The varsity coaches who teach fencing in physical education classes are constantly on the lookout for new team members.
“You see a nice skinny 6-foot female, with no target area, and you grab her,” says co-head coach Lisa Milgram. “You say, ‘You want to be a varsity athlete? Let us teach you how to fence.’”
Then there’s the “You have the personality of a sabreist” argument. Sophomore Eva Jellison heard that one from her school coach in Massachusetts when she was 11 and had been fencing with a foil for two years. “Weapons are really, really different,” she says. “For sabre, you need to have a lot of power and be able to move fast and think on your feet, which is something I enjoy. Because I’m not very patient.” But she is 5-foot-9. “Yes, I have a ridiculous advantage. I’m a lot bigger than a lot of the girls in sabre.”
Speed and finesse also counted mightily in Jellison’s success at this year’s National Collegiate Men’s and Women’s Fencing Championships, when she took All-American honors in the sabre class. Stanford qualified seven fencers for the national competition, held at Drew University in late March, and placed ninth overall, the highest finisher from the western region.
Jellison and her teammates appear to delight in whacking away at one another, as they charge up and down the metallic strips in the fencing room in the Arrillaga Center for Sports and Recreation. Co-captain Dan Tucker says he took his first lesson at the Renaissance Faire in Novato, Calif., when he was about 9. “It was like, ‘Oh, cool, sword fighting—this is fun.’ ”
Most youngsters start out with the lightweight foil, poking at the target area that is their opponent’s body. Tall, long-limbed fencers tend to choose the bigger, heavier épée, and they have a wider target to strike at—hands, face and toes, as well as body. Some of the fastest athletes opt for sabres, with which they slash, like cavalry swordsmen of yore. “But, with all the equipment, it’s a very safe sport,” Tucker says. “The only injury might be a twisted ankle.”
Once heights and lengths and attacking proclivities are aligned, Milgram says, skills are fairly easy to teach. The key to being a champion fencer is more elusive, though. “The most important things are to be able to trick your opponents, and to hide your weaknesses.”
Jellison says she has a different plan of attack for every bout she fights, defined by the “favorite actions” of her opponents. She’s still kicking herself over the NCAA bout she lost to a Notre Dame fencer she’s known for years. “I know I’m not supposed to hit under her right arm. But I went [there] twice and hit her bell guard. It was me being stupid and whacking at her guard.”
In fact, it’s a cunning cat-and-mouse routine, as fencers prance forward and backward, feinting, then daring one another. Suddenly, one launches a running attack, pushing off on one leg in a “flèche,” aiming for a “touch.” Body cords wired to their lamé jackets and blades register the touches on an electronic scoreboard, and when two red lights flash at the same moment, a “director” steps in to referee and award the point. That official can also hand out black cards, ejecting fencers for neglecting to salute each other at the start of a match, or for declining to shake (with their ungloved hands) at the end of a typical five-touch bout.
A nationally ranked fencer in both foil and épée, Milgram adds that fencing is a sport in which older, more experienced athletes can easily out-think and outmaneuver “young whippersnappers.” But there’s one kind of fencer no one wants to face: lefties. “Everything looks normal to them, but they’re backwards to their opponents.” Milgram sighs, adding that her first coach—mom Sherry Posthumus, the administrator of Roble Gym and Pool—was a lefty.
Jellison also grew up practicing with her mom, Robin Pernice. “She’s been at every tournament I’ve ever competed in, since I was 12.”
