Game, Set, Cash!

by Brad Hutchins

  Published by Nero,

  an imprint of Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd

  37–39 Langridge Street

  Collingwood VIC 3066 Australia

  email: enquiries@blackincbooks.com

  http://www.blackincbooks.com

  Copyright © Brad Hutchins 2014

  Brad Hutchins asserts his right to be known as the author of this work.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

  The National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Hutchins, Brad

  Game, set, cash! : inside the secret world of international tennis trading /

  Brad Hutchins.

  9781863956598 (pbk)

  9781922231598 (ebook)

  Hutchins, Brad. Tennis – Tournaments – Anecdotes.

  Sports betting – Anecdotes. Gambling industry – Corrupt practices.

  Television broadcasting of sports.

  796.342

  Contents

  Tennis Trader Glossary

  Prologue

  1. Scoring the Dream Job

  2. The Mysterious World of Tennis Trading

  3. A Day in the Life

  4. Meet the Crew

  5. Viviendo el Sueño

  6. Keep Your Eye on the Ball

  7. Monte Carlo

  8. The Cancer of Tennis

  9. The Italian Job

  10. Crazy Touts and Taxi Drivers

  11. SW19

  12. God Bless America

  13. New York, New York

  14. Bangkok Madness

  15. Reprieve

  16. High Stakes on the Subcontinent

  17. Debauchery in Van Diemen’s Land

  18. Back in the Game

  19. Showdown at the Championships

  20. Mission Impossible

  21. The Orient Express

  22. ничего особенного

  23. The Last Hurrah

  24. Cash Out

  Epilogue

  For Pooch

  Names, dates, locations and scorelines have been changed where necessary for privacy and security reasons.

  TENNIS TRADER GLOSSARY

  I’ve put together a quick glossary to get you up to speed with the terms and phrases tennis traders use.

  TERM – DEFINITION

  ATP: Association of Tennis Professionals (men’s tour)

  Back end: The team member(s) managing bets from the base computer

  Bagel: Losing a set six to nil

  The boot: Being caught by security for court-siding and kicked out of a tennis venue. The result can range from a slap on the wrist to trespass orders, legal action or physical threats and violence.

  Choke: When a winning player folds under pressure and loses the match

  Con: Wi-Fi or internet connection

  Court-sider: A consultant who transmits live scores from the court-side to their back end or a computerised gambling system to take advantage of the time delays experienced by the rest of the online gambling community.

  Dicked: Beaten by a large margin

  Double bagel: Losing two sets six to nil – the tennis trader’s Holy Grail in terms of quick matches

  Heat: Pressure from security or police in the venue

  ITF: International Tennis Federation (Grand Slam organisers)

  Market: The online gambling population for that specific match

  Oop: Order of play (the schedule of play for the day)

  Pos: Our current gambling position on the match

  Straights: When a player wins a game in straight sets

  Tennis trader: A person who uses an ‘in-play’ gambling website to make multiple bets on tennis matches in real time throughout the match, with the aim of trading at opportune moments to build a profitable position.

  TIU: Tennis Integrity Unit (the sport’s gambling-corruption watchdogs)

  Trainer: An alert to let our back end know when the physio is on court

  WTA: Women’s Tennis Association (women’s tour)

  PROLOGUE

  I’m sitting on the side of court eight at the Championships, Wimbledon. I’m holding my phone in my left jacket pocket and trading a typical Wimbledon battle – five sets. The player approaches the service line. I hit 5 on my phone. He bounces the ball one, two, three, four times – as the crowd watch in silence – looks up, and throws it into the air with concentration and the strain of physical effort on his face. His serve connects and the fuzzy, fluorescent ball zings over the net and skids off the centre service line. Ace! I hit 6. The crowd applauds then returns to its reserved and respectful silence.

  He serves again. I hit 5 again. This time, he loses the point. I hit 4. The score is 30 all. My phone knows this before the umpire has had a chance to announce it into the microphone, and before half the crowd has realised the point is over. The scoreboard statistician has not even thought about updating this information, but my phone has told the internet server back in … well, I’m not telling you where, that it’s 30 all. Nobody really cares, though; the players care more about points to come, the crowd do too, and the umpire just tells it like it is. It’s just another point. It’s 30 all and nobody really gives a shit … except me. You see, if I screw up and get the score wrong, it could cost thousands of dollars. If I concentrate and get the score right before anyone else, it could win thousands of dollars.

  I hit 5 as the next point begins. It’s still 30 all when I realise that both the tournament supervisor and director are watching me. They sit on the other side of the court in their formal Wimbledon attire, whispering in each other’s ears, watching me. They’re discussing what to do about my presence on court.

  In their eyes, I’m a rodent, a rat, a stain on their wonderful game, the cancer of tennis. They know I’m updating scores because they recognise me from the past three days (not to mention previous tournaments). I’ve been on court, alone, watching every point and hitting those numbers on my phone at just the right time. I’m no rat – I’m a court-sider. Misjudged, vilified and hunted is what I am. I travel the world with all expenses paid because I update tennis scores to facilitate lucrative online gambling profits. I’m a twenty-six-year-old Australian guy who has finally found a way to see the world without going broke. It’s June 2012 and what I do is completely legal at this point in time, although the officials on the other side of the court sure won’t tell you that. They like to accuse me of ‘threatening the integrity of the sport’, whatever that means. They think I’m corrupt. They use this facade to eject and ban me from the venues (when they can catch me).

  I’ve never approached a player with a gambling proposition in my life. I never will either. I know a lot of other traders, and there’s not a corrupt bone among us. Match fixers don’t come to the tennis. They stay away and stay out of trouble. Avoid the scene of the crime, right? I live on the scene, and I’ve got nothing to hide. We traders should be free to do what we do because we have no involvement with illegal or immoral practices. This is where certain people beg to differ. You see, there’s a clause in the ticket-purchase policy that states ‘ticket holders are prohibited from collecting, transmitting or releasing any match scores or related statistical data during match play’. Okay, I’m a rule breaker – but I’m no criminal. Court-siding and cross-border gambling are the pr
ickly issues we’re involved in. Encouraging thrown matches and influencing the outcome of the score are definitely not. Court-siding is not illegal. This is not to say they can’t kick me out, though.

  I’m on edge, as Wimbledon’s security is second to none. I was ejected from the venue during my first match here the previous year. I returned later that week and, predictably, was caught again, this time by a police officer who slid up next to me and addressed me by name. Strike two was more serious: I was issued with a formal letter from the lawyers of the club, banning me from the venue for life and threatening trespass action if I ever returned.

  That was last year.

  It’s Tuesday now, and so far so good, but it’s sketchy. As the head of security said last year, ‘Wimbledon is a very influential club with exceptional lawyers and a prestige to protect.’ The only problem is, this is my job and I want to keep my job. So I queued in the morning, entered the immaculate grounds, ignored my lifetime ban and proceeded to trade away. The crowds are thick and provide good cover. However, my face is too well known. I know they have an exceedingly competent and active security team looking for traders, and I think I’ve now been rumbled.

  The server cracks a forehand winner down the line and my thumb hits the 6 button, which in turn tells my phone that it’s 40–30. Things are heating up. However, I’m more focused on the fact that the tournament director has just relayed a message into his walkie-talkie. Did he just call security? I’ve got spare batteries and a personal Wi-Fi unit in my bag – enough to sink me if I’m searched. I’ve been trading every point and I need to trade this one. It’s 40–30, they’re mid-rally and I’m on the edge of my seat contemplating my options when I see the blue polo shirt at the side of the court. Alarm bells! I hit 2, to pause my operation. The guy in the blue polo is not a security member, though – he’s the physio. Our server wins the point then walks to his seat to receive treatment for cramps. The umpire announces a medical timeout.

  People mill about the court-side. Not many care about the score now, and I’m one of them, because I’ve also just spotted the spotter out of the corner of my eye. It’s hard not to, as he’s walked up and stood directly behind me, watching over my right shoulder like a hawk. That grey, cropped hair and beige jacket are all too familiar. He’s the head of security, the same guy who personally turfed me out last year. He will no doubt recognise me and knows that I’m banned for life. This is bad. I take no chances, grab the bag at my feet and swing out into the crowd. I push forward double time. Stumbling through the thick crowd, I frantically text news of the possible injury to my co-workers.

  I don’t look back until I’ve rounded a few corners and done a bit of ducking and weaving. When I finally brave a quick glance back, he’s out of sight. I live to trade another match! I sneak off to the nearest toilet, where I hide in a cubicle and relay what’s just happened to my associates. I’m attending one of the most prestigious and celebrated sporting events in the world and I’m hiding in a toilet. Shithouse, indeed. They need me working, though – this is my job. Wimbledon is the biggest event of the tennis year, and, despite the issue of the eager security crew searching for me, there is a whole mountain of money out there to be made.

  I’m in a bit of a pickle here and nobody in the bathroom gives a proverbial shit. Hell, nobody even knows. Aside from the annoyed tournament officials and the security team they radioed, none of the other 40,000 people has the faintest idea what I’m doing. They all see me as another spectator. The people who sat next to me last match would be shocked to hear the intriguing truth about my phone and the scores it was transmitting. A fellow trader might extend a wink or a subtle nod in passing, but it’s our little secret. We operate under covert conditions because we have to. It’s a unique and profitable business, so we keep it as exclusive as we can. Dream jobs don’t just roll around every day.

  After a short debate with my associates, I’m simply relocated to another court less than a hundred metres away from where I was. I don’t like my chances. I hide as best I can, moving around in the crowd and trading from my pocket. It’s another marathon match. Around the middle of the third set, I spot the spotter on the other side of my court. He’s making strides in my direction, and this time he has a security entourage. Once again, I take no chances. I grab my bag and push through the throng of spectators. I get to the end of the court and am feeling optimistic – this game of cat and mouse, although slightly nerve-wracking, is undeniably thrilling. Then I hear the voice.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Stop right there, please!’

  I ignore it and try to keep walking, but a tall man rounds the corner and steps into my path, blocking the way. He’s dressed in an official blazer and looks far too important to simply shrug off and run from. Besides, I’d rather not cause a scene and the security team have caught up behind me now. I’m done. I turn to the chief in his beige jacket, breathe a sigh of defeat and admit, ‘All right, you got me,’ with a laugh. I’m fairly relaxed, but there is an undeniable tone of apprehension in my voice. The big question is: will they take legal action against me?

  1

  SCORING THE DREAM JOB

  Ever since I was a kid, I knew I wanted to travel. My parents had inspired the idea and often told me stories from their times spent abroad. They showed me old photos and slides, let me read their travel journals and encouraged me to save my pennies so I could spend them on one of the most valuable things money can buy – life experience. Dad worked for a large bank in the Brisbane CBD and Mum was a teacher’s aide at a local school. They’d been settled into a quiet family life in suburbia for many years now, but, from their tales of overseas travels, I could tell they had enjoyed some incredible adventures and experiences in the past.

  My childhood unfolded during the nineties, in a middle-class area of Brisbane, Australia, surrounded by parkland and peaceful suburban sprawl. It was a happy one, full of sport and study. When I wasn’t skateboarding, swimming or kicking a footy around, I was scouring Dad’s library shelves for new books to read. Both my parents were avid readers, and it was through them I discovered the classics by Wells, Huxley, Heller, Hemingway and many others, and developed an enduring love for literature.

  Despite dabbling in cricket, basketball, rugby league and touch football, I never really found a sport I loved or could dedicate myself to … until I tried surfing. Unfortunately for me, I was already eighteen when this moment rolled around. But it was better late than never, and I became well and truly hooked.

  Before the addiction to board sports took hold, tennis was a fairly prominent sport in my life, and I have some fond memories of playing it as a child. I used to prop the trampoline up on its side in the backyard and hit the ball against it over and over, practising my topspin backhands and forehands (slices were tricky as they spun awkwardly off the trampoline mesh). I’d also sit up late at night to watch the best US Open and Wimbledon matches. The time difference in Australia made this quite hard on school nights but I did my best to see all the action. Naturally, the Australian Open was where I got my fill of tennis viewing for the year. Pat Rafter was my hero, and I had the pleasure of watching him play against many of the greats – Agassi, Sampras, Safin and Chang, to name a few.

  I did relatively well at school and transferred this into university while working a range of part-time jobs at local stores. By the age of twenty-one, I had a Diploma in Business Management, a BA majoring in Sociology and a Graduate Diploma in Education. I was a qualified schoolteacher but I had more in common with the kids than with the teachers. When I first started teaching, I’d skip the mundane staffroom conversations about cooking recipes and TV shows to kick a ball around with the students. Life got repetitive and I got bored. I didn’t want to be another stress-ball robot grinding out the daily commute and getting home just in time to eat, zone out in front of the idiot box, sleep, then repeat. Fuck that noise. So I saved my pay, and before long there was enough cash sitting in my h
oliday fund for a serious adventure. None of my mates were interested in seeing the other side of the world, so in the end I just said ‘peace out’ and booked myself a ticket.

  It helped having family in England (my first port of call). Because my old man had been born there, I was able to acquire dual citizenship and enjoyed the benefits of a British passport for work purposes. Once I took off, I didn’t hold back. Between 2008 and 2011, I explored over forty countries, living between England, Australia and Canada, enjoying old hobbies in new places and picking up fresh ones along the way. The most prominent new addictions included snowboarding and scuba-diving. I ran with the bulls in Pamplona, threw tomatoes at strangers in Valencia, sailed around Croatia, danced on tables at Oktoberfest in Munich, dodged bats and spiders by candlelight in Guatemalan caves, rode a camel through the Sahara and snowboarded on a man-made ski hill in the desert of Dubai. I’d found an even more encompassing addiction than surfing – travel was not just a hobby; it was a lifestyle and a mindset.

  In my opinion, travelling is the best thing a person can do. Everything is new. The locations, architecture, culture and food all surprise you constantly. You meet the most interesting people you’ve ever met, and you make some of the best friends you’ll ever have.

  It was during 2008, on a tour of Europe, that I met the three mates who would eventually introduce me to the mysterious world of tennis trading. We moved into a rowdy share house with five other friends in West London and I began teaching at schools around the area. The other lads needed work too. By chance, they met a local Londoner, named Nads, who worked on the tennis tour and apparently got paid to fly around the world and watch live sport. To their amazement he offered them jobs. It sounded too good to be legit, but they applied for shits and giggles, and unknowingly made a move that would change all of our lives for the better.

  A few weeks later, they were bringing home fancy phones to program and looking over itineraries to far-flung corners of the globe. Apparently, they were now working on the world tennis circuit for some enigmatic gambling syndicate, getting paid to watch live sport and flying to a new country every other week. I was stoked for them but continued teaching because there was no position available for me at the time.