Temper Temper

So I was at the Darach war practice on Sunday and something funny happened. Well, it wasn’t really funny in that “Ha ha, oh Enid, you card!” way that’s always soooo charming, it was funny in that “Wow, I just completely took myself aback by doing something really unexpected!” way.

I was in a line standing across from a gentleman who killed me just as I thought I tip-cut across the width of his forearm (in Caid, a tip cut across the width of a limb is enough to render it useless). His kill on me was unquestionable, but as I turned around to walk back to the resurrection point, I saw him turn and continue to fight his way down the line, both arms intact and in use.

I’m not going to definitively say I did or I didn’t hit his arm, because really, mistakes happen on both sides, and the point of this post is not to cast aspersion on a member of my community or to paint myself as some kind of tolerant, saintly wronged party, but rather to confess something a bit shameful about myself:

As I was walking back to the res point, I heard myself say “Hey, don’t take that arm or anything!”

Now, in the grand scheme of things, this is not a big deal. It’s not like I shouted it at him across the line, or went screaming to the marshals frothing at the mouth, or ran back from the res point looking for revenge, or jumped across the line and kicked him in the kneecap, or waited patiently for the first opportunity to slash his tires and put sugar in his gas tank. No one even heard me say it, as far as I know, because I was surrounded by ten feet of empty grass in every direction. But it struck me. What was I saying? Why did I have an issue with this guy? What possessed me to actually speak my frustrations out loud and uncensored, rather than doing something productive about them? I’m not the kind of person who says stuff like that just to vent, right?

But bottom line is, I did say it, it was rude, and it was petty and passive-aggressive. It wasn’t even prompted by a serious issue, because if I’d had a serious problem with him, I would have asked him about it, right then and there. That’s probably what I should have done anyway, just to clear the air.

The point is, my temper was up, I got annoyed, and I let it come out without even thinking about it. I was just blowing off steam. I remember hearing myself say something and stopping, really surprised at such a display of bad behavior. Actually, my annoyance at him completely vanished because the behavior struck me as so out of character.

See, one of my biggest pet peeves on the field is people who can’t control their temper. It’s a close second to unchivalrous jerks who can only have a good time if they’re winning. To me, losing your temper on the field is indicative of only one thing: that it’s time for you to be somewhere else. I see someone march off the field, swearing holes in the ozone layer, or throwing their gear around on the sidelines, or yelling and crying about the terrible time they’re having (unless they’re actually injured, of course), and I wonder why they’re there in the first place. Clearly they’re not having a good time, and now they’re making a big deal about it, probably impacting other folks’ good time, and generally acting childish. Temper tantrums don’t get three year olds what they want, why should adults expect anything different?

I realize I’m not necessarily demonstrating the most magnanimous perspective here, but it’s something I feel pretty strongly about. The rapier field is not the place for temper tantrums, just like it’s not the place for backbiting, hurt feelings, or any manner of unchivalrous behavior. If you have a problem with someone, you find them, and a marshal if you really think it’s necessary, and you discuss it rationally, like grown-ups. Everyone gets pissed off, everyone gets upset, and everyone has a right to their feelings—but, as much as is possible, it should not affect your game. As one of my favorite YouTube videos tells us:

“Feelings? Look, mate, you know what has a lot of feelings? Blokes what bludgeon their wife to death wif a golf trophy. Professionals have standards. Be polite. Be efficient. Have a plan to kill everyone you meet.”

I’m not much of a one for mottos, but the last few sentences above seem pretty apropos to me, fencing-wise. That and “If you’re not having fun, you’re doing it wrong.”

I appreciate that it's not always easy to see the big picture or keep from getting frustrated, and Lord knows I don't always practice what I preach, but that's the mindset with which I try to approach life on the rapier field. In fact, I have a higher standard of behavior for myself on the rapier field than I do off. It's a combative environment, one full of physical force, yelling, and emotional highs. Tempers can flare, feelings can be hurt, and resentments can brew. In my own little way, I try to pay it forward by staying upbeat, keeping myself smiling and trying to get others to smile too, and trying to cultivate an attitude of generosity.

Usually, I’m pretty good at keeping my cool, and at fixing bad behavior when I notice it or hear about it (for example, I used to swear a lot on the field, but I don’t at all anymore). I’m often snarky, occasionally sarcastic, frequently profane, and generally as imperfect as everyone else, but I very rarely let myself get angry on the rapier field. I have an extraordinarily long fuse, and am more likely to laugh at someone who’s pissing me off than I am to yell at them. Screaming, crying, and passive-aggressive BS are not usually my thing, which is why the random exclamation on Sunday surprised me so much.

Is that really so far a cry from marching off the field, whipping off my mask, bursting into tears, and yelling at everyone in earshot about whose fault it is that I’m not having fun anymore? Because (SPOILER ALERT) the person who’s responsible for me having or not having fun is me. I’m in control of my behavior, or so I thought, and I can choose to ignore bad stuff, behave chivalrously, and try to increase my own and other folks’ fun. I don’t want to start exhibiting behavior I find shameful, disappointing, or immature, even if the only person who knows about it is me.

At the end of the day, the net impact of my actions on the field was probably nothing, but the net impact of my actions on myself was worth noticing. I surprised myself. I expected better from myself. If nothing else, it’s a valuable reminder that, as easygoing as I try to be, I do have a temper in there somewhere, and sometimes it acts without consulting the upper management. That’s not an excuse—it’s just something I have to keep an eye on, and apparently should have been before now.