“Well, don’t take it the wrong way, but you’re like an old pair of shoes I suddenly found in my closet. They fit, they are comfortable, they don’t look too bad.”
He laughed. “You should do stand-up comedy.”
“Why? Don’t you think I’m better lying down?”
“Yes, ma’am, no question.”
She laughed, and he was happy to have caused it.
“Jamal’s pretty good, isn’t he?” Marissa asked.
Thorn nodded. “He’s getting there.”
They’d come by to offer their support in today’s match. This was the last day of the Sectionals competition— one step below the Nationals—and Jamal was in the title bout. He’d just scored a touch that put him ahead of his opponent. If he scored the next point, he’d win; if he lost the next point, the score would be at
The air was cool in the large gym. The bleachers had been retracted to provide space for more pistes, so all the spectators were standing off to one side, watching. It was a very quiet crowd, murmuring softly about that last touch. . . .
The director positioned the fencers on the guard lines, asked if they were ready, and when they both indicated they were, said,
Match point.
The crowd fell silent.
Jamal’s opponent, Michael Sorenson, was the favorite. He was twenty-two years old, a former national champion, and everyone had expected him to walk away with the match. The fact that Jamal was giving him a run for his money—indeed, was a touch away from victory—had created quite a buzz.
“I can’t watch,” Marissa said, clutching his arm. “Tell me what happens, Tommy.”
Thorn smiled. She was pulling his leg. If anything, he was more nervous than she was . . . and she knew it.
Jamal was on their left, which was unfortunate. He was a right-handed fencer, so they had a good look at his back, but couldn’t see him as well as they would have liked. That was too bad, but it’s how it was. The fencers came to the strip in the order they were called, and the spectators were confined to a specific spot.
Thorn didn’t mind, though. He could see all that he needed to see.
Sorenson was pressing the attack.
For a time, the only sounds were the sussing of the fencers’ shoes sliding along the copper piste, the
Sorenson kept pressing, and Jamal kept retreating, giving ground reluctantly, but giving it up step by step.
“He’s gettin’ awfully close to the end line, isn’t he, Tommy?”
Thorn nodded.
“And he’ll lose a touch if he goes off the end with both feet, won’t he?”
“He won’t,” Thorn said.
But Jamal was getting awfully close. His back foot had already crossed over the line, and Thorn suspected that Sorenson was setting him up for a particular feint. He figured there was a good chance that Sorenson was going to drive a hard attack, probably high-line, then suddenly drop off into a darting thrust at Jamal’s lead foot.
The reflexive counter to that was to draw the front foot back and counter with a thrust to the opponent’s mask.
The problem was that, if Sorenson timed it correctly, Jamal could actually win and lose at the same time. If his front foot drew back and touched down beyond the end line even a fraction of a second before his point struck Sorenson’s mask, the director would award the touch to Sorenson, not to Jamal, and the match would be tied again.
“Watch,” Thorn said. “Tell me what you see.”
“With them down at that end of the strip, about all I can see is Sorenson’s back.”
“Can you see Jamal’s face?”
“Through the mask, sure.”
“Watch his eyes.”
Jamal’s defense had stiffened. Sorenson was pressing, pressing, but Jamal resisted, halfway over the end line.
Back and forth the blades. Attack, parry, riposte, parry, remise, parry, press.
Inside himself, Thorn went still. This was the hardest part of coaching. For that matter, it was the hardest part of spectating, being reduced to an observer. It had been a very long time since he had fenced competitively, but every time he watched a bout a part of him longed to be out there.
“Here it comes,” he whispered.
Jamal had overparried Sorenson’s last attack, leaving his own blade a little higher than he should have. Sorenson reacted immediately, stepping forward and starting a compound attack that began with Jamal’s right wrist, feinted to the outside of his right elbow, then circled over his arm to come in toward his shoulder. As Jamal worked to close out that line, Sorenson’s point dropped suddenly, streaking toward Jamal’s front toe.
Beside him, Thorn heard Marissa gasp.
He smiled.
On the strip, Sorenson had dropped into a crouch, trying to buy an extra moment or two before Jamal’s counter could hit his mask. So the feint toward Jamal’s toe hadn’t been a feint after all. Sorenson was trying to score a touch, or to drive Jamal off the end of the strip.
But Jamal wasn’t reacting as anyone had expected. As soon as Sorenson’s point started its dip—later, Thorn even heard some of the audience say it looked like he started moving a bare instant
Touche.
And match point.
The director called halt and awarded the touch, but it was all a formality. Jamal had won.
“How’d he do that, Tommy?” Marissa asked.
Thorn smiled again. “Tell me what you saw.”
“His eyes, you mean? Well, it’s hard to see through that mesh, but they looked different. Unfocused, I guess, but more so than usual, if you know what I mean.”
Thorn nodded. “What else?”
She paused, thinking, then said, “The oddest thing was his face. I mean, I’ve seen Jamal fence a few times, and it always seems that he’s grinning, or gritting his teeth, or biting his lip, or something, you know? But this time, there at the end of the bout, it was like his face lost all expression.” She looked at him. “Why, Tommy? Does that mean something?”
Thorn smiled. “It means he’s getting there.”
They went over to join the small crowd gathered around Jamal.
“Great bout, Jamal,” Thorn said, shaking his hand.
Jamal grinned. “Thanks,” he said.
“Yeah, amazing.” Marissa shook his hand, too.
They started walking away, away from the others and toward where Jamal had his gear.
