Life is as cheap as it gets in Thailand, so the three of us attack the bottle with vigour. Next thing we know, we’re dancing on stage with the band and jumping on top of the tables, doing handstands and sculling drinks. Archie has to stop me from diving head first into a pool to catch a goldfish. The owners aren’t particularly happy about this and we eventually get kicked out. Fair play, we’re shitfaced by this stage. So onto the street it is.
This is where my memory evades me. Mono explains how we end up dancing on the street with girls, trying on all sorts of different hats and sunglasses from street vendors and drinking whatever we can purchase off the roadside shops. It appears I was destined to get wet anyway. The sky has opened in the past hour and dumped torrents of rain from the heavens. The streets are knee deep with gushing currents of filthy water. We wade down the street with our shoes off and our jeans rolled up.
Out of nowhere, we bump into Arturo – the Godfather! Bangkok is one of his favourite destinations and he’s been coming here for years. He loves the nightlife and laughs at our random run-in. Mono and Arty start chatting up some girls and disappear. Archie also disappears into the ether and I manage to hail an apparently amphibious taxi (which I pay way too much for, being the drunken, oblivious farang that I am), and hit the pillow blackout drunk.
Mono tells me all this during the first match. We laugh our arses off in the stand and it barely feels like we’re at work.
Archie makes an unexpected appearance and stumbles into our aisle. He looks rather dishevelled for a man on holiday.
‘What the hell happened to you last night? I looked everywhere for ya!’
‘I have some advice for you,’ Archie declares. “Do not ever smoke opium!’
‘Umm, okay. What the fuck, dude? Are you serious?!’
‘Yeah mate, I got a bit carried away last night. That bloody Sangsom. Tequila. Fish bowls. And then the opium pipe came out. I thought it was just hookah or shisha or something.”
‘You’re a maniac! Heroin is made from opium, dude.’
‘Well that doesn’t surprise me – I spent half the fucking night passed out in some filthy back alley of the Khao San road! Woke up around 5 a.m. to a local Thai woman covering me with cardboard to keep me warm.’
Mono hands me his phone and asks me to trade his match while he goes to the toilet. Archie’s not helping – he’s hungover and on holiday. It’s not easy trying to cover two matches at once, let alone being quick and accurate on points. I’ve never practised it and before Mono is even out of the aisle he hears me curse under my breath.
Me: Sorry, Nads, I fucked up there. Trading Mono’s match for him too.
Nads: Umm, righto, so where’s Mono?
Me: He’s taking a shit, and getting McDonald’s.
Nads: Of course he is!
So begins a ridiculous week of ‘work’ in one of the most colourful and crazy cities in the world. We get back to the hotel a few hours later, ready to catch up on some much-needed sleep. But first I find my camera. Now it is literally like the end of The Hangover. Mono and I lose our minds as we flick through a collection of outrageous photos of us wearing fake, fluorescent Ray-Bans and dancing on tables, doing handstands on the dance floor, singing karaoke on stage, drinking Sangsom straight from the bottle, fending off ladyboys, buying buckets of cocktails, necking beers in the back of the tuktuk and partying with girls on the street. Gotta love Bangkok!
15
REPRIEVE
My morning jog takes me through some peaceful woodland, alongside a trickling stream and under one of the largest stone arch bridges in the world. The Adolphe Bridge is an impressive landmark and proud monument of Luxembourg. My laboured breath billows out in front of me like a grey shroud in the frigid air. The only question on my mind is ‘What the hell happened to my endless summer?’. It’s two degrees Celsius out here and my thermals are barely doing the job. After ten months of uninterrupted sunshine and warm weather, my body is in shock. My suitcase isn’t kitted out to deal with these conditions either – I didn’t consider single-digit temperatures while packing at the start of the year.
Summer is fast approaching back in Australia, and, as the year draws to an end, I can’t wait to get home. My travel bug has been quelled for the time being. Ten months of constant flights, makeshift meals, laundromats, fluctuating time zones, work schedules and climates has run me down and worn me out. I am stuffed! It’s been an unremitting slog, and I haven’t given myself a spare moment to recover or recharge. The matches and memories all pile up and blend into a mix of endless rallies and all-night benders.
During the past months, I’ve improved as a trader. Mistakes and mix-ups are far behind me. I rarely make errors these days. My co-workers have become great mates, and I know everyone on tour. I’ve become accustomed to this fantastic lifestyle and have every intention of staying on next year. The crew are happy with my performance and it seems my spot on tour will be available for my return next year. I’m a privileged member of the trading elite and I’m quite happy to keep it that way. This is the life for me. But before I turn all my attention to the following year, there are still points to be traded until the final boarding call. The last few weeks go by in a blur, and, while they may feel quick for me, they still continue to provide a menagerie of bizarre challenges and scenarios to negotiate.
The Luxembourg Open is held in a quaint, barn-like building out in the countryside. It’s back to indoor tournaments for the rest of the year, which is a welcome relief in these temperatures. Fitzy and I keep a low profile and cover all the matches without a single sketchy moment. We’re doing well on the trading front, but there is some troubling news travelling along the grapevine. Sitting in the stand chatting to Giovanni and Dylan at the start of the week, we discuss rumours of a multimillion-dollar contract that may drastically affect traders next year. Apparently, the official live scores will be input into a computer system by the umpire’s hand, reducing the delay window that gives court-siders an edge over the rest of the market. As if that’s not a big enough problem, this exclusive and lucrative contract will almost guarantee an increase in security measures and a crackdown on traders in general. If you paid millions of dollars for ‘exclusive’ rights to live scores, would you want other people beating you to it? It seems this deal will create a monopoly for the live-score market and a big setback for traders around the world. At the moment, it is only a rumour, so there’s no point getting too stressed out. It does offer some food for thought, though, and leaves me wondering how long this industry will continue to flourish while hiding in plain sight on the court-side.
On the bright side, Giovanni offers me a job for next year, if I ever decide to stop working with my syndicate. It’s nice to have options but I’m stoked with my current situation so I doubt there will be any need for a change.
*
After Luxembourg, I’m graced with a week off. But where does one go in Europe at this time of the year? Snow hasn’t fallen in the mountains yet, and my favourite sun-soaked summer party towns have all shut down. I’ve already visited most countries in this part of the world, except for … Ireland. Off to the Emerald Isle it is then!
For a week with very little preparation, and zero expectation, I have an incredible time. My work phone doesn’t come into contact with my hand for seven days; instead, it is replaced by pints of rich, creamy Guinness. I join a tour bus for the week so I can see the entire country in my short time frame and party with a crew of youthful, like-minded travellers. We stay in an establishment called The Randy Leprechaun, kiss the Blarney Stone, change euros to pounds to explore the intense walled neighbourhoods of Northern Ireland’s Derry, down copious amounts of booze, party every night, visit the mysterious Giant’s Causeway and the magnificent Cliffs of Moher, and perfect the art of pouring Guinness at the official factory in Dublin.
Admittedly, the weather is heinous and the temperatu
re is well below my liking, but we use the dreary climate as an excuse to see the inside of as many drinking establishments as possible. Most of my co-travellers are students and expats, working hard between trips to fund more excursions to new destinations. They express disbelief and wonder at my privileged line of work. To think I was in their shoes only a year ago. More than anything, I think they’re envious of my next destination – by the seaside in Spain. It’s one of the only areas of Europe that’s yet to be choked by the cold fingers of winter, and I can’t wait to get back into the sun.
*
It’s crazy to think a two-and-a-half-hour flight can land you in a country with a different language, culture and climate. Valencia is about twenty degrees warmer than Dublin and there’s not a drop of rain on the horizon. Felix and I have a comfortable apartment only a few minutes’ walk from the tennis. The venue itself is amazing. The Valencia Open 500 is situated in the Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias, ‘City of the Arts and Sciences’. This particular area of Valencia is quite famous for its attractions and events. Architecturally, it is one of the most distinctive and impressive places I’ve ever seen. The buildings are constructed of huge glass panels, white concrete and steel supports. They look like a collection of alien spacecraft, creating a futuristic scene that could pass as the backdrop for a sci-fi film. Centre court is set up inside a towering blue structure known as L’Agora and provides a cathedral-like amphitheatre in which to enjoy the action.
I haven’t been here since 2008, when we stopped in before heading to the famous tomato-throwing festival, La Tomatina. Last time I was here, we were chased out of the area by security guards for swimming in the vast water features that surround the striking buildings. To be fair, it was stinking hot and we’d consumed our fair share of sangria.
Things have changed a little, and, while I am here on business this time, I’m still drawing the attention of the unforgiving security team. The Spanish tournaments have a rep for heavy security, and Valencia has no problem living up to it. Felix is the first to go – dragged out on the Thursday. I do my best to blend into the crowd and feel like I have a chance by Friday afternoon.
During my lunchtime break, I receive the biggest shock of the week when a rogue gust of wind blusters into the building. I’m walking out the door as this huge burst comes through. Chairs, tables, rubbish and umbrellas all topple over and are swept away. Just as I step across the threshold of the building, the glass door next to me explodes from the pressure! We’re talking about a thick glass panel a metre wide by three metres high. Shattered glass goes flying in all directions and the majority of it cascades to the floor like a thawing waterfall in the spring melt. One of the tiny shards hits me in the eye and I’m frozen in a moment of panic. This could have terrible repercussions. Luckily for me, I’m able to keep my eye closed until I can stumble downstairs to the bathroom and wash it out. That was a close call. Thankfully, nobody appears to be injured and the tournament carries on.
As normality returns, I take a seat behind the baseline and prepare for my third match of the day. An attractive local girl taps me on the shoulder and starts talking to me in rapid Spanish. I try my hardest to keep up but the Valencian tongue is too quick and varied for me. For a second, I think I might have picked up … then I realise the hand signals towards my phone are her way of telling me I’m about to get dragged out of there by the scruff of my neck. Damn it, she works for the WTA!
My week is over. There’s no way I’m going to be allowed back in the venue. An eager security guard pushes me around and forcefully ejects me from the building, growling Spanish profanities in my ear and making it very clear that he’d like to punch my head in if he were given the chance. Forget about the trespass issue, I’m not going back and risking a beating to trade a few matches. But, with both of us banned from the grounds, we are left with semis begging to be traded on Saturday and no chance of getting in.
We stand to make a good profit from these matches, though, so how can we do it? The boys on the back end are all busy and nobody can get a live feed on the internet anyway (if necessary we trade from TV or internet feeds, it’s just never as profitable). Felix is due to fly out, so the onus falls upon my shoulders to employ some ingenuity for the team. After much deliberation and searching, I find myself enjoying a solitary evening in a tapas bar, cerveza in one hand, phone in the other, trading off the TV from my bar stool. The delay isn’t too bad because the match is being telecast on a local sports station. In the end, we make a solid profit, even though I’m not court-side. It’s a strange ‘day at the office’ but later that night I am out with Mikka and Dylan, enjoying the Valencian nightlife and turning a tidy profit at the casino. Mission accomplished in the south of Spain.
*
My final stop is the Paris Masters. Forgive me for not subscribing to the general romantic consensus, but I dislike Paris in general, and especially around this time of year. There’s dog shit all over the pavement, the weather is grim and the overpopulated streets are a-bustle with selfish people too busy to look where they’re going. Okay, I’ll admit that Paris does have some amazing architecture, and there is no denying its status as a top tourist destination, but it’s just not enough to overcome my distaste for the place during the miserable European winter. Maybe I’m just getting picky.
The tournament is held in Bercy’s ‘indoorground’ venue. It’s a massive complex and provides good cover from the watchful eyes of security personnel and undercover police who are known to frequent the stands. Roger Federer hits ‘demigod’ mode and demolishes the field with relative ease, providing some entertaining viewing as I count down my final matches of the year.
I must admit, the crowd atmosphere here entertains me. Bongo drums, chants and the encouraging cry of ‘Allez’ ring around the venue incessantly. Different countries have different chants and, over the year, I’ve come to know them well. Every place has its own version of ‘Come on!’ or ‘Let’s go!’, and it doesn’t take long to learn it once you arrive in a new country: ‘Allez’ for the French, ‘Vamos’ for the Spaniards, ‘Forza’ or ‘Vai’ for the Italians, ‘Hajde’ in Serbian, ‘Jiā Yoú’ in Chinese (interestingly enough, it translates to ‘add fuel’), ‘Davai’ for the Russians, ‘Auf geht’s’ in German, ‘Yalla’ in Arabic, and so on. It’s invigorating to see a player win an epic point and turn to the crowd for inspiration and energy. Nothing sparks the spectators up more than a rampant, performing pro asking for their approval and support. The French fans are more than happy to oblige in Bercy. Beware their wrath though. They are fanatical but brutal, and I’ve seen them furiously boo and whistle bad sports (foreigners and locals alike) at the slightest opportunity.
On our final night in Paris, a group of us get together and enjoy a restaurant meal, raising our glasses to a phenomenal year on tour. It really is a joy to be part of this extraordinary group of people, and it’s been a year I’ll never forget.
*
The next day, I’m sitting at a bar in Dubai Airport with Fitzy and a motley crew, waiting for my flight home to Australia. This is only a stopover, so I won’t be seeing the sights of Dubai today. I have a few friends who live here and was lucky enough to explore the city a few years ago. It’s an oasis of glinting metal reaching for the sky in an effort to escape the dusty desert landscape below. There’s no chance of it snowing in the searing temperatures here … but that hasn’t stopped them from building the world’s premier indoor skiing field. Dubai’s shopping centres boast ice-skating rinks, aquariums and enough retail therapy to quell the most avid shopper’s addiction. Dubai’s famous six-star Burj Al Arab hotel is where Federer and Agassi had their much-documented exhibition hit on a lofty helipad overlooking the city. It was designed to promote the tournament held here early each calendar year. I missed it this time around but maybe I’ll get to trade it next year. I’m getting ahead of myself, though, for now it’s time to get home and relax.
My
flight is thirteen hours, or something like that – it’s long, I know that much. All these long-haul flights and airport terminals, hotel check-ins and check-outs, immigration clearances, passport stamps, delays and baggage collections have worn me out. We got unexpectedly drunk on our flight from Paris to Dubai. Fitzy and I ordered so many beers from the hostesses we ended up with a massive pile of crushed tinnies on our fold-out trays. A South African hostess freaked out when she passed by and noticed the mess.
‘Did you two drink all these? You’ll get us fired if anyone hears about this!’
What better way to celebrate such an unbelievable year? The revelry is carried on during our stopover and we manage to collect a few hangers-on, who join us for drinks in the bar. There’s another Australian guy who hails from Byron Bay and works for the world-famous travelling circus Cirque du Soleil, an American who specialises in breeding racing camels in the desert of Dubai (his talents in horse racing transferred into this bizarre industry and a rewarding new career in the UAE), and a Nigerian businessman who’s on his way to Europe to broker a new deal. They’re all intriguing people with great stories to share, but, above all else, they’re determined to hear about this unique job Fitzy and I have mentioned.
As I explain the secret world of court-side trading, they all look on with amazement and intrigue. I realise I now know what I’m talking about when people ask me what I do for a living. Eleven months ago, I needed the facts spoonfed to me by Jethro to even understand why we were on court; now I’m a proficient authority in the field. My explanation raises eyebrows, questions and glasses. I’ll ‘cheers’ to that. Sometimes, we take it all for granted, and it takes special occasions like this to step back and appreciate what a wonderful life we live.
Game, Set, Cash! Page 15
