Everybody's been there: you're at a fighter's practice or a
tourney and someone walks up to you and says, "That last pass was great,
but you need to work on..." and proceed to tell you what you did wrong. It
can be frustrating, I know. It can even be downright humorous at times. But you
have to remember that nine times out of ten, the person offering the advice is
trying to make you a better fighter.
With these unsolicited pieces of advice, you have a few
choices of what to do. The first is to blow it off and keep doing what you're
doing . But if the person in question is
wearing white - say a belt, scarf or
collar, that might not be the best option. Another option is to try out what
they suggest, and if it works, keep it, if it doesn't, file it away for later.
The third option is to take the advice to heart and use it all the time.
My recommendation is to use the second option: listen, try
and decide. I say this because there is no "One True" fencing style
that works for everyone, against everyone. You have to find what works for you.
Now, when you go up to someone after a fight and ask them
what you need to work on, you have the same three choices, but remember: if
you're just going to ignore what they say, why did you ask them in the first
place? So again: listen, try, and decide.
And then there's the exception to the rule: if you have
approached someone and said "teach me, please," or been taken as a
cadet or provost. Oh, sure, you can still ignore what your mentor tells you,
but you may soon find yourself unattached, as it were. A good mentor may (may!)
let you get away with listen, try and decide, but you'd better be able to
explain and/or demonstrate why something doesn't work for you. That being said, they still may want you to
do it their way. (Here's a hint: sometimes instructors build upon previous
lessons and aren't able to teach you their super-secret, kill-em every time
move until you get the more basic parry or thrust down.)
And for goodness sake, if your mentor gives you homework, do
it. (See parenthetical statement above.)
Here's why:
If nothing else, ignoring the mentor that you chose, or that
you agreed to be your teacher is just rude.
I have a reputation as a teacher. As such, I have been approached both by
people who want me to teach them, and by people who want me to be their
teacher. Generally, the people who want me to teach them aren't a problem: I
try to give freely of my skills and knowledge. I tell them what I see and what
I think, and very rarely do I say, "You need to..." or "I want
you to...". I expect those who ask me to teach them to use my own
preferred listen, try and decide because, as my son will gladly tell you, I
don't know everything.
A person asking me to be their teacher is a whole different
ball of wax. In all honesty, while I have said many times, "I will teach
you," I have never said, "I will be your teacher." I know the
difference is subtle, but it's important. By agreeing to simply teach someone,
I set myself as one of many responsible for a fencer's education. If I agree to be someone's teacher, I am
directly linking myself to that person. As
I said, I have a reputation not only as a fencer, but as a teacher. I have
built that reputation by making sure my students are good fencers. Which also means that I want the people who go around saying, "Matheus is (or was) my teacher," to be good fencers.
So, when someone asks me to be their teacher, I agree to
teach them and give them little tests as I go along, usually in the form of
homework. One of my favorites for new fencers it point drills. More advanced
fighters might get footwork drills, or even suggestions that they improve their
gear. And if they choose not to do the
homework, I can see that their drive isn't there. I'll still teach them, and I'll still give
them homework, but until they start doing their homework and I know that they'll do the homework when I
give it, I won't even consider calling them my student.
Strangely enough, considering my lack of students over the
years, I've only had a few who failed my tests. The rest were snatched up by
White Scarves.
And even more oddly, a few of those fencers have graced me
with the title of "Teacher."