His West German opponent broke his blade off, and the sharp remainder tore through Smirnov’s mask, through his eyeball and into his brain. I’m not so worried about wrist strain and more about things like what happened to the Soviet fencer Vladimir Smirnov in the 1982 World Championships in Rome. According to sport scientists at National Taiwan College of Physical Education, the optimal angle of a foil handle is between 18˚ and 21˚, because this is the angle of a wrist least likely to sustain injury when stressed. In fact, it’s one of only four sports that has featured in every modern Olympics. Dueling died out after the First World War, and aristocrats stopped inoculating their children with fencing techniques, but the sport has lived on. I have visions of springing about with my non-sword arm cocked, scorpion style behind and over my head – a throwback, it turns out, to a time when duels were fought with the visual aid of lanterns. Secondly, the Municipal Recreation Guide offered only a few other alternatives, such as scrapbooking and home-buying, for adults seeking new skills. First of all, my deep interest in combat sport has long been grappling with a deep lack of interest in injuring myself. I am in my first fencing class for a few reasons.
Like if I were to take a hard hit to them they might spare the nipple but completely crush my lymph nodes. I retreat to the ladies’ room with the only other lady present and we insert the domes. The trouble is I already have my heavy white canvas straightjacket zipped up to a high neck line in the back and the strap between my legs buckled to the rings at the middle of my back. “Yup,” says the 27-year-old Black Irish firefighter who somehow strikes me as unlikely to know, even though it is he who handed them to me in a sealed package upon which he has printed my name. “So, this goes… under the bra?” I stare dubiously at the hard plastic bowls.
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