Crit Club

It’s Saturday night and I’m sat in a bright sports hall in Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia, watching two people fence. They’re going at it down an aisle of chairs set out like a catwalk. I don’t know anything about fencing. I didn’t know they were allowed to jump, but at one point, the white suit on my left flies up and brings the sword down, and the moment seems to last forever, like there are wires I can’t see. I like it. I like that I have walked into a medieval fight. When everyone has finally taken their seat, the fencing stops. The boys take their helmets off to bow, and the person next to me gasps at the amount of sweat dripping down their faces. Wet, plastered hair, heavy breathing. I didn’t know it took that much out of the body. I like fencing even more now that I know the raging bodies inside those beekeeper suits still manage to be so precise. We’re gathered in the sports hall for an event called Crit Club. A table has been placed where the fencers have just been, and…