From Saturday to Sunday, it was as if the world shifted on its axis.  Saturday was the senior competition in Poughkeepsie and it promised to be a tough one.  My little chunk of it involved epee, my son’s weapon of choice.  He’s just 15 years old, but he’s pretty good at it.  Far, far better a fencer than his old man ever was.

It was the North Atlantic Section of the United State Fencing Association championship.  It qualified fencers to compete in the Summer National Championships.  It was held at Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, neutral ground.  And it teaches fencers something that young lawyers and law students have yet to learn.  There are winners and losers. The winners go on to fence again. The losers go home.  The winners get a medal.  The losers go home.  If the losers don’t like it, work harder and become a winner. 

Or maybe it just wasn’t your day, and that happens too.  Sometimes, no matter how hard you work, you still lose.  That’s life.

My son wanted to do well in the senior competition.  You don’t need a recitation of how fencing competitions work, so I won’t bore you, but he won his first two direct elimination bouts (which come after the pool round) handily.  His third DE was against a college fencer he had beaten in the pool.  He got the first three touches, up three to zero.  He was feeling pretty good about things.

His competitor didn’t give up or lose faith. He upped his game and took the next six touches.  In frustration at his inability to stop his opponent, my son first lost focus.  He then lost his cool.  Then he lost the bout. 

He ended up doing okay in the competition, but nowhere near as well as he hoped.  He was crushed, though his reaction was overwrought.  That’s the nature of serious competition: someone wins, someone loses.  This was his day to lose.  He gets no medal, no glory, no win.  There’s no sweet spin to put on it.  He did fine.  He lost.  Pack up and go, your day is over.

After the competition, my son and I had a talk.  Actually, it was more my talking and his being in my presence.  Father/son talks with a 15 year old tend to be that way.  They don’t talk all that much.  He was furious with himself for having failed and wanted to go home, even though the Junior championship (under 19 years of age) was the next day.  I told him to toughen up, that losing is part of the nature of competition and you have to take losing in stride, just like winning. 

I told him that this was just a sport, and if he thought this was the end of the world, just wait until really important things in his life went sour.  It would happen, and it would be crushing.  Still, you have to brush yourself off and get on with it.  The only real losers are the ones who wallow in their misery and can’t muster the will to fight again.  He went to sleep in silence.

The next morning, he woke up and dressed for competition.  He came in second place, losing a tough gold medal bout.  The final score was 5-2, but it doesn’t tell the story.  While bouts go to 15 in three 3 minute periods, his was one of cat and mouse, with the score 3-2 with ten seconds left.  He was behind.  He tried two desperation fleches in the final ten seconds, and was caught both times.  His opponent was older and much stronger than he was, and was able to parry his attack.  But he did what he had to do to try to grab victory.  It was tactically perfect, even though it didn’t work. 

He was proud of himself, even though he didn’t take the gold medal.  He fought the good fight.  He didn’t give up, or offer an excuse for the loss, even though it would have been easy enough to do.  He took the defeat with grace.  Afterward, he hugged the other fencer, and I shook his hand and his coach’s.  We talked about what a great bout it was, and how the winner fenced.  He talked about how well my son fenced and how difficult a bout it was.  They were most gracious in winning.

From a father’s perspective, he did spectacularly well, and I swelled with pride at his effort and spirit that day.  For his fencing, his grace in defeat, his will to continue the fight, and his looking forward to his next chance to do battle.  My son is certain that he will win next time, even though he knows that he can lose, whether because he didn’t work hard enough or it just wasn’t his day. 

Losing is a more important lesson in life than winning, and far too many young people have never learned to lose.  You just don’t want to learn it too often.