‘Jail? I haven’t done anything illegal.’
‘My friend, the police outside will believe what I tell them to believe. So, if I tell them to arrest you, they will arrest you and throw you in jail. You are on thin ice now. I’d make a sensible decision if I was you.’ The aforementioned ice shoots through my veins.
Friend, my arse!
I have no idea what the inside of a Moroccan jail looks like, but, after seeing my ‘three star’ hotel room, my imagination fails to render anything remotely habitable. I give them my room key. The other choice seems a little dicey for my liking. While the director is copying down my room details and calling the hotel, the other official starts talking to me.
‘Why do you come here, man? This is really a stupid thing to do.’ His accent is thick and undeniably French.
‘It’s my job,’ I shrug.
‘Yes. You work for gamblers. I know, I know. You make money and fly around the world like some rock star. But why come here? Go to Europe – Spain, Portugal, wherever, man – just don’t do this stupid shit in Africa!’
I have to admit, the Frenchman has a point.
‘This gambling is no good for the game,’ he continues. ‘You really are the cancer of tennis!’
‘The cancer of tennis?’
‘Yes. We have big concerns with integrity in this sport. You are only making things worse with your gambling.’
I have to tread lightly here – I don’t want to get into some dispute about alleged match fixing that I have nothing to do with. Better to just let the topic lie. But he’s questioned my integrity after what evil Borat has just threatened me with? These guys are such fucking hypocrites!
‘Can I have my things back, please? I’ll be leaving now if we’re done here.’
The Frenchy returns my belongings and I turn to leave.
I walk out the door, eyeing the police as I approach the tournament exit. To my relief, they ignore me.
I walk around the entire complex but there is not a single taxi in sight. I have a phone number but the operators only speak Arabic. There is no way I am going back to the police or angry official for help, so I set off down the road in the direction that I assume will take me to the city. I spend the first five minutes looking back over my shoulder, wondering if anyone is going to come and apprehend me. A quick getaway would have been nice in this situation. Instead, I trundle down the dirt road unhindered, with nothing but crickets for company while the sun sets on the rocky peaks and silhouetted minarets of this breathtaking North African landscape.
*
Court-siding is not illegal in Morocco. So why was I being threatened with wrongful imprisonment in an African jail cell? Well, let’s take another trip to the classroom.
Countries such as the United States, China, Spain, France and Australia are still yet to legalise in-play gambling online, and many of their respective inhabitants are completely unaware of the industry’s existence. In these countries, you cannot log on to your Betfair account and trade matches while they are live. Instead, you’re stuck with the old form of straight betting. Technically. The way around this is to use a server based in another country. These are easily available for purchase from numerous countries where in-play gambling is legal. This little loophole allows people to travel to countries such as the United States and China and trade tennis matches. However, it can result in some very unsavoury reactions from security guards, officials and police if they realise what you are up to. Legally, you cannot be prosecuted because you are trading through a remote server in another country where the practice is legal. This can cause a lot of confusion with the authorities, though, and in developing countries they don’t look kindly upon you straddling the legal line and rubbing it in their faces.
At some stage, a supposition was made that all traders must somehow be linked to illegal practices and corruption. We are now regarded as threats to the integrity of tennis and are vilified as a result. The officials have taken their stance and aim to convince security personnel, police and anyone else who will listen that we are the enemy and must be dealt with accordingly.
Because of this misperception, we are hated and pursued by event officials, and, in effect, by security teams. They choose to believe we are all degenerate gambling scum seeking to corrupt the sport and make an easy buck. In reality, most traders are intelligent people who use their brains to calculate odds and go to extreme lengths to be court-side at as many matches as possible. Traders are mathematicians, entrepreneurs, travellers and sports fans before anything else. Gambling barely even comes into the equation if you’re following a strict model or working with algorithms. Corruption certainly does not.
So, the officials have made it one of their main concerns to have event security search the stands for any spectators who look like they might be trading. Profiling a trader isn’t particularly hard – I assume they know to look for people sitting by themselves, generally male, mid-twenties to thirties, constantly using their phone or tapping some kind of device. While the Grand Slams and Masters are huge events, some of the more intimate tournaments provide little space to blend into. Especially when you’re a Caucasian in China or Morocco.
That day, in the office in Fez, I saw an official folder containing photographs and details of traders who had been previously ejected from events. My profile was no doubt added to that folder, and at future tournaments I would see security teams referring to a folder while pointing me out. Once security identifies somebody they think is trading, they will walk up to that person in the stands, and the first thing you hear is usually, ‘Can you come with us, please?’ It’s a demand rather than a question. If you don’t cooperate, they call the police, and while the police cannot do much because no crime has been committed, it creates an embarrassing scene fraught with tension.
Most of the time, the police are polite and ask you not to return to the venue. Sometimes, they will issue a trespass warning to prevent your legal return. Only in very rare circumstances are you threatened or physically handled – this only happens in undeveloped countries, where overzealous security personnel know they can get away with it.
The look of pure scorn in these people’s eyes is not a nice thing to see – especially when I’m just doing my job to earn a regular wage and enjoy a travelling lifestyle. Gambling seems to divide people in very strange ways: many are indifferent to the practice and don’t see it as an issue; some love it; and others hate it. Personally, I find it ridiculous to have a finger pointed at me by an official who is labelling me as a ‘gambler’ (a word they spit with venom, as if talking about a thief or murderer). Yes, I work for a gambler. At what point do our perceptions vary so differently? I’m not Al Capone, and I don’t know anybody who has any ties to illegal gambling, organised crime or anything that would raise a police officer’s eyebrows. However, I do enjoy an extraordinary lifestyle, and the fact that my line of work funds it infuriates a number of people.
Thinking back to the suspicious and possibly thrown match in Monte Carlo a week earlier, I can understand why the officials took their stance. Corruption is a vile thing that should be eradicated if possible. It erodes and degrades the sport. They must see us living it up and draw conclusions about our involvement in these situations. I just wish they could see how it affected traders around the court that day and understand that we share the same perspective on this issue.
While the officials might have a somewhat jaded or exaggerated opinion of my lifestyle, at the end of the day it is still a job. Like all jobs, I have to accept responsibilities and compromises. You don’t finish a week of work in Shanghai then jump on a ten-hour flight the next morning to arrive in freezing cold Moscow for fun. It’s a job and it requires dedication. Sometimes, there are days on end when I feel worn down, exhausted and delirious. Then there are others when I’m literally on top of the world, on rooftop infinity pools or ski-resort lifts. The goo
d times far outweigh the bad, and there is no way I am going to give this amazing opportunity away after one prickly situation.
*
I’m fairly sure I’m walking in the direction of the town but it was a twenty-minute cab ride here this morning and I never had my bearings in the first place. This has quickly become a dire situation. I’ve been in this city for one day, I barely speak a word of Arabic and the sun has already set. A lot of people would be panicking right about now. I’m comfortable in most places around the world these days. I’m also an optimist and generally assume everything will work itself out in due time. However, I must admit, there is an undeniable shard of anxiety edging its way into my mind. Nothing but garbage, rubble, stray animals and desert surrounds me. I’m lost, and my phone is running out of battery.
I wander for another fifteen minutes without seeing a single soul. The haunting sounds of the call to prayer and kawala flute drift on the breeze from a distant minaret. After a lengthy trek through the nether regions of outer Fez, I finally spot a glimmer of hope: a sealed road with some semblance of civilisation on it. I run to the road and, after a few minutes, see what I’ve been hoping for. A tiny red car pulls over to my flailing arms and I jump in.
‘As salam a’leykum.’ I show him my hotel card and he takes off with the obligatory ‘Salam’.
I have next to no money left on me. But that’s not an issue because – as we know – the cab ride will cost exactly that. Upon arriving at the hotel, I ask the receptionist whether anyone has called asking questions about me. She is shifty in response and looks at me like I’m some devious bastard. What has she been told?
‘I gave them this number, as requested,’ she replies, pointing to the entry stamp on my passport.
This is a disturbing development. The sooner I get out of here, the better. I storm into the hotel room to find Felix chilling out on his computer.
‘You got booted too?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, mate. Pretty heavy, huh?’
‘Yeah, that tournament director is a dick! Sorry I couldn’t warn you – my batteries ran out before I got a chance.’
‘All good. He’s a major dick, isn’t he? There’s no way I’m going back there.’
‘Nope, neither of us are. I’ve just been speaking to Nads. Our week here is up. We may as well split tomorrow and take our holiday a few days early.’
‘Oh, that is the best news I’ve heard all day!’ I throw Felix a high five in celebration. No more stinky rooms or need to fear tap water!
‘Hell, yeah! Portugal here we come!’
Cervejas, surf and sun await. The next morning, our check-out from both the hotel and country go smoothly. By that afternoon, we are picking grilled chorizo and brie off the barbecue and sipping Portuguese beers as we watch the sun set over the Atlantic. It has been an eventful couple of days. We are out of the fire and back in the fun.
9
THE ITALIAN JOB
As I log points from a shady outside court in Madrid, I’m alert to the threat of being dragged out by some angry security officers. They don’t mess about at Spanish tournaments, and I’ve heard of mates being kicked out and even beaten by police in this country. The discipline here is a little heavy-handed compared with most Western European countries. I’m not exactly stoked to be in Madrid. It’s an arid, dusty, landlocked city and none of its sights or landmarks interest me. On top of that, this tournament has a reputation as one of the hardest to trade. The event takes place in the new and impressive grounds of La Caja Mágica (‘The Magic Box’), where the giant steel stadium boxes glint in the sun and the temperature rarely drops to a comfortable level.
Clay season is in full swing and my trading has been solid since Miami. This segment of the tour is arguably the most important for the players. There are three Masters tournaments and two Grand Slams in the space of three months. Thousands of rankings points are up for grabs and many pivotal matches are played. It’s definitely the most labour-intensive time of the year for traders. This means we need to be on the ball and lying low at the same time. Making a splash on the officials’ radar could be devastating at this stage.
As I try my hardest to sink into my seat on the outside practice court and trade a match that is actually happening on a different court across from me, I keep my eyes peeled and have time to reflect on this strange game we play.
*
It really is a bizarre existence, hiding from a group of people who are out to get you for something that is not illegal. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. But we’re brought together by fate from different corners of the world to act out this stealthy pantomime while the rest of the crowd watch on and clap, totally oblivious. It’s constant cat and mouse across the world. Each week, we have a new security team and tournament director to deal with, new courts and grounds to work around. It’s a funny, uncanny, exciting challenge, and it makes for an amusing day of work.
However, the cardinal sin is getting another trader blacklisted through association. This is why we often only extend a head nod or wink and keep walking. If someone is watching us, we’ll ignore the others. They understand. In fact, they appreciate it. At certain tournaments, where we feel safe, we’ll all sit together and have a laugh. At others, it’s every trader for himself, and we keep to ourselves as a sort of professional courtesy. If you get pinched, you never tell security there are other traders inside. If they ask, you laugh at the suggestion and pretend you’re a lone ranger.
*
The next week in Rome, I realised being a lone trader wasn’t always the safest option. I was also shocked to learn that security and police officers weren’t always our biggest concern.
After escaping unscathed from Madrid, we flew to Rome to cover another clay court Masters. Here was a European city I could really enjoy my time in. Rome’s sights and attractions seem almost endless when you first visit the city. What’s most amazing about the place is how integrated all the historical sights are within the modern city structure. You can be walking around a corner of the CBD when suddenly, bang, there’s the Colosseum in all its ancient glory. The same goes for the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps and the Vatican. There are countless landmarks and structures to take in during a visit to this culturally rich metropolis.
The tennis is held inside the Foro Italico sporting grounds. The venue is a product of Fascist architecture, decorated by statues and soaring umbrella pine trees. One of the courts is even built into the ground, lending a gladiatorial feel to the arena. We didn’t have a sniff of trouble in the security department. Similarly to Monte Carlo, this event is a trading mecca. The Italian traders sit together in groups, visibly relaxed at their home event, and comfortably trade the week out. I’m instantly put at ease by their nonchalance and feel safe here. That is until I meet up with Mikka and hear his story.
Mikka’s from Estonia and can party with the best of them. He once went out in Tallinn, Estonia, for a heavy night on the booze, only to wake up disorientated and hungover in … Finland! (Apparently, they’d ‘commandeered’ then sailed a boat over the Gulf of Finland in their revelry during the wee hours of the morning!) Mikka has an absurd accent from hanging out with English, Swedish and Australian guys. It’s some mongrel breed of Scando-cockney-Saffa that can be quite entertaining to listen to. Sometimes, he sounds South African, although in the same sentence he might pronounce something like a Londoner. Two seconds later, he’s calling you ‘mate’ and you could swear he was Australian. But most of the time he just sounds like a Scandinavian, which is weird enough. I’ve only met him a few times by this stage and we really know each other through friends.
‘Hey, Mikka, how you been, mate?’ I ask, taking a seat next to him in the cafe.
‘Eh? Fooken sheet, mate. I’m over this fooken place, I’ll tell ya that much.’
‘Woah, really? Why, dude? What’s wrong?’
&n
bsp; ‘These fooken Italians is what’s wrong. I tell you, don’t ever troost ’em.’
‘Seriously? What happened?’
‘I was walking home last night all by myself,’ he begins. ‘I walked through this fooken, like, some alleyway.’ He gesticulates to illustrate the setting. ‘And these fooken Italian punks tried to roll me!’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I said. There were like foive of ’em. Came up from both sides and fooken trapped me there. I was like, “What’s this sheet about?” and they told me to hand over my phone. Didn’t take my wallet. Didn’t go through my bag. Didn’t want sheet except my phone. You know what that means, right?’
‘They wanted to know what you were trading with?’
‘Exactly. The fookers can’t handle that I’m beating them, so they’re trying to steal my technology.’
‘That’s bullshit!’ I exclaim. ‘Did you belt them?’ Mikka is a pretty big guy and does a lot of training; he can handle himself, and it surprised me that anyone even tried to mug him.
‘Ah, nah, couldn’t really. I mean I might have been able to but what the fook, eh? It’s just a stupid phone. They can have it. I didn’t wanna fight foive of ’em in some alleyway. Someone could have had a knife or some sheet – not worth it, eh?’
‘Yeah, fair enough,’ I concede. ‘I just can’t believe they’d do that shit! Did you recognise any of them? Like were there any traders we know there?’
‘Nah, of course not. But they were put up to it by some of the other Italian guys. Everyone knows the Italians all work together.’
‘Yeah, that sucks, mate.’
I try to digest all this. If other Italian traders put the muggers up to it, it’s possible that guys I consider friends were responsible. Surely Arturo or Giovanni would never have anything to do with this? Could Vittorio’s connections be involved? It is Rome, after all. It makes me wonder how deep these gamblers run with syndicates or whether organised-crime families such as the mafia might even be involved in some way. It’s all fun and games to me, but these guys are willing to mug a fellow trader just to get the edge. They must be pretty serious (and desperate) to do such a low thing. I am disgusted and baffled. Mikka is right – who can I trust?
Game, Set, Cash! Page 9
