I entered my freshman year with a thought eating away at my mind: what extracurricular activity would grant me the best skills to survive in the event of a zombie apocalypse? While this seemed unlikely, I had learned from the hardening experience of middle school that one could never be too careful when it came to hungry, wandering hordes.

In an effort to find a suitable activity, I attended the school sports fair. While walking around the gymnasium, an information session caught my eye: fencing, a sport I knew next to nothing about. From all of the undead media I had consumed, a common problem I noticed was the main characters’ means of protection constantly being damaged or needing to be reloaded. Fencing avoided this problem, as you did not have to reload a sword.

I attended the tryouts with little knowledge of what to expect. My lungs were on fire, and my legs felt like rubber from what seemed like a thousand lunges. The next few days felt like holding my breath. My mind flooded with questions: Did I make the right choice? What if I wasn’t strong enough? I pushed these thoughts away, forcing myself to be confident.

On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, my phone buzzed with an email from the coach. I hastily opened it up and blinked in surprise. I was certain I saw it wrong, but when I looked back, I saw the bolded word “Congratulations!” in the header of the email. I was shocked, but even more excited.

As I expected, thanks to the taste I had of the sport from the tryouts, fencing was physically grueling, but it was equally rewarding. I grew extremely close to my teammates, who became my second family. As I went through hours upon hours of practice, I felt myself become stronger. Although every year presented new challenges as I learned more about fencing, my love for it only blossomed as I progressed through high school.

While preparing for the first tournament of my third season, I slipped easily into my chest plate, jacket, and lamé and grabbed my mask and sword. As I walked toward my team, I saw my opponent. With only a few minutes to spare before the match began, I had time to analyze the gruesome, undead design plastered across their custom mask. Rotting teeth, green flesh, yellow eyes — it was a face I recognized, as it sent chills down my spine. Everything I had trained for in these last three years had culminated to this point. It was time to fight my first zombie.

The beginning of the bout was difficult. My mind raced as they shambled toward me, scoring point after point. I managed to press through and score a few points of my own, but fear still coursed through my veins. We were tied at 4-4; this was my last chance.

They lunged toward me, blade aimed right at my chest: a shot to kill. I rushed back, pushing down the fear rising in my throat. The zombie growled through its yellowed teeth as it rushed forward, this time aimed at my neck. I lowered my body closer to the ground, straining all of the muscles I had trained to hold a deep squat. Putting all of the power into my back foot, I pushed off, extending my arm and driving it into their stomach. I hit them. The referee held up his hands: this zombie was defeated.

Fencing has taught me many things: perseverance, leadership, and grit. It has also led me to make great friends and even better memories. But most importantly, when I encounter a hungry, wandering horde later in life, I know that I have equipped myself with the skills necessary for me to survive.