The cold, physical chess (Financial Times magazine)

January 23rd, 2010

Fencing may have changed since the days of duelling, but it still seems fitting that Britain’s best players train at a Mayfair club. When I arrive at the Lansdowne Club and spy the door marked Salle d’Armes, I’m reminded of Bill Bryson’s guide to fencing vernacular: “There are basically four thrusts, known as the cartilage, the chaise longue, the aubergine and the fromage anglais, and these in turn can be parried by four defensive feints – the pastiche, the penchant, the demi-tasse and the saumon en croûte. Scoring is on the basis of one point for a petit pois and two for a baguette.”

The Salle d’Armes turns out to be an old-fashioned gymnasium with a series of fencing “pistes” and a weapons stand at either end. I am greeted by Ziemek Wojciechowski, the British national coach, who kits me out in the traditional jacket, breeches, glove and helmet. Ziemek, as he is known by everyone – the first syllable is pronounced like the “jam” of jamais – competed for Poland before coming to coach in Britain in the late 1970s. He eventually defected.

Up to now, the closest I’ve come to fencing was donning a Zorro cape 30 years ago and swishing a plastic sword. But after a lesson from Ziemek I’ll be fighting Laurence Halsted, Britain’s number two. I’m unsure what to expect. The three different weapons – foil, épée and sabre, each with its own rules and tactics – create immediate confusion in the mind of the novice. And, as Bryson implied, fencing’s conventions and background seem far removed from modern life.

The author in training
A few days earlier, in a bid for enlightenment, I’d spoken to Richard Cohen, author of By the Sword, an authoritative history of fencing. “It is cold, physical chess,” he told me, “the nearest simulation you get in sport to killing another person.” Indeed the sport’s origins are drenched in blood, from Greek wrestlers to Roman gladiators, right up to the 19th-century duels undertaken by impassioned aristos, cold-blooded Prussians and pale intellectuals hoping to prove their mettle. In the first part of the 20th century, swordplay became tarnished by its fascist connections, with Mussolini, Himmler, Reinhard Heydrich, Franco and Oswald Mosley famous enthusiasts. Mosley’s black shirts were even modelled on fencing jackets.
Fencing’s more recent image problems have related to class rather than politics. Cohen, who was selected for four British Olympic sabre teams, says that at one time five out of six members were Cambridge alumni. But while the perception is still of a cushy old boys’ network, fencing, he argues, has been democratised since the 1960s. It was taken up by state schools when boxing was deemed too dangerous, while on the international stage, traditional powers – Italy, France and Hungary – have been joined by Latin American and Asian nations, notably China and Japan.

The buccaneering Cohen, who still fences on the veterans’ circuit, dares me to try sabre. “It depends whether you’d rather be whacking or prodding,” as he puts it. Ziemek apparently sees me as more of a prodder, and has chosen épée for our first lesson. Like foil, it is a thrusting weapon, in contrast to the slashing sabre. But unlike the other two, with épée you can strike your opponent anywhere on the body regardless of who began each phase, making it perfect for the uninitiated.

Ziemek, who is small and lean, takes me through the basics. You begin with knees bent, front foot facing forwards, back foot sideways, the épée trained at your adversary’s torso.

“Hold it like a pistol,” Ziemek says, manipulating my hand around the sword’s grip. “The index finger and thumb are responsible for point”. Point, I infer, is both the magical quality of controlling one’s weapon and the tip that one is attempting to sink into an opponent.

I copy Ziemek’s graceful movements, learning to thrust and lunge, to move forward and back with the quick steps of a boxer, all the time keeping a safe distance from the opponent. My main problem is leaning forward and involving my shoulders – fencing is about extending the arm and retaining balance.

Halsted is Britain’s number two fencer
At the end of the lesson I pull the heavy mask off and meet the man I’m to fight – Laurence Halsted, a 25-year-old with dashing good looks and a hint of danger. Ziemek wires me up in readiness for our duel. A hit would once have been signalled by blood but today it will trigger a buzzer and a colour-coded LED – red for one of Halsted’s attacks, green for one of mine.
The chat and bonhomie ceases. We begin and almost straight away, I catch his foot, illuminating the green light. As a foilist he wasn’t expecting the low blow allowed in épée. But from there on I’m assailed by a succession of beeps and red lights as I struggle to keep up with Halsted’s strong blocks and lightning-quick attacks. At one point he charges and thrusts the épée right at my face, causing my helmet to judder. Meanwhile my gallops down the piste and desperate lunges are easily thwarted.

“Did you pull something Tom?” a watching Ziemek enquires. In fact, I’m just stooping to catch my breath. It’s a shock how intensely physical the contest is, and the heavy helmet soon steams up. We take a break, during which Halsted bemoans fencing’s elitist image. “It’s just as easy to get into a fencing as a swimming club and the equipment will be supplied by the clubs,” he says, though he recognises the irony of complaining about this in a gentleman’s club.

Halsted is the only privately educated member of the team. Another of those pressing for an Olympic place is Ahmed Rosowsky, from Sheffield, whose Muslim parents encouraged him to take up fencing as it is one of the five sports mentioned in the Hadith. The other squad members I talk to are well-educated rather than posh, projecting poise and self-possession.

Halsted calls me back for one last fight. Once again our blades collide. It may be too fast ever to become a televised sport, but with steel smashing into steel – what the French call a “conversation du fer” – there are few more visceral mindgames for the competitor. It’s nearly time for Halsted’s training session. “Last one – winner takes all!” he calls. And in the flash of an eye he has tapped me on the wrist, the red light is on.

(This piece was published in the Pursuits section of the FT magazine. A few words have been altered from the version run by the FT.)

Entry Filed under: Sport, UK reportage