy it too, though I dread the bruises when it's over.

After fencing, I rang for a taxi. There weren't any. I suppose all the drivers were watching the match of ferrying discolsolate fans. So I asked a fencer who lives nearby if he could give us a lift. As we stowed the kit in the boot, the driver turned on the radio. England 2 - Croatia 2. And then Croatia scored.



Note: One theory says that a mistake in the words of the Croatian National Anthem inspired the team. I suspect the mistaken version will be sung at many future Croatian sporting fixtures.