Nerves of Steel

The afternoon sun peeked through the half open blinds, revealing a million little dust particles dancing around the orange-tinted living room. Spring was coming to a close as summer began to show itself in Dylan Navarrete’s studio apartment. Too lethargic to stand up and turn on the air conditioner, he was content with letting beads of sweat form on his forehead, placing his half-empty bottle of beer right on the flat portion of his skull. There was a swirl of emotion within him. He felt disappointment, shame, relief, but above all else, he felt an overwhelming urge to run away, to drop out of college and start a new life. Perhaps he’d join the army, or a circus, or maybe he’d start a band or hitchhike across the country. Anything would beat the high expectations he faces on a daily basis. The struggle to perform was something he’s dealt with his whole life. His father’s ridiculously strict standards made him lose out on any semblance of a childhood. He spent his time getting straight A’s in high school, while joining the speech and debate team, and playing for the school’s soccer team. No matter what activities he was engaged in, his father wanted him to be the best; the best forward on the team, the best debater, the best student. It was suffocating. And now he was paying for Dylan’s college degree, so you can imagine just how much more pressure to perform Dylan faced.

    With a sigh, Dylan stood up to stretch his legs and give his lower back a small scratch. He turned around and stared at his well-adorned wall. Near the ceiling was a large, rectangular wooden plaque with two rapiers crossed in the shape of an x glued to the middle of it. Underneath that were half a dozen medals. Dylan couldn’t help but grin a little. He was only in his fencing club for six months before Coach Jackson said he should try to enter a few tournaments. Old Coach was Dylan’s greatest supporter, a true father figure to him. He believed in Dylan when no one else would, not even himself. If it wasn’t for Coach, Dylan wouldn’t have won any medals at all and he was sure of that. He approached the wall, gently holding one of the golden medals, rubbing its slick surface and smirking at his triumph. He remembered the very duel that earned him this particular medal. His opponent, ambitious little guy, was hasty. When he went in on the tie-breaker match, he lunged wildly. Dylan parried with finesse and tagged him with a well-controlled riposte. It was the first tournament he ever won. The exhilaration of the first win is unlike anything else. There is no drug on the planet that could ever come close to the feeling. And then, of course, there is the crippling feeling of failure.

    Dylan’s thoughts were interrupted by his obnoxiously loud doorbell. For an apartment so tiny, he often wondered what the point of such an irritating, mildly deafening doorbell like that was. He opened the door without checking through the peephole to see who it was. He half-expected his visitor anyway. He opened the door to find his best friend since middle school grinning widely at him. Giddy with delight, and nearly shaking with excitement, he wasted no time barging in.

    “Alright, bud,” he said chipperly. “It’s the big day. I mean the big, big day. You ready to take another one down? ’Course you are. What am I saying? You’re, like, the Terminator, bro. Nerves of steel. You never get nervous before a duel. So, I’m thinking- “

    “Austin,” Dylan tried to interrupt.

    “-that we should go over the game plan again, you know? I mean, you gotta be prepared, you know? It’s the big one, dude.”

    “Austin.”

    “I brought a few of your training manuals. I mean, I can’t understand a lick of this stuff. It’s like Greek to me, but I know it might help if- “

    “Austin,” Dylan barked. There was a small silence as Austin began to glance over at his rather deflated friend.

    “W-What’s up, dude?” Austin asked. “Why ain’t you dressed? Dude, we gotta be outta here in like twenty minutes.” Austin began rummaging through Dylan’s things, frantically looking for his fencing attire, but as he did so, Dylan stopped him by putting a hand firmly on his shoulder.

    “Austin,” he began. “I’m not going.”

    “What?” Austin asked incredulously. “Why not?”

    “I just decided I can’t do it, man.”

    “Dyl, I mean-” Austin sputtered for a moment like an old Ford Model T. “Of course, you can do it. What’s that even mean? You’ve been training. You’re ready!”

    “No, but that’s just it. I’m not ready.” Dylan slunk down onto his sofa and leaned back, covering his eyes with one hand. Austin moved with more tact now, slowly easing himself into the seat beside his friend.

    “Why do you think that, man? We’ve gone over the game plans a hundred times.”

    Dylan sighed with a tinge of irritation. “And we can go over them a hundred more times. I still won’t be ready.”

    “Ah, man,” Austin scoffed. “You’re just in your head. It’s nerves, you know?”

    “Yeah, maybe,” replied Dylan glumly. “Or maybe it’s just the truth I’ve been running from for a while now.”

    Austin looked down at his hands. “Dude, I don’t think so. I mean, how often do you see someone go from rookie to pro in, like, two years? You’re kind of a prodigy, you know?”

    Austin wasn’t entirely wrong. A growth that explosive, that sudden, is a bit of a rarity. But what he’s overlooking is that this particular duel was against Rodrick Masterson. Not only is he the son of Professor Masterson, a prestigious instructor with his own championships under his belt, but he also has more experience with fencing. He has a lot more experience, in fact. He's also the only duelist that Dylan has lost a fencing tournament to.

    “Prodigy or not,” Dylan spoke up after a long pause, “you know who I’m up against. The guy’s good, Austin. I mean, he’s got the pedigree, he’s got the training, and the only reason they’re pitting me up against him is because we have the same number of medals under our belts.” With that, Dylan leaned back and threw his hands up. “He’s a shoe-in. I’m just one more opponent for him to beat so he can go on to the world championship.”

    “Don’t think like that, Dyl,” Austin said, frowning. “You both have the same number of medals, right? Who cares how much training it took him? If he has the same number of medals as you and he’s been training for, like, twice as long as you, then it sounds to me like he sucks.”

    Dylan chuckled and his friend snorted at him in response. “Yeah, well, he beat me, so there is that.”

    “Loser’s luck, dude,” Austin smirked. “Even a blind pig finds the acorn every now and then.”

    Dylan sat there, pondering. After a while he started shaking his head and tightening his lips. “I just don’t want to make a fool of myself, not when I’ve come this far. You know, my dad said I shouldn’t do this, that it’d get in the way of my studies. Maybe he was right, you know?”

    “Dude, screw your dad,” Austin protested. “When has he ever been right about anything?”

    The mere mention of his father in the conversation made Dylan suddenly very irritable. He stood up from the couch and started pacing around the cramped kitchen nearby.

    “I don’t think you even believe that,” Austin said sternly. “What’s this about, really?”

    Dylan shook his head and kept pacing.

    “Dude,” Austin snapped. “What is this really about?”

    “I’m scared, man!” Dylan yelled. He drooped his head down and composed himself. “I’m scared.”

    “What are you scared of?” Austin asked.

    “Failure.”

    “Failure?”

    “Yes,” Dylan said lowly. “Failure. I don’t want to fail at this. I want to get into the world tournament more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I can’t afford to lose this. That’s why I’m not going. If I don’t participate, I can’t lose to Masterson.”

    Austin just stood there, scowling with his jaw agape. “Dude, I’m sorry, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

    Dylan snickered at him. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

    “Because, yeah, you can’t lose, but you can’t win either.”

    Dylan nodded with a grin. “Yeah, I know that. But it’s still better than- “

    “Is it, though?” Austin interrupted. They both stood there for a while.

    “You remember Alex Lackey in eighth grade?” Austin asked.

    “Of course,” Dylan replied. “You kissed his sister and the big, ugly oaf pummeled you into next year.”

    “Yeah,” Austin chuckled. “That was the worst beating I ever took.” He stared at Dylan’s kitchen counter. “The worst thing about that whole experience was that, towards the end, I begged him to stop. I literally begged him. And he was laughing at me, man, calling me all sorts of degrading names.”

    Dylan looked over at his friend with concern and empathy. “You never told me that.”

    “Yeah, well,” Austin said timidly. “That’s not a thing I like to admit often. But, anyway, I told my dad the whole thing, like, all of it. He said I shouldn’t have quit, that even as I was getting pounded on, I should’ve held my tongue. I should’ve gotten back up if I was able to. I shouldn’t have quit.”

    “Sounds pretty callous of your old man to me,” Dylan said disappointedly.

    “I thought that at first too, dude,” Austin said with a smirk. “But, when I got older, I figured out what he meant by that. Like, life is gonna give you a beating all the time, dude. You just gotta get back up every time. Look, I know I didn’t go to this ivy league school you’re in. I’m not smart like you, neither is my dad, but I know that the wisest thing he ever told me is that the only way you can lose is if you never try.”

    Dylan stared at Austin as he spoke, listening carefully. Austin sighed and nudged Dylan’s shoulder.

    “That’s the thing, man,” Austin continued. “The world is full of failures, and I don’t mean people who just failed. I mean, the world is full of people who let their fears make their decisions for them, rather than make those decisions for themselves.”

    Dylan looked at his friend in wonderment, then he looked away for a second. In a flash, he stepped away from the kitchen and grabbed his facemask, his suit, and his rapier. After some time spent in the bathroom changing into his under armor and sporting attire, he came out and showed himself to Austin.

    “See, now you look like a champion,” Austin said with a grin. Dylan smiled back at him.

    “Thanks, man,” Dylan said warmly. As Austin walked past him to head towards the door, Dylan stopped him. “I mean, really, thank you Austin.”

    Austin nodded. Then the two best friends hugged for a few seconds and walked out the front door of the dingy little apartment. As he walked out, Dylan felt an old, familiar feeling, those nerves of steel as Austin put it. And why shouldn’t he feel that way? He never gets nervous before a duel.