RIO DE JANEIRO — By the time I met US Olympic saber fencer Daryl Homer, I’d watched enough episodes of “Vikings’’ and “Game of Thrones’’ and staged enough fake lightsaber bouts with my nephews to feel relatively confident about my sword-fighting ability. And Homer told me confidence was crucial to fencing well.
I quickly learned, however, that confidence was all I had in my favor. I’d never picked up a true sword before, never studied the basics of fencing, never even thought about trying the sport until Homer offered a lesson and a bout when he visited Cambridge for a winter tournament. You can’t turn down the No. 10-ranked saber fencer in the world.
On Wednesday, Homer and Eli Dershwitz of Sherborn will compete in the men’s saber fencing tournament at the Summer Olympics in the often-raucous confines of Carioca Arena 3. Both have a chance at medaling.
In saber, fencers can score points when the tip or side of the blade hits a part of the upper body — the torso, head, or arms, but not the hands. Fencers usually score points quicker in saber than in foil and epee. In foil and epee, you score only with the tip of the weapon.
Dressed in an oversized fencing jacket, a lefthanded glove, and a metal mesh mask, I was ready for instruction from Homer. He started with the en garde position, the opening stance in which one leg is placed in front of the other, with feet shoulder-width apart and perpendicular to each other, knees bent, and saber raised upward and outward.
The stance felt awkward, and that was before I even attempted to move backward and forward. When I did, I stumbled and stutter-stepped and broke form constantly. My brain understood what to do — keep my back foot behind me, distribute my weight almost evenly over both legs, turn my torso sideways and not give my opponent a large target — but my body struggled to follow.
Homer patiently demonstrated proper technique again and again and again with a natural agility and perfect balance that had him moving over the floor quickly and easily — almost stealthily. He would be right in front of me before I even noticed that he’d started forward.
Next, I attempted a lunge, one of the fundamental ways to attack.
“It’s pretty much like you’re kicking a soccer ball,’’ said Homer.
Yes, but with your arm and sword extended. More awkwardness ensued, though Homer kindly offered an encouraging, “Good, good.’’
Before we even officially fenced, the Olympian was taking mercy on me.
“Can I get points for knowing what I’m doing wrong?’’ I joked.
The final part of the lesson covered a few fundamental parries, the defensive positions of the blade used to deflect attacks: Parry 3 (thankfully, the same as en garde), Parry 4 (protects your chest), Parry 5 (covers your head). As I tried out the different parries, Homer pretended to attack and advised, “You never want to meet the blade; you want the blade to meet you.’’
Translation: Relax.
Done properly, parries are not big, flailing defensive motions like mine, but subtler, smoother shifts of arm and blade executed close to your body.
Homer pretended to attack. I parried. And each time our weapons clashed, the contact reverberated up my left arm.
Then he offered a brief explainer on scoring and right of way, and it was time to fence. Time to test skills honed with imaginary lightsaber fights against a two-time Olympian once ranked as high as No. 5 in the world. Homer had a silver medal from the 2015 World Championships on his résumé. I had a 15-minute lesson, though with a very, very good teacher.
No more than three minutes into the bout, my left arm was tired, my left hamstring ached from all the lunging, and my body was drenched with sweat. The amount of stamina required for fencing surprised me and drained me. And with each point, the intense, repeated bursts of action left me breathless.
Homer competed at half-speed, half-intensity, if that. But the way he moved, the precision of his blade, the quickness of his footwork, the mix of aggression and grace was impressive. Especially inches from my face.
All of his attacks caught me off-guard, materializing before I even knew what parry to employ. After flinching the first few times his blade came unexpectedly down on my head, I grew accustomed to the blows and realized the mask kept me well-protected.
Meanwhile, I telegraphed all of my attacks to a degree that was comical. Homer could see where I wanted to hit several seconds before I actually extended my saber. And he easily fended off my early attempts to score.
Gradually, I adjusted to the dual demands of endurance and speed, the physical and mental exertion required. I became more aggressive, and eventually — miraculously — scored against Homer.
The bout ended with a bit of good-natured trash-talking and slight controversy. According to my scorekeeping, I won 3 points, while Homer smiled and said, “I gave her 3 points. Let that be noted. I gave her 3 points.’’ Then he relented and said, “You know, I gave her 2 points and she scored 1.’’
I still protested, but I’ll take my 1 point and consider it a victory.
Shira Springer can be reached at Shira.Springer@globe.com. Follow her on Twitters @ShiraSpringer
