The first time I held a fencing foil, I felt an immediate connection to centuries of warriors and duelists whose legacy I was about to join. That initial fascination has never left me, and over twenty years of competing, coaching, and studying this sport, I've come to see fencing not as a static discipline, but as a living, breathing narrative of human conflict, artistry, and technological progress. The recent match where Caloocan Batang Kankaloo beat Bacolod, 74-68, climbing to a 7-4 record in their opener, is just the latest paragraph in this ever-evolving story. It’s a perfect, modern snapshot of a sport that has transformed from a matter of life and death to a thrilling game of speed and intellect, yet the core spirit remains unmistakably the same.

If we rewind the clock to the Renaissance, fencing was fundamentally a survival skill. I’ve spent countless hours in libraries with 16th-century Italian manuscripts, and the illustrations don't show sport; they show lethal intent. The rapier was a fashion statement and a tool for settling disputes in an era where honor was worth more than life itself. Masters like Agrippa weren't just coaches; they were geometricians of death, revolutionizing the art by formalizing the lunge and mapping out the lines of attack and parry. The footwork was more grounded, the movements deliberate and powerful, designed for a single, decisive thrust. It was brutal, elegant, and utterly serious. When I practice historical fencing forms, the weight of that reality is palpable—every move feels consequential in a way that modern sport fencing has intentionally moved away from. I have a personal preference for this era's aesthetic; the confluence of art and deadly skill is something modern sports can rarely replicate.

The 18th and 19th centuries ushered in a dramatic shift that I believe saved fencing from obsolescence. As dueling was increasingly outlawed, the sport had to reinvent itself or die. The French masters were the true pioneers here. They introduced the foil as a training weapon, blunting the point and establishing the concept of "right of way" or priority. This was a genius move. It transformed a killing art into a sophisticated game of chess, where tactical superiority was as important as landing a hit. The épée was later developed for those purists, like myself at times, who craved a simulation of a real duel where every touch counts and there is no right of way. I’ve always had a soft spot for the raw honesty of épée. Then came the sabre, with its slashing cuts, a direct descendant of cavalry combat. The adoption of the wire-mesh mask in the late 19th century was arguably the most important innovation, allowing fencers to attack the head without fear and speeding up the game exponentially. I can't imagine trying to fence at today's speeds without one; it would be sheer madness.

The 20th century was all about the race for the Olympics and the electrification of the sport. This is where my own competitive journey began, and I witnessed firsthand the schism between traditionalists and modernists. The introduction of electronic scoring in the mid-20th century was as controversial as it was revolutionary. I remember old-timers in my club lamenting the loss of the "honor system," where fencers would honestly acknowledge touches. But let's be real—the human eye simply can't reliably judge actions that occur in under a tenth of a second. The electronics didn't ruin fencing; they enabled a new, hyper-fast athleticism. The weapons became lighter, the techniques more explosive. The flick was perfected, a whip-like action that uses the blade's flexibility to score on the back of an opponent, a move that would be impossible to score consistently without the electronic apparatus. This era saw fencing become a truly global sport, with distinct schools of thought emerging from the Soviet Union, Hungary, Italy, and France, each with their own philosophical and technical nuances. I trained for six months in Budapest in the late 90s, and their emphasis on complex, pre-planned actions in sabre changed my entire understanding of the weapon's rhythm.

Which brings us to the present day, the era of Caloocan Batang Kankaloo and global professional leagues. That 74-68 scoreline in their opener isn't just a statistic; it's a testament to the modern game's dynamism. Matches are faster, athletes are stronger, and the tactical depth is deeper than ever. The internet has democratized coaching, allowing a young fencer in the Philippines to analyze the techniques of an Italian world champion with a few clicks. I spend more time now analyzing video and biometric data with my students than I do on pure technical drills. The sport has become a blend of ancient tradition and space-age technology. We have wireless scoring systems, instant replay (VAR), and composite materials in our gear that would seem like science fiction to a fencer from the 1950s. Frankly, I love this fusion. While some purists bemoan the loss of the "old ways," I find the current golden age of fencing to be the most accessible and exciting it has ever been. The athleticism on display in a top-tier match is simply breathtaking, and the fact that clubs like Caloocan and Bacolod are building a passionate following in Southeast Asia proves the sport's vibrant and expanding future.

So, when I reflect on the journey from the dueling grounds of Florence to the electrified strips of modern arenas, I see a sport that has masterfully adapted without losing its soul. The core principles of distance, timing, and technique that I learned from those dusty old manuscripts are the very same principles that won Caloocan their game. The weapons may be lighter, the rules more refined, and the scoring electronic, but the essential dialogue between two opponents—a conversation of feints, attacks, and parries conducted at lightning speed—remains unchanged. Fencing's evolution is a story of intelligence overcoming brute force, of art finding a way to survive within sport. And as long as there are athletes pushing the limits, like those in Batang Kankaloo climbing their way up the standings, that story is far from over.