Narratives by Vassar student-athletes

Amy Boggs Guest Writer

Heralding the start of the NCAA fencing season, the Big One lives up to its name. I walked into Smith’s gymnasium for my first fencing match with wide eyes and a sinking stomach. Over 250 fencers milled around, warming up, checking equipment and setting up some of the dozen electrical strips that the sport requires. It all can be summed up in one word: overwhelming.

The team was quiet—a combination of lack of sleep and abundance of nerves. Some started putting on their gear, others pulled out their weapons to make sure the bus ride hadn’t jostled a screw loose. I stuck close to Jackie, the only veteran women’s epeeist on the team, and joined her in collecting masks and body cords to be checked at the front table.

The waiting seemed eternal, but I was caught off-guard when a voice over the speakers announced the pools. The slow anxiety was replaced with rushed worry as we all went our separate ways to fence different pools; fencing always was a personal sport.

I sized up my opposition. I was taller than two of them, an advantage if they weren’t very experienced. We shifted around a bit, giving each other friendly little smiles. Finally, the director walked over, clipboard in hand.

“Boggs versus White,” she read. My stomach sank. I was going first.

As I hooked up to the machine, I tried to empty my mind. Relaxation was the key. If I was nervous, I would make a mistake. When your opponent only needs to hit you five times in less than three minutes, the slightest mistake can mean the difference between victory and defeat. I faced White and noticed her name written in blue on her knickers. She was either a serious competitive fencer, or she wanted me to think that she was. Either way, my nerves were not set at ease. The fact that she was taller than I didn’t help either.

We saluted each other and the director, and I reminded myself of what my coach had said the day before: “You’re new, unrated, so every touch you score against them hurts their standing worse than they can hurt yours.”

From the other strip I heard Jackie yell, “Go Amy!” While just as nervous as before, at least I was smiling now.

The director yelled, “Fence!” and we started, shuffling back and forth in the squat positions that make fencing physically taxing and visually absurd. White got me with four quick touches. She was good. My adrenaline was rushing and my nerves were going haywire, but I had no idea how to defend myself against her. In my mind, I repeated a mantra: “Just one touch. Just one touch.” This time, I saw the attack coming. I wasn’t sure how to block it, but I wasn’t going to just stand there and be hit.

I lunged forward. The tip of her blade slammed into my shoulder, but I felt mine hit something, too. The director yelled, “Halt!” We separated and saw that both lights had turned on. “Double touch,” the director said. “Bout. White five, Boggs one.”

We took off our masks and saluted, shaking hands before unhooking our body cords and leaving the strip for the next fencers. I took a deep breath and looked around. Five quick touches, and it was already over. I’d just fenced the first official bout of my career.

I looked over at the neighboring strip and saw Jackie putting on her mask. Giving a whoop, I yelled, “Go get ’em, Jackie!” Fencing is a personal sport, but that doesn’t mean you are in it alone.