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No. 1-ranked fencer returns to his roots

Walk with me. We're headed for an Olympian surprise party that's a century in the making. It isn't at the Ritz, so leave your tux and tiara in the closet. Keds and sweats will do just fine, thanks. The location is hardly Club Med, but prepare to perspire a lot. It's not the Met, but you're sure to be awed by the artistry. We won't be at a history museum, but you'll be amazed at how much has changed as the years have passed. Lingual dexterity could help you, too. Knowing what to do when you hear the command "Riposte!" for instance, might keep you from getting stabbed.

OK, hurry, the elevator's here. We're only going to the fifth floor, but the ride takes a good two minutes thanks to the hiccups at 2 and 3. The contraption sometimes stops on 4, as if on principle, and it only holds five people at a time, which can be a problem when 30 or 40 are waiting to cram in. You'll know you're close by the sound of rattling sabres. No metaphors here, just facts. You've entered the New York Fencers' Club. En garde.

It's Saturday morning at about 9:30. You've happened upon a room the size of a basketball court. You're struck by what smells like a locker room and sounds like an Army drill exercise. And this, you ask yourself, is where they are making history? The chaos is surprisingly organized, considering that this session is catered to junior swashbucklers as young as 7. Already roughly 100 Musketeers are miming the instructions from Mikail Sankofa, a three-time Olympian in sabre. "Advance!" Sankofa shouts. "What are doing with your feet? ... I think you just got hit. Watch your feet. What did Pete tell you about those feet?" The reference to Pete is enough to straighten or angle any feet to their appointed pose.

Peter Westbrook retired from fencing after making six Olympic teams, his last at age 44. He won a bronze medal in sabre at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. At 50 he can still kick your butt in just about anything, but he'd rather uplift you. He might do that by talking with such rapid-fire optimism that you can't help but do cartwheels on tightropes. He accentuates every thought by saying, "Uh-huh, uh-huh," in case you didn't hear him the first few times.

Around 12 years ago, when people were asking why he hadn't settled into corporate life or taken up fishing, Westbrook had one of those I'm-going-to-the-moon notions that inspired admiration from some and polite humor-him assent from others. The New York-born son of a black U.S. serviceman and a Japanese mother wanted to empower and enrich the lives of inner-city youth by introducing them to fencing, a sport that in past decades was as stodgy and elitist as a certain Augusta golf club. Look around at the foggy photos of past champions encircling the gym. They are impeccably posed and exquisitely coiffed. And they are all white.

Westbrook knew the odds. When he and I spoke about this 12 years ago, we joked that if you told a typical New Yorker that you "fenced," he'd ask what you had stolen. The idea sounded incongruous to some, but if the Peter Westbrook Foundation ever faced an unwelcoming perception, its founder simply parried it with a smile and brought you aboard with his sheer welcoming nature. The most successful grass-roots sports program in the country? Uh-huh, uh-huh.

Though about three-quarters of Westbrook's students are black, he welcomes everyone, regardless of race. He operates on a budget of between $200,000 and $300,000 a year and has received donations from the USOC and Bill Cosby, among others. He charges most students about $20 a year, if only so they will learn the value of investing in their futures. When one student asked Westbrook if he could lower the cost of fees, he responded by asking, "What can you pay? If you don't pay something, you won't work for it." Westbrook charged the boy a quarter.

With his inflections and sharp wit, Westbrook is remarkably adept at getting 200 12-year olds to sit silently, in the belief that what he says next will be worth 60 seconds of curbed energy. When they are up in arms, it's because Westbrook has compelled them to attack on the piste, not because they dare disrupt. He fuels fires that the kids believe are self-generated, rather than edicts imposed upon them.

On this day, Westbrook has an introduction to make. He wants his younger fencers -- and don't doubt that eventual champions reside among them -- to congratulate Keeth Smart, the foundation's first recruit, now a 24-year-old sabre star, on becoming the first U.S. fencer in history to be ranked No. 1 in the world. "No. 1 in the world," Westbrook shouts, as the drum roll cheers grow.

Granted, Smart was an Olympian in Sydney, where he placed 30th, but until a few years ago he may only have been the third- or fourth-best fencer in Westbrook's group. On any day, Smart could lose to his Olympic teammate, Akhi Spencer-El, who joined Westbrook's group eight years ago at his mother's urging so he would stay away from his drug-dealing friends; Ivan Lee, an NCAA champ at St. John's; Herby Reynaud, a member of the 1999 U.S. team that competed at the Pan-Am Games; or Erinn Smart, the younger sister Keeth admits is the more talented Olympian in the family.

But Smart persevered, growing into his 6-foot-1, 150-pound body, controlling his anger and even today managing an impossible work schedule. From 7:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., he works in Newark, N.J., as a finance specialist for Verizon, handling the expense budgeting for the state. Then he travels into Manhattan to train five nights a week before returning to his apartment in Brooklyn to sleep. Fortunately, he has some generous bosses at Verizon who understand when he needs extra vacation time. Smart's competition schedule has taken him to Moscow, London, Budapest, Bonn and Stuttgart this year. His second-place finish in Athens lifted him to the top of the world rankings for the first time.

Westbrook calls all the fencers to the side, as he does every Saturday. Often he uses this time not to talk about fencing, but about after-school tutoring programs, SATs and scholarship opportunities. This day he calls on Smart to be feted. "Keeth came to us when he was 11 or 12," Westbrook says. "There was a time when Akhi was No. 1 in the world in the under-20 group. So Keeth was still congratulating Akhi. Then Ivan became national champion. Keeth was applauding again and scratching his head saying, Hmm, what's up with me? But even when he saw others around him surpassing him, he was still supporting his brothers and sisters, still hoping to see them achieve. All that time, he had the audacity to think he would become No. 1 in the world."

Then come the gifts. "Keeth, since you're always borrowing other people's clothes," Westbrook says, "we got you something to wear [Smart receives a shirt]. Since you always borrow other people's books, we're giving you something to read [a gift certificate from Barnes and Noble]. Since you're always borrowing other people's money ... [Westbrook hands smart an envelope full of cash]."

Smart thanks everyone, especially Westbrook, for convincing him that an Olympic berth was an attainable goal. "When you're 12, you believe those things," Smart says. On the other side of the room, Keeth's father, Tom, a former Sports Illustrated production manager, is telling me: "He's very respectful and courteous. I call him America's Son. He's the paradigm for a son, really." Tom also recalls the first time he realized how advanced Keeth had become. "He asked me why the European coaches kept putting their cameras on him when he fenced," Tom explains.

Then Smart takes a few minutes to tutor the younger kids. This is a Westbrook requirement: to support the next generation. Westbrook says his present group of 12- and 14-year-olds will be better than his present generation of world-class Zorros.

Finally, Smart puts on his fencing gear -- but doesn't fence. Instead, he spends the next hour working on footwork drills with Eric Rosenberg, a coach at the club who believes, like Westbrook, that Smart still hasn't reached the apex of his talents. "Scratching the surface," Rosenberg says, shaking his head at Smart. At once, Smart has his hands on his knees and is wiping away sweat. Westbrook no longer wins bouts, but he can still swipe a few points from the protégé half his age. Today is a footwork day, not a fencing day, but Westbrook seizes on a moment of drooping shoulders. "Keeth, I'd get, what, 10, 12 [points, in a bout to 15] today?" he asks. At that Smart straightens up, lunges and retreats, lunges and retreats. One more and then another on a day of small steps and giant leaps.

Sports Illustrated staff writer Brian Cazeneuve covers Olympic sports for the magazine and is regular contributor to SI.com.

 

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