I couldn’t give him an answer. Almost two years later, I still can’t say why I fight. There is a picture of me at 6 or 7 wearing tin foil armor that I’d made, with helmet, body armor, sword and shield. I’ve been "sword fighting" in some form or another since I was 8, and my younger sister and I bashed at each other with surveying stakes in the basement. We made our own rules: no ankles, head, or hands; and when we hit a limb, it was disabled. We de-limbed each other, rather than actually managing to get body hits in, but it was fun until she turned to less violent sports. Until I found another willing victim, er, sparring partner, I picked up sticks and sharpened them, beheading dandelions and what weeds dared to grow at my dad’s work. I demolished an old ice-fishing shed (with permission, it was scheduled to be burned that month) with a length of re-bar. When I was 16, I bought my first steel sword. A wall hanger, but I was dang proud of it. After I graduated high school, I found a couple other idiots and made "boffers." We used the "big PVC pipe, a little foam" method and I got worse bruises behind the dorm than I ever have SCA fighting. When I moved to Michigan, I knew that SCA existed. I went to a fighter practice and knew that’s what I wanted to do.
In my SCA fighting career, I’ve walked 2 miles to practice; seen the northern lights; gotten hit too hard; bruised and been bruised; gone to events wearing uncovered plastic; failed authorization; passed authorization; been heat sick; gotten clubbed like a baby seal; killed people; been a group marshal; trained 6 people to their basic authorization; become a warranted marshal; gone to practices in 5 different local groups; been named "Evil Spear Bearer;" and fought as part of three kingdoms’ and one principality’s armies.
Why do I keep fighting? The easy answer is, because it’s fun. The adrenaline rush is magic: the hind-brain feels that there is danger, even though the possibility of injury is less than that of football. It’s better than a roller coaster, because you can affect the outcome of the fight! If one on one isn’t enough, get a big shield (or a little skinny spear), and charge into an army. Another obvious answer is that it’s good physical activity, and a martial art without spending 4 years learning forms before you can spar. But more important than that is the social aspect. I’m horribly shy. Really, honest. Fighter practice is a wonderful avenue for getting to know people. When I traveled to Trimaris, I went to fighter practice and was treated the same way I would be at a Nordskogen (Minneapolis) practice. When I went to the border skirmish between Trimaris and Meridies, one of the fighters helped me find a group to fight with, just because he’d seen me once and knew I wasn’t in any of the local households. I can travel anywhere and be leant a spear or polearm for practice. That’s pretty neat. I can go to an event, and people will talk to me; I now know most of the Northshield marshallate and recent royalty.
On the tourney field, I’ve learned that a raw newbie can surprise a complacent royal and get a hit. A polearmer on their knees really can kill a fully mobile sword and shield fighter. And it is far more important to walk off the field with your honor intact but lose the bout: I have lost a bout to someone who I had hit first and more often, but they didn’t fall down.
Melee, for me, is what makes life worth living. Well, aside from people. I’m out there with a couple dozen or hundred of my newest best friends. Some of them know what they’re doing. Some of them are nervous "melee virgins": some ask for direction, some just stumble through. But the "enemy" -also composed of some of my soon-to-be newest best friends- comes. I poke them in the face and they fall over. They block, and we shake our heads at each other. The shields in front of me die, and the enemy surges around me. I block, but I only have one stick, and they have one each, plus big shields. I fall down and watch the show. It makes much less sense when all you can see are sneakers, army boots, and moccasins. Some mysteriously run back and forth. Some appear in front of my face after kicking me in the back. Some appear after the body attached to them has tripped over me. Large men fall on me, and I am invulnerable: already dead and safe in my armor. The monkey brain knows that I am alive and surviving. It’s a rush. The marshals gaff me out (hit me with their staff to clear my carcass out of the way), and I roll out and leave the field. My friends and enemies see if I’m OK from getting stepped on, apologize for dying so early, make sure they didn’t hit me too hard, accept my apologies and questioning. The semi-deities called "waterbearers" bring the liquid of life, saving me to fight again, rather than puking my guts out from dehydration (which is silly, but I didn’t design humans!). My friends tell me what I did right this time, and my "enemies" tell me how to kill them faster next time. We line up and do it again. At the end of the day, I’m battered, sore from bruises and overworked muscles, exhausted… and happily high on an adrenaline buzz that doesn’t go away for days.
So, why do I fight? I like it. I started because I liked it, and I continue because I like it. And nothing beats people’s reaction when they get the answer to "So, what do you do in your free time?"
This was written for "The Siren Song," the newsletter of the Barony of Illiton in spring of 2002, as "can you write an article about fighting? Anything about fighting?"
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