by David Bartholow

Dueling dames in Patten Gym. - photo by David Bartholow

Splashes of clanking swords, or epees, resonate throughout the halls of Patten Gym late into a cold autumn night, the residual sounds of disregarded fencers battling with ambitious purpose. But as loud and fierce as they may be, marked by bravery and chivalry they will always be, the tinny swashes of modern day knights remain unheard by the common passers-by.

Inside Patten’s double doors, purple and white banners grace the gym walls, highlighting a team’s vast and many triumphs – the tapestries are remnants of a forgotten tradition, emblems of a neglected sports legacy.

“Do we even have a fencing team?” asked senior Sari Schwartz in a recent encounter, illustrating the ignorance commonly displayed here and beyond the NU landscape.

The blind eyes of bourgeois sports fans have rendered the fencing team a lost wonder of the athletic department.Upon learning of the fencing team’s accolades, Schwartz continued with a stance emblematic of the apathy permeating the Evanston campus.

“Given their performance, yeah, I feel like we should care,” said Schwartz, twisting her nose ring as if no one were looking. “But I have more important things to do with my time. Good day.”

Beyond the obvious indifference, however, lies a more deeply rooted concern with the knights of Patten Gym, their brandished swords and off-white attire casting an ominous light in the cavernous gym they call home. Regular users of Patten’s facilities, namely the basketball gamers, the gym’s real hustlers, deride the fencing team’s haughty disregard for non-practitioners of Medieval sports.

Evanston resident Vernon Smith, who holds a paying membership to Patten as a non-Northwestern student, expounded on these concerns. Smith argued that the fencing team takes up too much time and space in the gym.

“Hell yeah they hog the court. This shit’s ludicrous to our freedom and time. I pay money to play ball, and they do this stuff,” Smith said. “When are you going to use this in your lifetime? Is fencing a job? I know you get medals, but money?”

“And the music’s awful,” added Smith, confusing the piercing noises emanating from the swordsmen’s scoring apparati for warm-up music.

After Smith dribbled away, an intense competitive spirit was witnessed as well as overheard in the corner of the wooded room. Two faceless female fencers were absorbed in a practice match that more closely resembled a classic knight’s duel.

Appropriately, the cat-like swordsman clad in white was countered by a teammate sporting black attire. With their unimpressive technique, the princesses of Patten fought more effectively with eloquence, not epees.

“Yes, but if I am to fall prey to your shaft, then I shall far and away run yonder, traveling town to town telling everyone of our sordid past,” muttered the kitty knight through her oval-shaped mask.

“Very well then. And I will just, just walk away and traverse the land until I reach the grandest mountain steep, bearing your hilarious name in my clutches, yet another chicken plucked. Cock cock. Cluck cluck,” mocked the black knight, the clear symbol of evil in a contest which may well not have occurred. “Yes, another virgin one thrust to her end by the sharp and stiff edge of this here dragon’s lance.”

Reciprocating the other’s threats, the knights progressed into a more philosophical bout. The kitty-cat knight, exasperated, began to address grander themes of her own martyrdom and the inevitable repercussions of a black knight’s victory.

“So what if your shaft silences me only after it’s made me moan and scream? I die a martyr, a champion of the virgin’s cause, and you reign the bully supreme with your, your, your special finishing moves and tools and swords that I am too meek and poor and pitiful to even possess.”

“But when I end this match, I will have won. You will lie thus, pleasantly drained, bleeding the fresh blood of a savage virgin. Only, you will no longer be a virgin. You will scurry away an oversexed – hee hee – kitty kitty. Something of mine too will be drained...

“My boner.”

“Methinks we will see a truer outcome, my black knight, an outcome known only to the God above that teaches us all what’s good and right and just in this cruel war torn world.”

“So, end me if you must. I, I must know what it feels like.”

Responding to these last words in kind, the dark queen of Sheridan Road slashed the kitten’s sword from her left hand. A naked Eve, the virgin cat was knocked on her back by the thrust of the queen’s finishing move, a beautiful ballet-like song and dance. The scoring apparatus’ high-pitched squealing signaled the practice match was over.

While the rest of the team packed their epees and leather fighting gloves, the black knight remained cloaked as she tucked her sword in its blood-stained sheath. Exhausted, the white clad kitty-kat relaxed on the sweaty gym floor until the dark queen approached to taunt her some more.

Planting her black shoe on the kitten’s uneven chest, staring up at Patten’s steel rafters, the queen muttered a short prayer, before turning to the nearest basketball hoop to reenact Dee Brown’s blind dunk from the 1991 NBA Slam Dunk Competition.

David Bartholow drives a Montero. You can reach him at d-bartholow@northwestern.edu.

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