Olympics: Fencing with a Touch of Class

Competitions in foil, saber and épée are black-tie occasions

Cyrano de Bergerac hung over the parapet, taunting the standards of 20th century swordsmanship. Bemused spectators at the Long Beach Terrace Theater were greeted by a brass ensemble energetically fanfaring the Olympics. Instead of programs, there were pamphlets explaining the sport. A packed 3,000-seat house cheered as the curtain rose on the finals of the men's foil fencing, held on stage. The rows of dignitaries and, yes, the TV cameramen looked very dignified in black tie. The judges on the floor presented elegant tuxedoed backs to the audience, even though their feet were pragmatically shod in sneakers.

Fencing has contributed many useful words to the language, but the average American cannot tell a feint from a foible or a parry from a riposte. This ignorance is heartbreaking to fencers, who delight in giving ten-minute explanations of the attack, parry, return and continuation, which make up a "fencing conversation," but which, to the untrained eye, are only a millisecond flash of two blades. In America, fencing competitions are incomprehensible to outsiders. "We are a small, poor, truly amateur sport," says Stephen Sobel, secretary of the U.S. Olympic Committee and a saber fencer. "We all know each other, and usually we just keep score on a scrap of paper."

Two years ago, the commissioner of fencing for the Los Angeles Olympic Organizing Committee, Jan Romary, decided to throw down the gauntlet, as it were, and go for the audience gold. Romary, a six-time member of the U.S. Olympic fencing team who in 1968 became the first woman to carry the U.S. flag at the opening ceremonies, traveled to world championships in Vienna and Rome, taking thousands of photographs, determined that in this Olympics, fencing would get "the elegance it deserves. It is the sport of kings. I want to see the blades move in the light against the black background!" One result: the shift from a more normal venue into a theater.

Murmurs of Italian, English, French and German rose from the audience, filling the faint empty echo left by the absent Soviets, Hungarians, Poles and Bulgarians. Roars, shouts and groans were punctuated by the supplications, gestures of profound disbelief and uniquely affecting howls of "Aaaoowww!" from the fencers. "The players always assume their roles," explained Robert Blum, a New York lawyer who fenced on two Olympic teams. "As with all sports, fencing is a mode of communication. The fencers are telling us something about themselves." As Mathias Gey of West Germany was eliminated, he sank to his knees, crouched in defeat, while above him Stefano Cerioni of Italy leaped, fist in air, bellowing in triumph.