Game, Set, Cash!

by Brad Hutchins

  I keep my head down and trade the rest of the week in Rome without incident. I avoid the Italian traders – not because I am afraid of them but because I know I would say something and probably end up in a fight or at least an argument over what they allegedly did to Mikka. We have a good thing going and there is no need to cause trouble like that. Most traders have always got along well, so I just can’t understand why such a disrespectful and unnecessary thing like that happened.

  We never got any answers, either. Over time, the incident was forgotten, but an unspoken rift between us and some of the Italians remained from then onwards. It appeared that, for traders, room for complacency was getting smaller and smaller. The golden days were long gone and now we were all faced with the ever-tightening grip of security officers and technological advances that cut our profit margins. Greed and corruption were becoming all-too-familiar themes on the tour. My mates and I tried our best to distance ourselves from the drama and focus on the fun. Unlike the Italians, we weren’t just in it for the money.

  Speaking of which, it is time to board yet another plane. The two mid-year Grand Slams are fast approaching and we need to focus up. We will have to be on our A-game to take advantage of the busiest month on the tennis calendar.

  10

  CRAZY TOUTS AND TAXI DRIVERS

  My taxi driver beeps his horn and makes an aggressive lane change on one of the most recognisable roundabouts in the world, where car insurance is allegedly invalid – the Arc de Triomphe. I’ve just caught the train down from Brussels, where I traded my way through a somewhat boring and uneventful week by myself. I’ve been to Paris before, so I’m hardly in awe of the landmarks around me, but it is pleasant to take in the famous scenery again. I’m curious to see what Roland Garros is like, as I’ve heard mixed reviews from my co-workers. It will no doubt be a busy week – the Grand Slams always are.

  After a short while, the taxi rolls to a stop in a typically tight Parisian side street only a few hundred metres away from the Eiffel Tower – not a bad spot to stay in for the week! I’m about to pay the driver when all hell breaks loose. A horn sounds from a white Prius behind us, followed by what I can only guess to be French profanity. My driver is nonplussed by this initial outburst and waves the other car past. It’s a very tight squeeze and the other driver is nowhere near as relaxed about the situation. As he pulls up level with my driver’s window, he unleashes a barrage of French insults that I can only assume to be much worse than the first, because he really hits a nerve this time. My driver shouts back in outrage and shakes his fist as the Prius speeds away. I have one foot out the door when my angry chauffeur stomps on the accelerator. I barely save my bag from becoming roadside debris and manage to slam the door closed when I realise we’re in a full-on chase – this is The Italian Job in Paris.

  The French curse words flow thick and fast from both cars, and as we pull up at a red light behind the offending driver and his passenger, my driver jumps out of our car and runs towards the Prius. This is especially not cool with me because he has left the handbrake off! As the car begins to roll backwards with me in it, the traffic light turns green. My driver realises his folly and bolts back to the taxi just in time to catch the lights – thanking me for grabbing the handbrake. Now the people in the Prius are rattled and most likely regretting their little outburst. They hit a random and illegal U-turn in the middle of a four-lane road in an effort to evade us.

  It’s nowhere near random or illegal enough, though – my driver has obviously clocked his fair share of hours behind the wheel in Paris. Unfortunately for them, this manoeuvre quickly leads them into gridlocked traffic stuck at another red light. Now it’s really on. The driver runs up to their window shouting offences and making aggressive hand gestures. He’s even had the decency to use the handbrake this time. The Prius driver gets his window up just in time to avoid a beating, but that doesn’t stop my driver from punching the shield repeatedly and spitting on it in disgust – all the while surrounded by traffic and awestruck bystanders.

  A moment later, he hops back in the car and calmly apologises to me. ‘Sorry. I’m very sorry for you to see this. This man … he is so rude. I cannot describe.’

  ‘It’s cool, man,’ I reply, not really knowing what else to say. I laugh a little; it can’t be helped after what I’ve just seen.

  ‘I will change this.’ He points to the meter, which is still running.

  ‘Oh, nah, don’t worry about it, mate. My expenses will cover that. It was well and truly worth it for the entertainment.’

  ‘Okay, merci beaucoup.’

  ‘No worries, dude. Safe driving, huh?’

  I wander into the lobby bemused and keen to tell the lads what I’ve just witnessed. Paris is shaping up to be an interesting week indeed.

  *

  In all honesty, the French Open is a low point on the tour for me. I don’t particularly care for clay-court tennis and the style of play it encourages. I definitely don’t enjoy the infamous Parisian hospitality (read lack thereof), and I straight up hate dealing with heaving crowds for twelve hours a day. From the moment you set foot outside the hotel, you have to fight the crowds in the Métro, ticket lines, food lines and bathroom lines, and it all grinds on you. The grounds themselves are attractive and the crowd is extremely supportive – I’m sure if there were half as many people present I’d quite enjoy the event. In the end, it’s not really much fun for me and unfortunately Roland Garros earns a place at number four as my least favourite Grand Slam.

  That’s not to say we don’t have our share of adventures – although it should be noted that ‘an adventure’ isn’t always a good thing. After the first few gruelling days working on outside courts for eight to twelve hours at a time, we find ourselves heading towards the business end of the tournament. The workload becomes a little lighter, but this means more matches are being moved to the show courts. There is such a high demand from the tennis-mad general public that all sessions on show courts are sold out well in advance. That leaves only one option. Dealing with ticket touts is an unsavoury but necessary part of securing tickets to trade the entire week at Roland Garros. I do not know just how trying a process this will become, though.

  *

  DEALING WITH TOUTS

  In case you ever find yourself in need of a sold-out ticket at the tennis, here are some quick tips for dealing with touts that may save you a lot of time and money:

  1. It’s all about supply and demand. Watch the scene for a minute or two and gauge the situation. Are tickets in demand or are the touts struggling? Is it a buyer’s or seller’s market? Make an assessment, and take advantage if you can.

  2. If you want to buy a ticket for a set price, have that amount of money at the ready. Don’t flash a wallet full of cash around, for bargain and safety reasons.

  3. Touts are nefarious fellows by trade. They prey on opportunity and scrounge the best deals in town. They’re always out to make a buck, so if you’re in a good position don’t let them try to get one over you. Stand fast and you’ll usually get your price. Don’t be afraid to walk away. The thing about touts is there is almost always another one just around the corner to barter with. Just be careful they’re not all working together as a team; you don’t want to get on the wrong side of an Albanian mini-mafia.

  4. Watch out for police! In some countries, scalping tickets is actually illegal. You do not want to get stung for such a silly thing. Keep an eye out for police in the area if you’re making a transaction.

  5. Before you hand any money over, check the ticket to be sure it is genuine – colour printers and photoshop programs can do amazing things these days.

  *

  It’s Saturday morning and I’m out the front of Roland Garros trying desperately to secure a ticket to the second show court – named after Suzanne Lenglen. Five minutes ago, I watched my co-workers do a deal with a shady-looking tout
behind a truck for a centre-court ticket. We’re sorted in that department for the day, but now I’m left with the difficult task of scoring a ticket to Suzanne Lenglen. The problem is del Potro is playing Djokovic and everyone wants to see it. For once, centre court is not the main priority – people would rather watch these two tennis giants duke it out.

  This makes life tough for me. Initially hesitant to approach the touts standing around in groups, I begin to fret that I’m running out of options after hearing the reply, ‘It’s not possible, there are no more tickets left.’ I get busy and (keeping an eye out for police) start hitting up any tout in sight for a ticket. The same response keeps coming back: ‘We’re sold out.’ That’s hard to believe, considering the outrageous asking price these street tickets have been going for. But the amount we pay for expensive tickets doesn’t even make a mark on the potential profit we could make from a day on a Grand Slam show court, so I simply offer more cash. After some heavy negotiations with a group of North African guys, I agree to pay five hundred euros for a ticket. Yes, five hundred euros. Who in their right mind would pay that much for a fucking tennis ticket? The guys I’ve done the negotiations with don’t have the ticket, though – their mates on the other side of the venue are the only ones with any left.

  The grounds are huge and would take around twenty minutes to walk around, so they tell me to jump on the back of a scooter and we weave our way through the hectic traffic. I’m wary of this situation – I’ve just admitted to having five hundred euros on me and I’m being driven off to some unknown rendezvous point by an Algerian guy I don’t even know. The pressure is on, though – I need to get a ticket and I need to be on court asap – so I do what I’ve got to do and negotiate with the new guys I’m introduced to. There’s been a mix-up and somehow we’ve agreed on four hundred and fifty euros. Works for me. Except the guy with the ticket is cautious of police and other watchful eyes, so he asks me to follow him down the street.

  We walk for a couple of hundred metres and enter a large grocery store for cover. He looks around and finds a quiet spot in the confectionery aisle to do the deal. I take the ticket and hand him a thick wad of cash. The deal is done. But wait a minute … ‘This is a player invitational ticket!’ (I’m not going to say who it belonged to, but she’s a successful WTA player who has been in the top ten before and whom I happen to have a bit of a crush on … then again that could be about twenty different girls.) Who knows how the touts got hold of it. These tickets are meant to be handed out to players’ personal invitees, whether they be friends, family or associates. It could be cancelled or even marked as lost or stolen.

  ‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ he assures me. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll have no problem with this.’

  I tell him I’d better fucking well not or he’ll quickly hear about it (although I’m not sure what I’ll be able to do about it with his crew surrounding him).

  My fears are resolved minutes later as I scan my ticket through the gate and breathe a sigh of relief – I would have been in deep shit if that much money had gone down the drain! The escapade isn’t over, however. As I show my ticket to the ushers, they smile at my VIP status and escort me towards the players’ box. This is not good. In fact, this is disastrous. Half the officials will be in the area, and as soon as I’m sat next to the rest of this particular player’s guests, I will be revealed as a fraud.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I’ve got to go to the bathroom,’ I mumble and walk towards a set of stairs.

  ‘No, sir, it’s no problem. There are toilets this way,’ they insist.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ I reply, only to duck into a crowd of people as the ushers turn their backs.

  I weave my way into another stand, sneak past another set of ushers and find a vacant seat. Finally, I can sit down and relax! Pity I’ve now got eight hours of tennis requiring my undivided attention. I’ve run the gauntlet just to get on court and I haven’t even started work for the day!

  *

  In other Roland Garros news, I purchased the most expensive umbrella I’ve ever paid for in my life. The piece of official merchandise came in at an even sixty euros! (It was raining, so at least I got to use it immediately, and have you seen those RG umbrellas? They’re the business!)

  The English lads pulled off one of the greatest trading manoeuvres I’ve ever heard of, laying Kim Clijsters in the second round at 1.01 with a risk of £400. Kim uncharacteristically lost her nerve, bombed out of her commanding position and lost the match – giving the lads a return of £40,000! Let’s think about that for a minute … a few poor bastards were confident and greedy enough to back Kim at 1.01 for a profit of next to nothing, and lost it all! There’s a yearly salary down the drain (or straight into your bank account if you’re a lucky trader).

  To keep us all on our toes, midweek, Dylan was literally dragged off court by four security guards and interrogated because they thought he looked suspicious. Fair play to them too, he was hitting points by tapping buttons strapped to his thighs, which he’d wired up to his phone. Realising the mistake, he tried to make good by explaining the true story – better than being arrested as a terror suspect. He gave them quite a scare when he pulled his shorts down to reveal his wired-up legs/secret trading system! Hard to believe, but it was all in the name of gambling.

  *

  At the end of the week, I reflect that, while Roland Garros hasn’t been my favourite event on tour, it certainly hasn’t been boring. It’s been full of entertaining surprises that kept us all alert. The clay season has been fun but greener pastures are literally on the horizon. We are almost midway through the year, and I now feel at home on the tour. I’m looking forward to the grass tournaments and some exciting, fast-paced tennis to trade.

  11

  SW19

  The lads and I each take a free newspaper from the promotional workers and immediately use them as blankets on the soggy grass. It’s a sunny day in London but the grass never seems to dry out properly in England. There’s a throng of activity around us as we line up for the world’s premier tennis tournament: Wimbledon. People come from all over the country, and world, to watch the grass-court championships. The atmosphere is buzzing. London is home not only to the English royal family’s collection of riches but also to the crown jewel of the tennis world.

  The whole experience of Wimbledon is entirely different to any other tournament on earth, from the moment you see that mammoth line-up in the morning until the moment you walk (or are walked) out of those regal wrought-iron gates. In fact, Wimbledon is so popular you need to line up early just to have a chance of obtaining a grounds pass. Tickets to show-court sessions are sold out long before the tournament begins, and they go for enormous sums. It is possible to buy show-court tickets on the day but there are only a few available for those dedicated fans who camp out overnight and secure their spot at the front of the queue. However, the majority of spectators are here to take part in the spectacle and wander the grounds and outside courts. Once you get in the queue, you are given a card to acknowledge your place in the snaking line of people, which fills an entire field. Then you have a four- to five-hour wait to endure.

  That doesn’t bother me. I’m happy to pull out a book and lose myself in Don Winslow’s Savages while I relax on the grass. If you get in line early enough (around 7 a.m. is a safe bet), then you will have the opportunity to purchase a grounds pass for £20 (cash only, to speed up the process). It’s an incredible deal for a day at such a significant event. Unfortunately, it’s the only thing about the day that will be cheap – food, drinks and merchandise range from exorbitant to extortionate. You hand over your cash knowing you have contributed to an amazing event – and played an infinitesimal part in covering the tournament’s prize money. First-round singles losers at Wimbledon leave with over £15,000! Imagine turning up to a tournament knowing that the worst you can do is have a hit and walk away with over £15,000 for a couple of hours’ effort.
The winner, however, dwarfs this amount with a cool million, and the total prize money for the tournament tops out at just over £16,000,000. While this may be a major sweetener for the players, I like to think they strive more for the prestige and accomplishment of success at Wimbledon. It is the ultimate proving ground for any great player. As Novak Djokovic once said, ‘My ambition or goal is to become number one. My dream is to win Wimbledon.’

  Fair enough – it’s a dreamy place. Once you’ve endured the lengthy line-up, purchased a grounds ticket and passed the stringent security check (we are all quite worried they might find and quiz us about our spare batteries and equipment), you are finally free to enter the gates of the legendary grounds. The first thing you see is the crowd of people milling in every direction. The ground capacity is approximately 40,000, so your personal space is likely to be invaded until you walk out the gates (actually, you’ve still got the pedestrians, traffic and Tube crowd to jostle with then). London is a busy city, full stop. It’s also a great city full of history and tradition. Wimbledon is one of its greatest assets and maintains both these qualities with the utmost opulence. The grounds are immaculately kept, with green hedges, vines and trees decorating the landscape. The traditional colour scheme of green, purple and gold dominates the visage of the grounds and the grand centre-court building is tastefully covered in lush green vines.

  All this greenery is fitting, considering Wimbledon is now the only Grand Slam tournament played on grass. I’ve already explained how I dislike clay tennis because of the slow, grinding style of offensive play it encourages. Grass is the opposite. Many people argue that it rewards fast servers too heavily, and I have to agree this can be a detracting factor. However, it also rewards clever, attacking stroke play and allows for much more entertaining points to unfold. When running in to volley, players can dive across the court to stop a passing shot. Grass tennis is quick, concise and explosive. It keeps the players on their toes and the spectators satisfied.