How the noble sheep grip saved me from certain doom.

When someone swings a baseball bat at your head most people scream, or panic, or both. They don’t think: ‘mittelhau’, ‘doesn’t know his range’ and ‘I wonder if the noble sheep grip would work’.

Which, fortunately, it did. So by the time the authorities arrived I was in sole possession of the field, the baseball bat and the task of explaining that: ‘No, sir it wasn’t mine and yes, sir I am the same Oliver Fitzgerald who had to have his trousers retrieved from the roof of the swimming pool.

Twice.

But that was last year, sir and no, sir, I haven’t gone crazy and decided to take my revenge. As you can see the baseball bat—which is not mine, as it has the name Jack on it: a piece of stupidity that only Jack Donaldson would be capable of, though I don’t suppose he intended to leave it behind—is completely free of blood, brains or other organic matter apart from some old food stains near the handle. At least I hope they are food stains, because Jack doesn’t have the best reputation for practising safe anything if you know what I mean and if those marks are blood—or worse—then I’d appreciate it if you could lend me a pair of gloves and some of that guaranteed-to-kill-anything-up-to-and-including-a zombie-invasion hand sanitiser that we're all using for Covid now.

And no, officer, I am not winding you up or taking the piss or even pulling your leg (even if, this close to the Christmas season, it does play Jingle Bells) and yes, sir, I can accompany you down to the station to give a statement about how I managed to take a baseball bat off Jack Donaldson who is known as an approach-with-caution-troublemaker whereas I am more known as an approach-with-laughter-geek. But perhaps we could stop by my place on the way so I could pick up my second ventilator and leave a note for my mother and yes, sir I am sixteen years old but she worries and…’

I’ll bet you the first Saint George never had these problems.

So it’s the last week before Christmas and I’m supposed to be practising for the end of year fencing tourney but instead I’m sitting in Chesington Police Station.

It could be worse. Even though Chesington is technically a suburb not a town—and therefore eligible for the type of underworld brutality that makes for hardened cops and high-rating TV shows—its membership in the city rat-race is nominal at best. Ten years ago Chesington was an outlying village and though its sequential discovery by new-age yuppies, a large housing estate and a fast rail service have given it a schizophrenic nature it has retained some of its village character. The character might be mostly the organic food store with expensive superfoods and alpaca-hair home weaving kits in between Coles and Centrelink but there is a genuine sense of community. And the Chesington Police have a stronger reputation for neighbourhood-watch than they do for police brutality.

They also have an overcrowded building with peeling paint, a broken water cooler and chairs that must have been ergonomically designed because nothing that uncomfortable could possibly be an accident. And no air-conditioning.

Considering all this—and the fact that the community leaders photos look more like wanted posters—the lady at the front desk does manage a decent smile. And the cop who’s brought me in hasn’t started yelling.

Yet.

He’s sat me down (and although the chair is digging into my hip, my leg and realigning my spinal cord it is probably not in direct violation of any human rights bill), brought me a glass of water and is preparing to interrogate me in an enlightened and non-threatening manner. No matter how bloody difficult this is going to be.

‘Okay, son…’

I open my mouth to point out that is a ridiculous thing to say because

a) He’s not my father. (This is a good thing because though my mother has never actually said so, being one of those parents who doesn’t believe in using children as ammunition in the relationship wars, I have long figured out that my father—who I last saw when I was eight—is at best a wanker and at worst a complete and total bastard.)

b) Although, phrases like “okay, son’ are classic lines that nice father-figure policemen use they are probably more effective if the user is over twenty five and looks like he needs to shave more than once a week.

before I realise that I am probably in enough trouble already and that this could be a good time for what my fencing master calls control of the tongue. This would work better if I didn’t have the type of face that clearly shows when I think someone else’s comment is very, very stupid.

Officer Olsson takes a deep breath and looks like he’s counting up to ten. Maybe twenty.

‘Right, Oliver. Let’s start again.’

I realign my face into something more respectful. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘What were you doing with that baseball bat?’

‘When, exactly?’

He does some more counting practise. ‘How about you start with the first thing you did, Oliver.’

‘Okay. Well the first thing I did was step forward and—’

‘Forward?’

‘Well, yes, because he was out of range so there was no need to triangle backwards and since his swing missed me by a good three inches it was easy to step forward in the after and envelope his arms and I did have a brief moment of panic when I realised that Jack still outweighed me by 20 kg as well as being taller, stronger and certainly tougher but fortunately he was wearing a belt so I was able to throw him with the noble sheep grip and twist the bat out of his hands and is that what you wanted to know?’

Officcer Olssen looks like he is now onto triple figures with his counting practise. ‘Did you say noble sheep grip?’

‘Oh yes, it’s quite a common throw. Or not common precisely because it’s meant to be done on horseback, which is why it’s the noble sheep grip, so perhaps I should have called it the vulgar sheep grip since I wasn’t actually on a horse at the time but the principles are the same and Paulus Kal.’

‘Cow?’

‘Kal. K A L but—

‘Stop.’ The officer looks like he’s given up on arithmetic as an anger management strategy. ‘Stop talking about sheep and cows and horses and tell me what you were doing with Jack Donaldson’s baseball bat.’

‘Vom tag.’

Silence.

‘Or roof,’ I hasten to explain, when the silence looks like it might be broken by some heavy-duty yelling. ‘If you don’t speak medieval German, you can just call it roof. Which is what most people do, sir,’ I reassure him, in case he thinks I think he’s stupid. Which I do, but not for failing to speak Medieval German because unless you’re interested in renaissance fencing texts (and if he’d been interested in them then he would have known what the noble sheep grip was) then there isn’t much point in learning Medieval German and you may as well spend the time learning something useful like Icelandic Runes or Klingon or even poetry which my friend Jason says is very good for picking up girls. ‘It’s a guard position, with the sword— or in this case bat—pointing at the sky. Very good for cutting or hewing but of course I couldn’t do that with a bat and anyway Jack was already on the ground.’

‘On the ground?’

‘Yes.’ I think about pointing out that this is the usual result from a well-applied noble sheep grip but he doesn’t look like he can handle any more agricultural references so I skip straight to the important bit which is: ‘I didn’t want him getting up again so I thought first an unterhau and then vom tag, which is a very aggressive guard and… what are you doing, sir?’

What he was doing was calling in another constable who after looking at the interview transcript—and asking more inane questions about ennobled sheep—agreed with the first constable that sixteen year old males (no matter how dorky looking) who put seventeen year old troublemakers (no matter how aggressive looking) on the ground with the help of the aforementioned troublemaker’s baseball bat needed to talk to their Sargent.

Who isn’t in the station right now.

Which is how I end up in a waiting room—not a cell though I notice a conspicuous absence of exits apart from the one with a policemen lurking outside—with more ergonomically designed torture-chairs and no idea when I’m going to be let out.

Did this ever happen to the real St George?,

The first chapter of a story about family, friendship and the art of the longsword. Leave comments below if you would like to hear more about swords, St George and hw to be a hero.