There are few pursuits in modern sport that so elegantly balance artistry, intellect, and athleticism as fencing. To hold a blade — whether épée, foil, or sabre — is to step into a tradition that stretches back through the courts of Renaissance Europe, the academies of Enlightenment Paris, and the refined dueling lawns of 19th-century aristocracy. It is a sport of precision and discipline, wrapped in the romance of history, yet firmly rooted in the contemporary demands of Olympic training and global competition. In the world of elite sports, fencing occupies a rarefied position: neither as mass-market as tennis nor as commercially hyped as golf, yet beloved by those who understand its subtlety and cultural pedigree. It appeals to those who appreciate the intersection of physical mastery and cultivated style, and in that sense, it has become something of an “Aspiring Elite” sport — one that attracts not just those who want to compete, but those who want to embody a certain way of being.
That aspiration, however, carries its own risks. The very qualities that make fencing a magnet for high-achieving youth — its association with private coaching, international competitions, advanced sports psychology, and an undeniable luxury lifestyle — can also seed an environment where entitlement takes root. Among the marble-floored clubs and international tournament circuits, there is always the danger that the measure of a fencer’s worth becomes not their personal growth or their discipline, but their ranking, their travel schedule, their equipment, or the prestige of the competitions they attend. Entitlement, once it takes hold, can sour the experience not just for the individual, but for the culture of the sport itself.
The pursuit of excellence is at the core of fencing’s enduring allure. This is not a sport one casually dabbles in at the highest levels; the hours of footwork drills, the repetition of bladework, the hours of sports conditioning — these are the bricks that build champions. The aspiring elite fencer learns to embrace the quiet grind of training, the patience required to adjust a technique until it becomes muscle memory. In this world, private coaching is not an indulgence but an essential, and sports psychology is as important as strength training. The young athlete may find themselves at training camps in Milan, competitions in Tokyo, or scholarship showcases in New York. All of these experiences are undeniably enriching, but they also create an invisible bubble of privilege, a lifestyle that is far removed from the average youth sport environment.
It is here that fencing, as a sport, must be vigilant. Excellence should be pursued without the need to create a hierarchy of personal worth. The best in the room should be celebrated not because they are “better” than those beside them, but because they are better than they themselves were the week before. When young athletes define greatness in terms of surpassing their own prior limits, they not only grow faster, but they do so without diminishing others. The alternative — defining greatness by superiority over peers — fosters comparison, insecurity, and eventually the insidious culture of elitism.
This danger is not unique to fencing, but fencing’s history makes it particularly susceptible. The sport’s European origins are steeped in aristocratic exclusivity; it was a skill of the gentleman, a mark of refinement, and often a symbol of one’s social standing. Today’s fencers may no longer carry noble titles, but they carry something almost as rare: access. International travel, state-of-the-art equipment, elite private coaches, and the time to dedicate to a sport that requires daily attention — these are privileges not available to all. In the competitive circuit, those advantages translate into real performance differences. A fencer whose family can afford five national tournaments a year will accumulate the experience, ranking points, and mental resilience that a talented but financially constrained peer cannot match. This disparity is the unspoken undercurrent of many elite sports, but in fencing, it is particularly visible.
Yet privilege itself is not the enemy. Privilege can be used as a platform for generosity, mentorship, and cultural enrichment. The problem arises when privilege becomes invisible to those who hold it — when young athletes begin to believe their competitive edge is purely the product of their own hard work, without acknowledging the structural advantages they enjoy. This is where entitlement begins to calcify. It manifests in subtle ways: the assumption that one’s victory was inevitable, the dismissal of less experienced opponents, the quiet disdain for those whose gear is not the latest model. It can emerge online, in the curated world of social media, where fencing highlights are presented as personal triumphs without the context of the resources behind them.
Those who guide young fencers — coaches, parents, mentors — hold the greatest responsibility for shaping how privilege and aspiration coexist. In the most successful fencing environments, excellence is celebrated alongside humility. Coaches in these circles understand that a fencer’s personal brand is as much about sportsmanship as it is about results. They encourage their athletes to shake every hand, to thank referees, to acknowledge the skill of opponents. They praise effort and adaptability as much as they praise podium finishes. In doing so, they subtly shift the cultural currency of the club: winning is an achievement, but character is the true marker of elite status.
There is also the broader question of what it means to be “elite” in a sport like fencing in the 21st century. The traditional model — simply being the best technically and tactically — is no longer enough to define an athlete’s place in the cultural elite. In today’s interconnected world, where sports scholarships can be tied to academic performance, where international competitions serve as networking events as much as athletic challenges, the truly aspirational fencer must cultivate a broader set of skills. They must be able to communicate with international peers, navigate sponsorship opportunities, present themselves with poise in media interviews, and even consider the philanthropic potential of their platform.
This blending of athletic excellence with personal branding, professional networking, and cultural awareness is part of what makes fencing such a rich space for youth development. The sport rewards discipline, yes, but also strategic thinking, self-awareness, and cultural literacy. A fencer who understands that their skill with a blade is just one facet of their identity is far less likely to fall into the trap of entitlement. They will see their success not as a birthright, but as a product of effort, guidance, and opportunity — and they will be more inclined to create opportunities for others.
Philanthropy, in particular, can be a powerful antidote to elitism. When young fencers are encouraged to give back — whether by mentoring newer athletes, volunteering at community tournaments, or supporting initiatives that expand access to the sport — they gain a more grounded perspective on their own journey. The Peter Westbrook Foundation in New York is one of the most visible examples of this in action: elite athletes providing training and mentorship to underserved youth, creating pathways into a sport often seen as inaccessible. Such models remind us that fencing’s exclusivity is a choice, not an inevitability.
The culture within a fencing club is the soil in which either humility or entitlement will grow. Clubs that foster inclusivity, encourage peer support, and view competition as a shared challenge rather than a hierarchy will naturally produce athletes who carry themselves with grace on and off the strip. Conversely, environments that rank athletes constantly, emphasize status over skill development, or tolerate arrogance will see elitism flourish. The latter may produce short-term champions, but it rarely produces lifelong ambassadors of the sport.
In the end, the goal of an “Aspiring Elite” fencer is not merely to win medals, but to embody the best values of the sport’s tradition: respect, discipline, adaptability, and cultural awareness. These values have currency far beyond the fencing strip — they influence how an athlete moves through universities, corporate careers, and international networks. An entitled champion may win bouts, but an accomplished, humble competitor will win allies, opportunities, and enduring respect.
Fencing, at its best, is a microcosm of the wider world of elite endeavor. It asks its practitioners to manage both the privileges and the pressures that come with access, to temper ambition with empathy, and to measure success not solely in points scored but in the quality of the journey. For the affluent families who choose this sport for their children, for the coaches who sculpt their skill, and for the young athletes who dream of Olympic podiums, the challenge is the same: aspire without entitlement, and in doing so, ensure that the culture of fencing remains as refined, demanding, and inspiring as the sport itself.