Post by LongBlade on Oct 22, 2005 21:30:28 GMT -6
"Tenser, said the Tensor is the blog of a graduate student in linguistics. It's about language, science fiction, computers and technology, comics, anime, and other geekery."
Vancouver World Cup
July 12, 2005
tenser.typepad.com/tenser_said_the_tensor/fencing/
This weekend The Wife and I had the pleasure of spectating at the Peter Bakonyi International Fencing World Cup in Vancouver, BC, which included tournaments in men's and women's épée, men's foil, and women's saber. Some of the best fencers in the world were in attendance, along with a large contingent of local Candian and near-local American fencers. The competition was fierce, and there were even a couple of linguistic incidents of note.
We arrived on Saturday afternoon to check into our hotel. After some tasty Chinese food (Vancouver has really tasty Chinese food), we headed to the lovely University of British Columbia campus where the competition was being held. The finals for men's and women's épée were held on stage in the Chan Theatre. The competition's organizers put on a great show, with dramatic music before and between bouts (including the "Imperial March", for some reason), and a cool Chinese lion-dance halftime show.
We arrived a bit early and picked up our general admission tickets. When I walked down to about a quarter of the way from the front of the theater to find seats, I found a big block of reserved seats. In a uncharacteristic burst of optimism, I looked a few rows further forward, and was rewarded with some great seats in the middle about four rows from the stage. The fencers' feet were just about at our eye level and the view was fantastic. It was perfect for épée—the épéeists' ability to sneak their points into tiny instantaneous openings and make touches on the forearm was truly amazing. The only disadvantage was that the directors stood in front of us some of the time, but they were pretty good about avoiding obstructing the view.
The épée bouts were fantastic, both in terms of fencing and of drama. Several times I thought a bout was over, only to see a fencer change tactics, usually after talking to a coach during a break, and come back to win. Because it was épée (which lacks the complicated right-of-way rules of foil and saber), there was also a gratifying lack of fencers litigating calls after the fact with the directors (a practice I think is graceless, not to mention unlikely to be effective with FIE-certified directors).
I had heard that several local fencers were making the trip up to Vancouver for the tournament, but I hadn't realized that some of them were competing in foil—I'd figured they were just going to spectate like us—because you don't actually have to have any super-duper international ranking to enter a World Cup. So on Sunday, while The Wife was off at a yoga class, I got to watch three people I know fence their direct-elimination bouts. The first almost won his bout, but his opponent unfortunately came back from 13-14 to win. The second had gotten a bye in the first round, but that meant he came up against a top-rated fencer in the second round. He just couldn't find his distance and lost, but he still finished highest among the people I know, right in the middle of the field—a pretty respectable showing at a World Cup. The third, an up-and-coming young fencer, won his first DE, which entitled him to get eliminated in the next bout by a Ralf Bissdorf, a German ranked third in the world.
The funniest moment I saw came during Bissdorf's next bout, against Panchan of Thailand. Panchan was amazingly mobile and athletic, but unfortunately Bissdorf was about four inches taller (not to mention really good) and made the most of his extra reach, winning handily in spite of Panchan's efforts. During the first break, when the score was something like 8-1, a boy of about nine, sitting next to me in the stands right above Bissdorf's end of the piste, began berating Bissdorf. "You're a bully," he told the (astonished) German, "Look at the score. You should be more sympathetic!" This was hilarious but, I should note, untrue. Bissdorf was just fencing to win, of course, and he seemed like quite a nice guy. Earlier, after he'd beaten the young fencer I mentioned above, he'd made sure to stick around so the family could get a picture of them together, and even switched places with the kid so it appeared the scores were reversed. That's good sportsmanship.
Later on Sunday, they also held a women's saber tournament. I didn't get to see much of it because I was watching the last few foil bouts, but I could hear it quite clearly. I'm a (local, recreational, not very good) foil fencer, so it's possible that I don't understand the intricacies of saber right-of-way, but as best I can tell modern World Cup-level women's saber is best characterized by this quote from Larry Niven's novel Ringworld describing the dueling customs of the alien kzin:
"In challenging a kzin, a simple scream of rage is sufficient. You scream and you leap."
To be fair, there's more to saber right-of-way than that—you actually scream and leap, then after both lights go off you turn to the director and scream again in celebration, and finally, if he fails to be influenced by your display and awards the touch to the other fencer, you scream one last time in frustration, with optional pout or expression of disbelief. I dunno, maybe they just wear their hearts on their sleeves, but to me it really seemed like games(wo)manship. Poor form, but who am I to criticize the Olympic gold and bronze medalists (who put on a great show in the finals)?
In case you linguists have stuck around this far, here's the linguistic bit. As Russell described a couple of weeks ago, fencing bouts at the international level are directed in French. Where in English we say on guard, ready?, fence!, in French they say en guard, prêt, allez! Now, as Russell noted, the second and third commands in French share the same final vowel [ɛ], which can be a little confusing for fencers, causing them to start fencing on the ready? command. Interestingly, I only saw one fencer make this mistake (several times), and he was Dutch—you'd think somebody from the Continent would be very used to French directing.
However, this confusion is only really likely for male fencers. The second command for female fencers is the feminine prête, in which the [t] is pronounced, making it sound much less like allez. (I have to confess that the first time I heard a director say [pʁɛt] to female épéeists, I thought he was misprounoucing prêt, but he was correct and I need to brush up my French.) The command prêt(e), in fact, is often expanded to the full questions es-tu prêt(e)? or étes-vous prêt(e)? Here's a sociolinguistic question for you French speakers: when the director chooses between the two questions, is he choosing between singular and plural or between informal and formal? The third command seems invariably to be plural allez rather than singular vas. This makes sense, since the director is telling both of them to fence. It could be that the distinction between tu and vous is number—that is, directors are distinguishing between meanings like "are you each ready?" and "are you both ready?"—but I don't think so. Here's why: it seemed to me that I heard a lot more instances of es-tu prête? asked of female fencers by the (all male) directors than I heard of es-tu prêt? asked of male fencers. That is, the male directors were (broadly speaking) addressing male fencers as equals and female fencers as inferiors. I wish I'd kept careful track of who said what to whom, because it's possible I'm misremembering the relative frequencies (and also because I might have been able to squeeze a paper out of it).
Anyway, back to fencing. Getting to see the World Cup was great fun, and quite inspiring. I'm all fired up to get in better shape and work on the (many) weak points of my technique. This last year, I missed every single local tournament because of illness, broken equipment, school conflicts, or laziness. I definitely plan to attend more of them next season, and also to start keeping notes about each of my bouts (a trick often recommended to spark more analytical thinking about appropriate tactics). I should be within range of a C rating, and I should at least be renewing my D rating regularly instead of letting it decay. I have no hope of ever being a good senior fencer (the word "senior" means "not a junior" in fencing, so that class includes the best fencers in the world) because I started fencing too late in life, at 30 instead of 13. However, I may be able to slap myself into shape for five years from now, when I'm eligible to fence as a veteran. Here's my thinking: just about the time most fencers are becoming veterans, they've been fencing twenty-five years and their knees are about to explode. I, on the other hand, basically avoided exercise until I was 30, so my knees should be all fresh and shiny inside when I turn 40. Of course, I'm ignoring my bad hip, 3/4 inch leg-length difference, and, um, bad left knee in these calculations. In any case, the fact that Laurie Shong, the president of the local fencing association, made it to the semi-finals in men's épée at the advanced age of 34 means there may be hope for me yet.
Vancouver World Cup
July 12, 2005
tenser.typepad.com/tenser_said_the_tensor/fencing/
This weekend The Wife and I had the pleasure of spectating at the Peter Bakonyi International Fencing World Cup in Vancouver, BC, which included tournaments in men's and women's épée, men's foil, and women's saber. Some of the best fencers in the world were in attendance, along with a large contingent of local Candian and near-local American fencers. The competition was fierce, and there were even a couple of linguistic incidents of note.
We arrived on Saturday afternoon to check into our hotel. After some tasty Chinese food (Vancouver has really tasty Chinese food), we headed to the lovely University of British Columbia campus where the competition was being held. The finals for men's and women's épée were held on stage in the Chan Theatre. The competition's organizers put on a great show, with dramatic music before and between bouts (including the "Imperial March", for some reason), and a cool Chinese lion-dance halftime show.
We arrived a bit early and picked up our general admission tickets. When I walked down to about a quarter of the way from the front of the theater to find seats, I found a big block of reserved seats. In a uncharacteristic burst of optimism, I looked a few rows further forward, and was rewarded with some great seats in the middle about four rows from the stage. The fencers' feet were just about at our eye level and the view was fantastic. It was perfect for épée—the épéeists' ability to sneak their points into tiny instantaneous openings and make touches on the forearm was truly amazing. The only disadvantage was that the directors stood in front of us some of the time, but they were pretty good about avoiding obstructing the view.
The épée bouts were fantastic, both in terms of fencing and of drama. Several times I thought a bout was over, only to see a fencer change tactics, usually after talking to a coach during a break, and come back to win. Because it was épée (which lacks the complicated right-of-way rules of foil and saber), there was also a gratifying lack of fencers litigating calls after the fact with the directors (a practice I think is graceless, not to mention unlikely to be effective with FIE-certified directors).
I had heard that several local fencers were making the trip up to Vancouver for the tournament, but I hadn't realized that some of them were competing in foil—I'd figured they were just going to spectate like us—because you don't actually have to have any super-duper international ranking to enter a World Cup. So on Sunday, while The Wife was off at a yoga class, I got to watch three people I know fence their direct-elimination bouts. The first almost won his bout, but his opponent unfortunately came back from 13-14 to win. The second had gotten a bye in the first round, but that meant he came up against a top-rated fencer in the second round. He just couldn't find his distance and lost, but he still finished highest among the people I know, right in the middle of the field—a pretty respectable showing at a World Cup. The third, an up-and-coming young fencer, won his first DE, which entitled him to get eliminated in the next bout by a Ralf Bissdorf, a German ranked third in the world.
The funniest moment I saw came during Bissdorf's next bout, against Panchan of Thailand. Panchan was amazingly mobile and athletic, but unfortunately Bissdorf was about four inches taller (not to mention really good) and made the most of his extra reach, winning handily in spite of Panchan's efforts. During the first break, when the score was something like 8-1, a boy of about nine, sitting next to me in the stands right above Bissdorf's end of the piste, began berating Bissdorf. "You're a bully," he told the (astonished) German, "Look at the score. You should be more sympathetic!" This was hilarious but, I should note, untrue. Bissdorf was just fencing to win, of course, and he seemed like quite a nice guy. Earlier, after he'd beaten the young fencer I mentioned above, he'd made sure to stick around so the family could get a picture of them together, and even switched places with the kid so it appeared the scores were reversed. That's good sportsmanship.
Later on Sunday, they also held a women's saber tournament. I didn't get to see much of it because I was watching the last few foil bouts, but I could hear it quite clearly. I'm a (local, recreational, not very good) foil fencer, so it's possible that I don't understand the intricacies of saber right-of-way, but as best I can tell modern World Cup-level women's saber is best characterized by this quote from Larry Niven's novel Ringworld describing the dueling customs of the alien kzin:
"In challenging a kzin, a simple scream of rage is sufficient. You scream and you leap."
To be fair, there's more to saber right-of-way than that—you actually scream and leap, then after both lights go off you turn to the director and scream again in celebration, and finally, if he fails to be influenced by your display and awards the touch to the other fencer, you scream one last time in frustration, with optional pout or expression of disbelief. I dunno, maybe they just wear their hearts on their sleeves, but to me it really seemed like games(wo)manship. Poor form, but who am I to criticize the Olympic gold and bronze medalists (who put on a great show in the finals)?
In case you linguists have stuck around this far, here's the linguistic bit. As Russell described a couple of weeks ago, fencing bouts at the international level are directed in French. Where in English we say on guard, ready?, fence!, in French they say en guard, prêt, allez! Now, as Russell noted, the second and third commands in French share the same final vowel [ɛ], which can be a little confusing for fencers, causing them to start fencing on the ready? command. Interestingly, I only saw one fencer make this mistake (several times), and he was Dutch—you'd think somebody from the Continent would be very used to French directing.
However, this confusion is only really likely for male fencers. The second command for female fencers is the feminine prête, in which the [t] is pronounced, making it sound much less like allez. (I have to confess that the first time I heard a director say [pʁɛt] to female épéeists, I thought he was misprounoucing prêt, but he was correct and I need to brush up my French.) The command prêt(e), in fact, is often expanded to the full questions es-tu prêt(e)? or étes-vous prêt(e)? Here's a sociolinguistic question for you French speakers: when the director chooses between the two questions, is he choosing between singular and plural or between informal and formal? The third command seems invariably to be plural allez rather than singular vas. This makes sense, since the director is telling both of them to fence. It could be that the distinction between tu and vous is number—that is, directors are distinguishing between meanings like "are you each ready?" and "are you both ready?"—but I don't think so. Here's why: it seemed to me that I heard a lot more instances of es-tu prête? asked of female fencers by the (all male) directors than I heard of es-tu prêt? asked of male fencers. That is, the male directors were (broadly speaking) addressing male fencers as equals and female fencers as inferiors. I wish I'd kept careful track of who said what to whom, because it's possible I'm misremembering the relative frequencies (and also because I might have been able to squeeze a paper out of it).
Anyway, back to fencing. Getting to see the World Cup was great fun, and quite inspiring. I'm all fired up to get in better shape and work on the (many) weak points of my technique. This last year, I missed every single local tournament because of illness, broken equipment, school conflicts, or laziness. I definitely plan to attend more of them next season, and also to start keeping notes about each of my bouts (a trick often recommended to spark more analytical thinking about appropriate tactics). I should be within range of a C rating, and I should at least be renewing my D rating regularly instead of letting it decay. I have no hope of ever being a good senior fencer (the word "senior" means "not a junior" in fencing, so that class includes the best fencers in the world) because I started fencing too late in life, at 30 instead of 13. However, I may be able to slap myself into shape for five years from now, when I'm eligible to fence as a veteran. Here's my thinking: just about the time most fencers are becoming veterans, they've been fencing twenty-five years and their knees are about to explode. I, on the other hand, basically avoided exercise until I was 30, so my knees should be all fresh and shiny inside when I turn 40. Of course, I'm ignoring my bad hip, 3/4 inch leg-length difference, and, um, bad left knee in these calculations. In any case, the fact that Laurie Shong, the president of the local fencing association, made it to the semi-finals in men's épée at the advanced age of 34 means there may be hope for me yet.