On Fear...
...and how incredibly difficult it is to unlatch the buckle of the metal bucket you voluntarily strapped your head into when you can't breathe.
I am a reasonably good beginning fighter, in the SCA. I know how to use three weapon systems (that's somewhat generous, but my teacher will get after me if I downplay it) to mostly not die, and sometimes to even kill my opponent before they kill me. I'm fast enough, strong enough, and aggressive enough to hold my own in most one-on-one situations. Bruises don't deter me.
Fear, though...that's still a powerful force, in my life and in my fighting. The first time I attempted to participate in a melee, I had a panic attack and was led off the field by an incredibly astute fighter who saw me freeze. I spent at least twenty minutes deciding whether it was safe to unclench my hands and accept an orange slice from the woman who sat with me until I was okay. It was Not A Fun Time. I have not fought a melee larger than seven total participants since.
Last night, I re-fought two authorizations for which I'd lost the original paperwork, because I also go almost entirely deaf and dumb when I'm panicking, and never heard the instructions to send copies various places to prove that I've been approved to use certain weapons in SCA combat. At practice, you can use whatever you like, but in wars, tournaments, and other official fighting, you must have been approved by three marshals to be safe and trustworthy with each weapon you use.
The authorizations went well. In fact, I killed my opponent both times before he killed me—something that isn't expected in an authorization, though it's hardly unheard of. All you really have to prove is that you know how to defend yourself appropriately, how to attack your opponent without risking serious injury, and how to die correctly. The dying part is mostly making yourself very small and flat on the ground, so in a melee you aren't as much of a tripping hazard. It's a simple task that typically takes about five minutes if you have talkative marshals.
Last night I performed fine, passed my authorizations to use a single sword and shield or a two-handed sword (the options being one slightly shorter than me—a bastard sword, or hand-and-a-half—and one as tall or taller than me, a greatsword), and received only a few blows all night. Today, though, I feel as though I've been beaten with rattan sticks, and I barely remember anything that was said or done during my authorizations.
I love this sport; I love the challenge, I love the beauty of it, and I even love the metal-leather-sweat-duct-tape smell of the equipment, but there is nothing easy about stepping in front of three marshals and my teacher and declaring that I'm ready to be tested. There is nothing glamorous about using a sword as a crutch to walk away, because my knees won't do it. There is nothing simple about unlatching a buckle with hands I can't feel, with a whispered prayer to please please please please don't get stuck because if I get stuck I have to take a moment to focus on just breathing before my brain stops understanding words.
Anyway, I guess the point is...if I willingly strap myself into a steel bucket every week so people twice my size can beat on me with sticks, knowing that I might need to sit on the sidewalk and very, very slowly unlatch that crucial helm buckle so I don't startle myself into a sobbing fit...I must be capable of damn near anything. That's kind of a cool thing, after all.
I am a reasonably good beginning fighter, in the SCA. I know how to use three weapon systems (that's somewhat generous, but my teacher will get after me if I downplay it) to mostly not die, and sometimes to even kill my opponent before they kill me. I'm fast enough, strong enough, and aggressive enough to hold my own in most one-on-one situations. Bruises don't deter me.
Fear, though...that's still a powerful force, in my life and in my fighting. The first time I attempted to participate in a melee, I had a panic attack and was led off the field by an incredibly astute fighter who saw me freeze. I spent at least twenty minutes deciding whether it was safe to unclench my hands and accept an orange slice from the woman who sat with me until I was okay. It was Not A Fun Time. I have not fought a melee larger than seven total participants since.
Last night, I re-fought two authorizations for which I'd lost the original paperwork, because I also go almost entirely deaf and dumb when I'm panicking, and never heard the instructions to send copies various places to prove that I've been approved to use certain weapons in SCA combat. At practice, you can use whatever you like, but in wars, tournaments, and other official fighting, you must have been approved by three marshals to be safe and trustworthy with each weapon you use.
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| When you're as short as I am, even a small shield will cover pretty much all your target area. |
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| It looks like this from the other side. Bonus: the caftan obscuring the exact location of my knees will someday either save me from the evil kind of leg shot that clips just above the knee, or send me to the ER when someone misses. |
I love this sport; I love the challenge, I love the beauty of it, and I even love the metal-leather-sweat-duct-tape smell of the equipment, but there is nothing easy about stepping in front of three marshals and my teacher and declaring that I'm ready to be tested. There is nothing glamorous about using a sword as a crutch to walk away, because my knees won't do it. There is nothing simple about unlatching a buckle with hands I can't feel, with a whispered prayer to please please please please don't get stuck because if I get stuck I have to take a moment to focus on just breathing before my brain stops understanding words.
Anyway, I guess the point is...if I willingly strap myself into a steel bucket every week so people twice my size can beat on me with sticks, knowing that I might need to sit on the sidewalk and very, very slowly unlatch that crucial helm buckle so I don't startle myself into a sobbing fit...I must be capable of damn near anything. That's kind of a cool thing, after all.
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