Fencing
It started when I was 11. I was a fifth grader, or—as I had put it—a “senior” in elementary school. High school and college felt eons away, and middle school seemed merely an opportunity for renewed excitement. All of us were acutely aware that in middle school, there would be no recess, so we savored each day on the playground—each minute, each second. In the midst of this bustling playfulness, however, fear was lurking—a pervasive, subtle horror that guided the decision-making of nearly all children: the fear of being left out. It was amid this atmosphere when I started fencing.
I suppose my path to fencing really started, then, before I was born. My parents are Chinese; they immigrated to the United States around four years before they had me. I often attempt to imagine what it might have been like for them. Everything that they knew—their people, their culture, their society, their language—all of it was gone. Truly, they must have felt alone, or perhaps left out. Yet somehow—and I will forever be grateful for this—it all worked out. They earned degrees from the University of Akron, found jobs, and bought a house in Dublin, Ohio. They succeeded because they had the courage and the tenacity to leave their homeland with nothing but hope for a better future. I like to think that their story has had a similar impact on me.
While most of my classmates were involved with sports like American football, baseball, and soccer, sports wasn’t a major part of my early childhood. Yet for everyone else, it seemed that that was all they had to live for. When entering new grades of school, “what sports do you play?” was among the first “get to know you” questions that the teacher would ask, and I would struggle to answer—I knew I had nothing. Does chess count as a sport? I did that for a little bit. Figure skating? Yeah, I tried that too. Table tennis? I occasionally messed around with my dad in my basement’s ping pong table. Finally in fourth grade, out of a mindless desire for conformity, I decided to give soccer a try.
The first thing I did—being me—was go to the library and check out Soccer For Dummies. I learned the basic rules of play—what the lines on the field meant, what forwards and defenders did—and, don’t get me wrong, it did help. No amount of studying, however, could have actually prepared me for the physical grit I needed to perform. I spent much of the time running around aimlessly on the field, with technical knowledge of the goal, but nothing that would allow me to reach it. The only game my team won that season was the one game I didn’t attend since I’d been sick. Granted, there were other factors involved, and we had lots of fun throughout the season, but I knew by then that soccer just wasn’t for me. After just one season in fourth grade, my soccer career ended.
And then I had my world turned on its head.
It’s fascinating to me how much of our lives are based on the perfect alignment of seemingly insignificant, chance occurrences. In my case, my friend Daniel’s older brother stumbled across an article online about Facebook co-founder Mark Zuckerberg. Zuckerberg did a sport called “fencing”—and no, it had nothing to do with barbed wires and wooden poles. Already, the name of the sport was intriguing. It was something different. The article caused Daniel’s brother to give it a try, which caused Daniel himself to try it as well. Eventually, I found out that a fencing center was less than 15 minutes away from my home. I decided to give it a shot. (I would later wonder what would’ve happened if Daniel’s brother hadn’t found that article.)
Walking in, I had little idea what to expect. This time, there weren’t any Fencing For Dummies books. The first thing I noticed was the beeping. That incessant, endless chirping that the scoring machine makes when a fencer scores a touch. A tournament was in progress the day I started fencing, so I got to see the sport in action right away.
I was eleven, but I still felt too old. That insidious fear of being left out began to creep up once again. Most of my classmates had started to play their own sports when they were six or seven. I looked at the fencers competing in front of me—their graceful steps and perfectly coordinated attacks. I began to think, there’s no way I’m ever going to be as good as them.
I met with the coach, and she seemed to confirm my fears. “Most the students in the youth class started when they were younger,” she said. My first lesson was in a group with two other kids, and they were both several years younger than me. Right then and there, I thought about quitting.
As soon as the thought entered my head, I dispelled it. This won’t be like soccer, I told myself. This won’t be like figure skating. This won’t be like chess. I thought about my parents—I was like them, coming into a whole new world I knew nothing of. Yes, this will be my thing.
Every minute of every practice, I worked. Whether it was bouting, conditioning, or drilling, I was there, drenching my shirt with perspiration.
After about a year’s experience, I fenced my first true competition. Back when I did soccer, we had a game every Saturday, and we lost each one (except, of course, for the one I didn’t play in). Back then, losses were discouraging. They were a bad habit that we just couldn’t shake. I suspect that if my team had won more games, I might have stayed in the sport.
I drove two hours—the longest I’d ever traveled to participate in any official event at the time—to Cleveland, where I fenced a 17-person Y12 Men’s Foil event.
I was nervous. I froze up. I was shown a yellow card for faulty equipment, but the problem was actually with the scoring machine. I didn’t know what was going on. I lost every bout in my pool. The next round was DEs. I asked someone what “DE” meant.
Direct elimination. So if I lose, I’m directly eliminated. Gulp.
I was determined, however. This won’t be like soccer, I told myself once again. This was my thing.
En gardé. Fencers ready? Fence!
I started advancing in an attempt at a long attack. It was swiftly parried by my opponent. Before I even knew what was happening, I was down by one point.
No. Stop. This was my thing.
As I came to fence in many more competitions, the courage and conviction with which I approached every bout grew and grew. I kept losing, but gradually, I did start winning. Then, one day, when I was 13, I fenced a 10-person Senior Mixed Foil event in Dayton. And I won, earning an “E” rating in foil.
By then, however, I didn’t want to stop. I was resolved to demand the best of myself. That same year, I fenced in tournaments that earned me a “D” rating, then a “C” rating. When I was 15, I earned my “B.”
I have no qualms now answering, “What sports do you play?” Once, my pediatrician asked me this, and when I answered, she nodded her head confusedly—“Ah fencing… what’s fencing?”
I don’t feel left out when I meet people like my doctor. I feel proud. Proud to represent my sport. Proud to know that what I do is unique. That it’s a part of who I am.
Fencing is my thing. And nothing will ever change that.
I suppose my path to fencing really started, then, before I was born. My parents are Chinese; they immigrated to the United States around four years before they had me. I often attempt to imagine what it might have been like for them. Everything that they knew—their people, their culture, their society, their language—all of it was gone. Truly, they must have felt alone, or perhaps left out. Yet somehow—and I will forever be grateful for this—it all worked out. They earned degrees from the University of Akron, found jobs, and bought a house in Dublin, Ohio. They succeeded because they had the courage and the tenacity to leave their homeland with nothing but hope for a better future. I like to think that their story has had a similar impact on me.
While most of my classmates were involved with sports like American football, baseball, and soccer, sports wasn’t a major part of my early childhood. Yet for everyone else, it seemed that that was all they had to live for. When entering new grades of school, “what sports do you play?” was among the first “get to know you” questions that the teacher would ask, and I would struggle to answer—I knew I had nothing. Does chess count as a sport? I did that for a little bit. Figure skating? Yeah, I tried that too. Table tennis? I occasionally messed around with my dad in my basement’s ping pong table. Finally in fourth grade, out of a mindless desire for conformity, I decided to give soccer a try.
The first thing I did—being me—was go to the library and check out Soccer For Dummies. I learned the basic rules of play—what the lines on the field meant, what forwards and defenders did—and, don’t get me wrong, it did help. No amount of studying, however, could have actually prepared me for the physical grit I needed to perform. I spent much of the time running around aimlessly on the field, with technical knowledge of the goal, but nothing that would allow me to reach it. The only game my team won that season was the one game I didn’t attend since I’d been sick. Granted, there were other factors involved, and we had lots of fun throughout the season, but I knew by then that soccer just wasn’t for me. After just one season in fourth grade, my soccer career ended.
And then I had my world turned on its head.
It’s fascinating to me how much of our lives are based on the perfect alignment of seemingly insignificant, chance occurrences. In my case, my friend Daniel’s older brother stumbled across an article online about Facebook co-founder Mark Zuckerberg. Zuckerberg did a sport called “fencing”—and no, it had nothing to do with barbed wires and wooden poles. Already, the name of the sport was intriguing. It was something different. The article caused Daniel’s brother to give it a try, which caused Daniel himself to try it as well. Eventually, I found out that a fencing center was less than 15 minutes away from my home. I decided to give it a shot. (I would later wonder what would’ve happened if Daniel’s brother hadn’t found that article.)
Walking in, I had little idea what to expect. This time, there weren’t any Fencing For Dummies books. The first thing I noticed was the beeping. That incessant, endless chirping that the scoring machine makes when a fencer scores a touch. A tournament was in progress the day I started fencing, so I got to see the sport in action right away.
I was eleven, but I still felt too old. That insidious fear of being left out began to creep up once again. Most of my classmates had started to play their own sports when they were six or seven. I looked at the fencers competing in front of me—their graceful steps and perfectly coordinated attacks. I began to think, there’s no way I’m ever going to be as good as them.
I met with the coach, and she seemed to confirm my fears. “Most the students in the youth class started when they were younger,” she said. My first lesson was in a group with two other kids, and they were both several years younger than me. Right then and there, I thought about quitting.
As soon as the thought entered my head, I dispelled it. This won’t be like soccer, I told myself. This won’t be like figure skating. This won’t be like chess. I thought about my parents—I was like them, coming into a whole new world I knew nothing of. Yes, this will be my thing.
Every minute of every practice, I worked. Whether it was bouting, conditioning, or drilling, I was there, drenching my shirt with perspiration.
After about a year’s experience, I fenced my first true competition. Back when I did soccer, we had a game every Saturday, and we lost each one (except, of course, for the one I didn’t play in). Back then, losses were discouraging. They were a bad habit that we just couldn’t shake. I suspect that if my team had won more games, I might have stayed in the sport.
I drove two hours—the longest I’d ever traveled to participate in any official event at the time—to Cleveland, where I fenced a 17-person Y12 Men’s Foil event.
I was nervous. I froze up. I was shown a yellow card for faulty equipment, but the problem was actually with the scoring machine. I didn’t know what was going on. I lost every bout in my pool. The next round was DEs. I asked someone what “DE” meant.
Direct elimination. So if I lose, I’m directly eliminated. Gulp.
I was determined, however. This won’t be like soccer, I told myself once again. This was my thing.
En gardé. Fencers ready? Fence!
I started advancing in an attempt at a long attack. It was swiftly parried by my opponent. Before I even knew what was happening, I was down by one point.
No. Stop. This was my thing.
0-2. 0-3. 0-4.
When I finally scored a point, it was too little, too late. The final score of the bout was something along the lines of 4-15. I was absolutely devastated. Tears were running down my cheeks as I took off my mask, gave the final salute, shook my opponent’s hand, and signed the scoresheet that said that I had been directly eliminated.
The kid that beat me eventually won the entire competition. He was the same age as me, but he had been fencing since he was seven years old. Losing that bout did not make me think about quitting fencing—far from it. I had scored four points in the bout. I thought about how I scored those four points, and with the help of my coach, I deciphered what I was doing that my opponent was exploiting, and I fixed it.
When I finally scored a point, it was too little, too late. The final score of the bout was something along the lines of 4-15. I was absolutely devastated. Tears were running down my cheeks as I took off my mask, gave the final salute, shook my opponent’s hand, and signed the scoresheet that said that I had been directly eliminated.
The kid that beat me eventually won the entire competition. He was the same age as me, but he had been fencing since he was seven years old. Losing that bout did not make me think about quitting fencing—far from it. I had scored four points in the bout. I thought about how I scored those four points, and with the help of my coach, I deciphered what I was doing that my opponent was exploiting, and I fixed it.
As I came to fence in many more competitions, the courage and conviction with which I approached every bout grew and grew. I kept losing, but gradually, I did start winning. Then, one day, when I was 13, I fenced a 10-person Senior Mixed Foil event in Dayton. And I won, earning an “E” rating in foil.
By then, however, I didn’t want to stop. I was resolved to demand the best of myself. That same year, I fenced in tournaments that earned me a “D” rating, then a “C” rating. When I was 15, I earned my “B.”
I have no qualms now answering, “What sports do you play?” Once, my pediatrician asked me this, and when I answered, she nodded her head confusedly—“Ah fencing… what’s fencing?”
I don’t feel left out when I meet people like my doctor. I feel proud. Proud to represent my sport. Proud to know that what I do is unique. That it’s a part of who I am.
Fencing is my thing. And nothing will ever change that.