Proud

by Ibtihaj Muhammad

  “Ready,” Coach Mustilli said again. “Fence.”

  Rachel flew off of the on-guard line, and this time I had the wherewithal to retreat. She didn’t stop, and pretty soon she’d forced me to the far end of the strip until I literally fell backward to the floor. It happened so fast, I lay there on the ground while waves of embarrassment washed over me. As I struggled to stand up, I was relieved my mask hid my face as I fought back tears. Rachel was so fast; I had to figure out a way to stop her, but my mind was blank. I was totally overwhelmed, and I couldn’t help but think that maybe switching swords had been a mistake.

  Coach Mustilli gave us the signal to start again, but before anything could really happen he threw his hands up.

  “Stop,” Coach Mustilli yelled. “Ibtihaj, where’s your fire? Where’s the fight in you?”

  I wanted to remind Coach Mustilli that he was the one who thought I was full of fire, not me, but I held my tongue.

  “Get over here,” Coach Mustilli yelled.

  Rachel stayed on the strip, and I walked over to the coach. I pulled my mask off my face.

  “Listen, Ibtihaj, I want to see that speed I see when you’re running sprints. The next time Rachel attacks you, I want you to be faster than her in the box. If you miss, that’s okay. Do you remember how to control your opponent when she runs at you? Control the distance and her speed. Keep that blade out! Remember to keep your blade out in front of you.”

  “Okay,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure. Rachel was being so aggressive, I thought perhaps the coach should have me fence someone else to start with, considering this weapon was so new to me. But I didn’t say anything.

  Once again, we were back on the strip. “Ready,” Coach Mustilli said. “Fence!”

  This time when Rachel launched her attack, I tried to remember her rhythm and speed from the previous points. I didn’t think about scoring, but rather how to keep Rachel’s blade from hitting me. I knew how fast she was coming, so I didn’t have time to wait. But Rachel fooled me again, this time hitting me with a fast lunge underneath my right arm. I barely had time to think before she scored again, each time using a different tactic. Everything was so fast. In épée, I had time to feel my opponent out and was able to build my strategy during the bout. I knew there was a strategy to employ here, but I had no idea what it was.

  “You’re doing great, Ibtihaj,” Coach Mustilli shouted.

  I pulled off my mask in frustration. “Really? How am I doing great? I asked. “I haven’t scored one point yet.”

  “Trust me. You’re learning,” Coach said with a grin. “Now, I want you to attack Rachel. I want you to do just what she did to you. Attack her and try to score a point.”

  “Don’t take it easy on her,” he said to Rachel, the two exchanging a glance. “Let’s see if she has what it takes.”

  Once again, Rachel and I stepped to the on-guard lines, opposite sides of the strip, masks on. I had to think of a plan fast.

  “Ready,” Coach Mustilli said. “Fence!”

  I hesitated as I tried to decide on my strategy.

  “Move, Ibtihaj!” Coach Mustilli yelled. “Don’t just stand there. Attack your opponent.”

  Before I could attack Rachel, though, she rushed at me and scored an easy touch on my arm.

  I turned to Coach Mustilli. “Sorry, I wasn’t ready.”

  He shook his head like he was disappointed. “Are you ready now?”

  I shook my head yes. “Ready.”

  “Okay, you two,” Coach Mustilli said again. “Ready. Fence!”

  The sound of the coach’s voice jolted me into action. I decided to trick Rachel. As soon as I heard the coach say “Fence,” I made two advances with my blade extended, immediately followed by two quick retreats. Rachel made the same fast double advances, this time followed by a lunge, with her blade swiping only the air, narrowly missing me. I then lunged, throwing my arm out, and my blade hit the top of her mask. The green light on the machine went off. I had finally scored a point!

  Coach Mustilli clapped slowly.

  “Great action, Ibti,” Rachel said from behind her mask.

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling a spark of pride.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Coach Mustilli said. “Let’s do it again.”

  This time I tried to use my speed against Rachel, and it worked well. My double advance lunge was a tempo faster, but I hit her on the thigh, off target. I immediately realized my mistake.

  “Darn it,” I said under my breath.

  “You’re fencing saber not épée,” Coach Mustilli shouted. “Remember you have to hit above the waist.”

  Coach Mustilli kept Rachel and me there fencing with each other for the next hour, and I began to get the hang of working with my new weapon. As I started to learn Rachel’s go-to moves, I started scoring more and more. I may not have had the same amount of time under my belt as Rachel and the other saber fencers on the team, but I was a quick study, and there was no one on the team more competitive and determined to win than me.

  This last time the coach yelled “Fence,” Rachel and I both charged toward each other at maximum speed. I wasn’t afraid of getting hurt; I was more concerned with accurately anticipating Rachel’s moves. The rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins had all of my senses popping. For the first time, I actually felt like fencing itself was fun, not just the social aspect of hanging with my teammates but the sport itself.

  Coach Mustilli worked with me one-on-one during practice for at least thirty minutes every day until he was confident he could turn me loose with the rest of the saber fencers. It only took about two weeks to feel like I’d been fencing saber all along. Saber came much more naturally to me than épée had, and I almost felt guilty that after two years of hard work on the épée squad, I abandoned it with no regrets.

  Within a month, Coach Mustilli was adding me to the varsity starting lineup during our matches against other schools. The coaching staff said I was a natural with the saber, and I soaked up the praise. It felt great to finally contribute to our wins and help the team capture the coveted state championship title. As team captain, I wanted to do more than lead warm-ups and keep morale up. Now I got to contribute in a more tangible way.

  Since I was doing so well with the saber, Coach Mustilli mentioned the idea of me entering some of the local and regional fencing competitions. Some of my teammates did the local competition circuit, but I wasn’t sure I was ready so soon after switching to saber.

  “Ibtihaj, let me be very clear,” Coach Mustilli said. “I never, ever send a kid to a competition if she’s not ready. And I’m not going to tell your parents to shell out their hard-earned cash to pay for the fees if I don’t think you’re ready to compete at that level. And you, my dear, are ready.”

  “But there’s no way I’m going to win anything,” I said.

  “It’s not always about winning,” Coach said. “The more bouts you fence and more experience you get, the better you’ll be. We need you at your best, Ibti and you can’t be the best without more experience on the strip. You need to compete against fencers from other clubs.”

  That night I went home and over dinner told my parents about the coach’s plans for me.

  “Coach Mustilli said he wants me to start going to some local fencing competitions,” I announced. It was one of the rare nights when everyone was actually seated around the dinner table. No one had a game, and Abu had the night off.

  “Local competitions? What does that mean?” my mom asked.

  “It means that I would sign up for fencing tournaments here in New Jersey on the weekends. Coach Mustilli said that doing well at certain local competitions could qualify me for the Junior Olympics at the end of the season.”

  Abu finished chewing his mouthful of salad and asked pointedly, “How much does it cost?”

  “It’s not that much,” I said. “The entry fees are only like thirty dollars per competition.”

  “And how many of these competition
s would you be doing?” Abu asked.

  I didn’t actually know the answer to that question because I didn’t know how many competitions Coach Mustilli had in mind for me. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I think there’s like one competition every weekend, but I don’t have to go to all of them,” I added, not wanting to make it seem like fencing was going to cost even more than it already did.

  “That could really add up, Ibtihaj,” Mom said, exchanging glances with Abu across the table. “But we see how hard you’ve been working. If it’s something you and the coach think is important, we’ll figure out some way to pay for it. And you can talk to Auntie and Uncle Bernard. Maybe they’ll help out with the extra fees or some of these other costs, like your new uniform. You know Auntie thinks of you like her own kids.”

  “Don’t worry about the money,” Abu interrupted. “You let us handle that, and you focus on winning.”

  I smiled and wiggled in my seat from excitement. I couldn’t wait to try competing outside of our school meets, but I didn’t take for granted that my parents had to pay for all of my sports activities. I knew we weren’t rich by any definition of the word, but my mom worked summer school and Abu often picked up additional security jobs to help pay for all of our “extras,” like summer academic enrichment programs, Asiya’s gymnastics, Qareeb’s football camps, and now my competitive fencing fees. My parents never acted like all of our extracurriculars were a financial burden, but they were also very clear that they were only going to put their money where they saw us putting forth our best effort. If we weren’t giving 100 percent, they weren’t going to invest either their time or money supporting us. Ever since I started fencing, though, both of my parents could tell I was serious. I was all in and, true to their word, they were, too. They made it clear they were willing to financially support my fencing career, which was a commitment in itself, because fencing was not cheap.

  Even without the extra competitions, fencing was expensive, even at the high school level.

  Historically, fencing was a sport for society’s elite, which meant it was a predominantly white sport. Following tradition, most of New Jersey’s fencing programs were clustered in wealthy neighborhoods or private schools. To help alleviate the costs for beginners or for kids whose parents weren’t willing or able to purchase fencing equipment, our high school had equipment for rent, like jackets, knickers, and lamés. In addition to uniform costs, we had to pay a fee to be on the team, which covered the cost of supplying and maintaining all of the equipment, like the scoring machines and reels, as well as the eight heavy fencing strips the team had invested in over the years. Fencing was no small sacrifice for my family, so I promised myself to put my entire heart and soul into my efforts.

  My first regional competition was in Hackensack, New Jersey. It was only forty minutes away from Maplewood. I caught a ride with one of my teammates who was also going. Coach Mustilli also planned to attend the competition. The tournament was held at a fencing club, and when we walked in the door there were already tons of people inside. I could feel the butterflies in my stomach furiously beating their wings like they wanted out. I wanted out, too.

  “Ibtihaj! Claire!” Coach Mustilli had spotted us and was heading our way. He pointed out where the girls’ locker rooms were and urged us to hurry and change. Claire had been to several local competitions before and just missed qualifying for the Junior Olympics the year before. We were in pre-calculus together, too. We weren’t exactly friends, but we were friendly. I decided to stick to Claire’s side like there was Velcro on her uniform.

  “Relax,” Claire told me as we walked out of the locker room searching for the coach again. “You’re going to do fine. I promise you. Everything is going to go by so fast you won’t even have time to be nervous.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said.

  We spotted Coach Mustilli and walked over to where he was standing on the floor. Claire and I started warming up, mimicking our team stretches we’d done a thousand times before at practice. I stole looks at the other fencers around the floor, and if I looked closely, I saw some nervous energy throughout the room. Girls fidgeted with their hair, tied and retied the laces on their shoes. It gave me a small sense of relief to see that I wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

  Once we were warmed up, Coach Mustilli gave us some drills to practice with each other. Claire was to attack me, and I was to only practice my parries. And then we were to switch. When he was satisfied that we were warmed up enough, Coach took me over to the table to see if pools had been posted.

  Unlike fencing in school, these tournaments were all about the individual. Each fencer was put into a randomly selected pool with other fencers based on ranking. Because this was my first local tournament, and I didn’t have a ranking of any sort, I was randomly placed in a tough pool with the number one seed. Each pool had seven fencers, so that meant I would fence six bouts, each to five points. The fencers who advanced from this preliminary round were determined by the number of wins and losses in the pools. The more bouts you won and the larger the margin you won by, the higher your ranking post-pools. Once pools were over and the bracket was set, the goal was to keep winning and advancing through ever-shrinking rounds of fencers. First there was a round of thirty-two, then sixteen, then eight. After the round of eight came the semifinal rounds, and eventually the finals, where the last two fencers would fight for first and second place in the entire tournament. Coach Mustilli had registered me weeks ago, so all we had to do was find my pool and head over to my assigned strip.

  “Here you are, Ibtihaj,” Coach said once he found my name. “You’re in the first pool, and you’re going to be fencing another girl with no ranking. She’s from Millburn. Her name is Melinda Grady. Do you know her?”

  I racked my brain to see if Melinda from Millburn High School rang any bells, but it didn’t. “No, Coach,” I said.

  “Good. Because you don’t want to go up against someone you know. When it’s your turn, I want you to let that tiger out and attack Melinda so fast she won’t know what happened. If you get that first point in fast, you’ll blow her confidence and then you can just take those other points away from her.”

  The butterflies in my stomach started up again. I had to remind myself not to waste time being nervous and that the bout would be over in an instant. Five points was nothing. It’d be a breeze.

  “Okay, Coach,” I said. “I’ll try that.”

  Coach Mustilli shook his head and pointed his finger in my face. “Don’t try. Do! Do exactly what I said and you’ll win! Got it?”

  “Got it, Coach,” I said.

  That day I came home with a twelfth place finish. Considering there were sixty other girls in the competition, I was pretty happy with twelfth place. Claire had finished in second place, so she took home the silver medal. Coach Mustilli was ecstatic. I was really happy for her and knew she was that much closer to qualifying for the Junior Olympics. With my twelfth place finish, theoretically I could think about the Junior Olympics, too, but I knew that wasn’t something I should be focusing on so early in my career as a saberist. The fact that I’d competed and placed in the top sixteen was a great start.

  When I got home from the competition that evening, both of my parents were waiting for me. “How did you do?” Mommy asked.

  “I came in twelfth,” I said triumphantly. “Out of sixty other kids,” I added to ensure they understood what that meant.

  “Not bad. So, who won?” Abu asked.

  I felt my triumph deflate. “I don’t know her name, but she was from Hackensack. She was really good,” I said.

  “Well, did you learn something from this girl from Hackensack? Maybe you could use some of the same techniques she did the next time you compete,” Abu said, always trying to figure out how to coach us from the sidelines. “Remember, always pay attention to the winners,” Abu said, and I promised I would.

  Abu was right. I began to pay more attention to the fencers who were better than me.
At practice and at the local competitions I watched all of the fencers who consistently did well and took note of what techniques they employed on the strip so I could try to do the same. I watched their footwork, their attacks, and their defensive moves. Meanwhile Coach Mustilli worked me harder at practice than before and was now having me fence against the boys, because he said if I could hold my own against the guys in practice, I could handle any girl in competition. And he was right. I quickly became the best saber fencer on the Columbia High School team, and I watched my ranking rise at the local competitions, often coming home with medals in my hand.

  In January, after winter break, Coach Mustilli told me he wanted to talk to me in his office after I finished leading warm-ups. As I led everyone through thirty minutes of intense warm-up exercises and stretching, making sure I saw sweat on every forehead, I was racking my brain trying to think of what the coach might want to talk to me about. I tried to figure out if I had done anything wrong, but I couldn’t think of anything. Even though I could have made the team do more wind sprints, I wrapped up warm-ups and turned everyone over to the assistant coach and then I ran over to the coach’s office.

  “Ibtihaj, sit down,” Coach Mustilli said.

  I sat and tried not to let my nerves show.

  “I’m sitting here looking at your rankings. Did you know you’re only one result away from qualifying for the Junior Olympics next month?”

  “I am?” I said, incredulous. I knew I’d been doing well at the local tournaments, but I didn’t realize I was anywhere near qualifying status for Junior Olympics. I knew a bunch of the seniors had already qualified, but it never occurred to me that I was in the running.

  Coach Mustilli smiled. “Yes, you are. All you have to do is finish in the top eight in one more competition. And I think you’re more than able to do that. There’s two competitions this month. If you don’t do it in the first one, you can try the following weekend.”