In 1957 Robert Deiro—a man now known as Count Deiro, because he really is a count, but that's another story—became a fencing instructor for the City of Las Vegas. For 18 months, he taught the sport; this period included what was, until last week's women's World Cup Grand Prix at the Stardust, the single greatest moment in the history of Las Vegas fencing, when two Hungarian Olympic champions—defectors straight from the front lines of the Cold War—came to town and, in front of a packed house at the Dula Center, dueled with Deiro. We are pleased to report that, in a parallel universe, at that very moment, fencing took off in Las Vegas, and the city became widely known as the sport's cradle of champions. In the real world, alas, there were livings to be made and families to be fed, and Deiro, a former fencer in the Army's Third Armored Division, dropped his instructor gig in 1960 and got down to the business of making a fortune, and that was the end of fencing in Las Vegas for many, many years.
This brings us, as such things will, to me, specifically, to 9-year-old me in 1979, when my brother and sister—both of them stars—were playing in the Intermountain Sectional Tennis Championships in Colorado Springs, and I was not, and I was desperate to find some other game—as "other" as I could possibly find—in which I could distinguish myself. My mother and I wandered around the Olympic Training Center and into a fencing practice and—lo!—the ceiling opened up, and the sun shone bright upon the clouds, and the clouds rearranged themselves into the shapes of letters, and the letters spelled out the words, THIS IS IT.
I would be a fencer.
We returned home to Las Vegas and my mother promptly opened the phone book and began to search ... and search ... She called places that had nothing to do with fencing in the wild hope that they could refer her to places that did. They could not. I suppose it is possible, though my mother would say it is not, that she left some stone, somewhere, unturned, but the fact remains that, in 1979, we found no place for me to fence, and no one to teach me, and so I became a fire-breathing tennis player like my sister and brother before me, only with a larger chip on my shoulder—I shoulda been a fencer!—and somewhat less impressive results.
The best female fencers in the world came to town last week. The pavilion at the Stardust was filled not only with competitors but with a corps of volunteers from Las Vegas' fencing community. Nine-year-old local boys and girls were walking around in teal shirts with fencing patches on the sleeve and Sharpie-scribbled autographs everywhere else. Today there are around 150 fencers in the Valley—about half of whom fence competitively in age groups from under-10 to over-60—and there are four salles (fencing studios) where these fencers can learn and train. There are 51 fencing masters (coaches with the highest accreditation) in the U.S., and three of them are in Las Vegas. The Valley is home to the annual Duel in the Desert—a major international open competition with prize money for the champion—as well as to the Pacific Coast Championships. And now Las Vegas has supplanted New York as the World Cup site. We've come a long way since '79.
The fencing boomlet, like the city's larger boom, began in the 1990s. More people in the Valley meant more children. A strong economy meant more money to spend on those children (and, at $150 for starter equipment, fencing does take a bit of money). And Las Vegas' growing reputation as a good place to retire didn't hurt either: By 1990 it wasn't such a shock that a big-city guy like Mel North—a fencing master and for 19 years a highly successful coach at UCLA—decided Las Vegas would be a good place to transplant his salle, Salle de Nord. In the mid-'90s, meanwhile, Deiro, a lifelong Las Vegan, retired from a lucrative real-estate career, started fencing again, and opened a salle of his own, Salle du Masque Noir, at the Nevada Ballet Theatre. From 1993 until this January, Evan Ranes—the organizer of Duel in the Desert and a driving force in bringing the World Cup to town—ran the Las Vegas Fencing Center, and he still runs the Las Vegas Fencing Club. More recently, Frank Van Dyke opened the Red Rock Fencing Center and brought the internationally respected fencing master Ed Richards to town as a coach, and the Fencing Academy of Nevada opened, with legendary former Notre Dame Coach Yves Auriol as fencing master.
This small but energized community has begun to produce nationally ranked fencers, even champions, at various age levels, in the sport's three disciplines, foil, épée and saber. But this week's World Cup—like the old Alan King Caesars Palace Tennis Classic in my racquet days—was not so much a stage for the locals as a showcase for their role models, and a sort of affirmation for the Valley's sword-fighting subculture: If big-time fencing has come to Las Vegas, it can only be a matter of time before Las Vegas is a big-time fencing town.
The Chinese saber team is sitting in a circle playing cards. A slim Azerbaijani is sparring against a black curtain. A Polish coach is yelling at a towering blonde, though she's just won her bout. The towering blonde yells back. The concession stand is selling "All-star Athens Women's Knickers." Everywhere, after every touch of blade on torso, there are shrieks. These are not mere emotion: When two fencers hit each other almost simultaneously, they both shriek some variation on "Yesss!" in the hope that the referee will award the touch to the more convincing shrieker. Maria Sharapova and Monica Seles on a loud day have never made such noise.
A languid, olive-skinned Romanian named Andreea Pelei is resting between bouts, still holding her saber, telling me about this, her first time in Las Vegas. "It was a great idea to have it here," she says. "Maybe it's a strategy for the Americans so everyone comes to watch." We look around: There really aren't many spectators besides the bright-eyed volunteers. "Well," she says, "I suppose they had expectations. But last year in New York was such a mess. This is more spectacular, like Disneyland. We've only had a chance to go shopping; we'd like to see more, but we have the European Championships in five days. We're leaving for Hungary right after the competition." Pelei is called for her next bout. She smiles, grabs her mask. It is a newfangled contraption with a Plexiglas visor that fencing's grandees, reasoning that the sport will be more TV-friendly if the eyes are visible, have dreamed up to replace the traditional mesh.
It is Friday, the first day of competition, and three young American saber specialists are done for the day. Marina Kraujalis, 15, Jackie Jacobson, 16, and Eva Jellison, 17, are telling me that they hate the new masks, that the masks toy with depth perception, scratch easily, and allow your eyes to give away your next move. "But," says Jacobson, "we'll do anything for exposure."
The Americans wonder why, in a city where mud-wrestling at Gilley's makes the marquee, the World Cup rates only a small sign in the casino. "I've seen more posters for hang-gliding, or whatever it is, that place with the big fan that keeps you in the air," says Jacobson. "This is much nicer than New York, though. We fenced in a basement, and in these small rooms on separate floors. We had to get in from an alley. But the finals were in Grand Central Station. That was cool."
Next to us, an American coach is speaking Russian to a Russian coach. When the Iron Curtain fell, former Soviet and East European coaches flocked to the U.S., and U.S. fencing has benefited. In the 2004 Olympics, American saber specialists Mariel Zagunis and Sada Jacobson (Jackie's older sister), both coached by East European emigrés, became the first U.S. women ever to win fencing medals. The Americans hope the success in Athens marked the beginning of a boom.
"We want fencing to be a mainstream sport," says Jackie Jacobson. "Maybe not like baseball, but at least like hockey. I mean, I turned on the TV the other day and there was ice-dancing!"
On the far side of the pavilion, the Polish coach is still shouting at the tall blonde.
On Saturday, I bring my 4-year-old son to the Stardust. Pelei has a saber bout against 2004 gold medalist Zagunis. From the start, the American is aggressive, merciless. She builds up an 8-4 lead. Pelei seems always to be backing up. My son is mimicking the movements. The referee stops the action and asks Zagunis to pull up her sagging socks—fencing permits no exposed flesh—and after the delay, Pelei goes suddenly, ferociously to work. She catches the mighty Zagunis at 9-9, takes the lead, 9-10, and then: 10-10, 11-10, 12-11, 12-12, 13-12, 14-12—one more point and Zagunis wins—14-13, 14-14—one more point and either of them win—15-14, the American wins. Having nearly pulled off a huge upset, Pelei takes off her mask, smiling, but just a little, shakes her opponent's hand, gathers her things, and prepares for the long flight to Hungary.
My son and I walk to the concession stand in search of a T-shirt, but it's not a T-shirt he wants.
"Daddy," he says. "Can I have a sword?"
In a few years, kiddo. And there'll be plenty of people around here to teach you how to use it.