‘Yeah, you’re right,’ Fitzy concedes. ‘She sure put the ho’ in Hobart.’
‘Romantic, Fitzy, you filthy animal,’ I say.
A few minutes later, in the taxi, I receive a picture message that makes my eyes water upon opening it.
‘What the fuck Fitzy, you sick bastard?! It is way too early in the morning to be sending dick pics!’
‘Whaddya mean?’ Fitzy is oblivious. I show him the photo and a look of horror creeps over his face while he pats his jeans pockets down.
‘Ohh, fuck. I’ve lost my phone. Some prick has my phone!’
Archie and I cackle in amazement at this cruel twist of fate. The person who found his phone can’t exactly be described as a Good Samaritan. Half of Fitzy’s contacts received the same picture message that day … and if you think I was appalled just imagine how his poor mother felt!
18
BACK IN THE GAME
In Vancouver International Airport terminal, I exchange my remaining Canadian dollars for euros. The lady at the counter hasn’t got euro coins, so I ask for American change instead. This works out perfectly as I’ve now got money for lunch during my stopover in Seattle, before I board my flight to Reykjavík, Iceland. From Reykjavík, I’ll fly to my final(ish) destination: London. I know, it’s a messy itinerary but it saves a lot of money. I got what I paid for.
I haven’t traded in three months, so I’m hardly loaded. After sneaking through a quiet Australian Open I figured a few months of snowboarding in Whistler would be a great way to remove my all-too-familiar face from the tour (and hopefully from the minds of the officials). The majority of trading mistakes I’ve made on court could be attributed to daydreams about shredding powder, so it was a therapeutic hiatus. I’ve spent the last few months hucking off cliffs, heli-boarding with mates, and even taking a cheeky side trip to party at California’s Coachella music festival. Now that I’ve quelled my never-ending thirst for fresh snow and crisp mountain life, it’s back to the airport terminals. The passport is almost full these days. I have so many stamps from different countries, I receive suspicious looks from immigration officers and have a story ready to explain why I travel so much and how I support my lifestyle. By this stage I have so many entry and exit stamps for the United States, Canada and Mexico that I must look like Pablo Escobar’s understudy just begging to be busted. I get slammed at customs in Vancouver and have to endure an hour of questioning before squeezing through in time to make my flight.
When I finally board my plane to Seattle, the dude next to me stows a pretty impressive video camera as part of his luggage. There are many amazing people in our world, and travelling for two years straight provides me with a great opportunity to meet some of them. For me, that’s one of the best things about travel – you meet amazing and intriguing people who can always teach you something new or tell you about previously unheard of places. I respect these people and soak up everything they have to offer, because they’re a rare and wise breed. Something gives me the feeling this bearded man in his mid-forties next to me is one of those people.
‘You film for a living?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah, I work freelance and shoot wildlife footage everywhere from Canada to New Zealand, and Argentina to Norway,’ he says.
I’m blown away. It’s not often I meet somebody with a cooler job than me. His name is Jim, and he’s based in San Diego, California, so he can surf when he’s home. We share stories from around the world and he tells me about his wife and kids.
‘You got a girlfriend?’ he asks me.
‘Unfortunately not, mate. I just met an incredible girl from Colorado but now I’m off to Europe to work for the summer. A relationship just isn’t a realistic option with my itinerary.’
‘Don’t stress, pal, you’ll get there eventually. There’s no rush, take it from me. Travel while you’re young and free and make the most of your youth. Once you get married and have kids, you’re locked in and you’ll regret not making the most of opportunities when you had them.’
‘I hear that. I’ve already got married mates back home telling me the same thing. But I guess it doesn’t matter who you are, the grass always seems greener, doesn’t it?’
As fun as partying around the world has been, I have to admit the single life is feeling awfully hollow lately. I’ve been fortunate enough to forge friendships with girls from Canada, America, Austria, Russia, Sweden, Italy and many other countries, all of whom I keep in regular contact with. This gift is a catch-22, though. I get to meet some of the most amazing and attractive women around the world, only to have to say goodbye to them a few days later. I have many daydreams in the tennis stands, with my vacant stare directed at the court and my thumb moving on autopilot while my mind is thousands of miles away with a girl from the other side of the world.
I’m grateful for the opportunity to have met such amazing people during my travels, though, and I try to keep in touch with everyone I’ve met along the way. While the road hasn’t allowed me to settle down with any of these girls, it is the reason I met them in the first place. Although these stories always keep the lads back home entertained, I have to admit I often find myself envying their stability and commitment to a settled lifestyle. It can get lonely on the road, and the comfort of ongoing intimacy and a meaningful relationship is just another thing I have to look forward to once I retire from trading.
‘I’ve always looked at trading as a short-term career for those reasons,’ I say to Jim. ‘But wildlife photography or filming? That’s something special, man! I envy your job because it educates people about our beautiful world and the creatures that inhabit it. It’s constructive and positive.’
There are times when I have mental battles with my job and current existence. Not because I’m the ‘bad guy’ gambler that the authorities try to label me as, but for much more encompassing reasons. My job exists essentially to generate profit. I know – most jobs on earth do these days. But with mine it is so black and white I would have to be incredibly ignorant to disregard it. My score updates fund the bank accounts of a few people. Period. In the end, after all the flights, taxis, hotels, nights out and tennis matches covered, I’m churning out cold, hard cash that goes straight into the bank. I have a problem with it because, in essence, this job exists to feed vices: greed and selfishness. They are two things I neither respect nor wish to base my life around. I chose this job because of the lifestyle it entails. I get to do what I want, almost all of the time, while travelling the world on an expense account. Most people would define this as a perfect life. I tend to agree. However, I am beginning to see the enormity of my carbon footprint on this earth, and the novelty of travelling to places wears off the second time around.
My major gripe with this job is that I’m not helping anyone or doing anything constructive. It is a redundant and frustrating job in that sense. Hence, it cannot be a career. What it is, however, is a great opportunity. I will endeavour to enjoy myself as much as possible while I am still young and free and try to ignore that niggling little voice called conscience inside my head. A career and responsibility can wait for the time being. At least, when that time comes, I won’t have any regrets.
So what do I respect? Buddhist-like ideals of zero desire for material wealth and living through minimalist, natural means. I’m doing this job not only because I love to travel but because I need to save money. I don’t want to be a millionaire but unfortunately humans have enslaved themselves to a system where you need money to survive. I’ve blown so much of it feeding my addiction to travelling in the past few years that this job seemed like the most sensible option for setting myself up for the future. Setting myself up in a beachside town in Australia, where I can surf every day and relax away from the hustle and bustle of the city. But for now I’ll try to stomach the taste of irony and enjoy what the road throws my way.
My Californian friend bids me farewell and good l
uck as we arrive in Seattle. I wish him the same, but I know he doesn’t need it – he’s got life figured out. The remaining flights are much less enlightening, as my fellow passengers tend not to speak English. I opt for the companionship of snowboarding DVDs and watch a few movies, while considering my place in the world and my chances back on the tour …
*
I arrive in Munich, Germany, in great spirits and ready for my first European tournament of 2012. It’s a wonderful city, populated by cheerful people who make amazing food and renowned beer. The home of Oktoberfest will always bring back fond memories for me. The hotel is lush: four stars (a modest judgement in my opinion), with great facilities and an incredible breakfast buffet. It’s also within walking distance of the tennis. I’m by myself for the week, but after three months of living in a Whistler share house it’s a welcome retreat. The BMW Open is nestled amid quaint, leafy countryside. It’s a clay tournament and there are some great names attending, including Germany’s favourite son, Tommy Haas, finding some of his old form in an amazing comeback year. I’m a bit worried, though, that security may stop me from watching him play.
I survive the first day without any problems. The grounds are small, and not ideal for trading, but I endure and remain optimistic for the week ahead. As I’m waiting for tickets on the second day, I see two traders called Torsten and Pete having a chat. I join them and catch up on some gossip from the past few months. Pete is one of the originals, a family man who lives in Germany and now only works at the European tournaments for ease of travel. He’s a jovial guy, and why shouldn’t he be? He’s lived a fun life. Torsten is a stylish Swede and ex-table-tennis pro with a penchant for fine clothing and an obsession with the ins and outs of trading. He’s not dressed to the nines today, though. Instead, he sports a training outfit that makes him look like a player or coach. He even has a tennis bag slung over his shoulder to try to blend in.
To my amusement, a local child asks for an autograph while we’re talking. He obliges with a cheeky grin. Tomorrow, he’ll probably be wearing a suit, to make him as opaque as possible to the watchful security radar. Tor employs one of the software gurus from the infamous website ‘The Pirate Bay’ to do a lot of his tech work, and uses some of the most inventive methods on tour. He’s a clever guy and draws on every resource available to be successful at what he does. Both Torsten and Pete are wary of security but hopeful we can outfox them this week. ‘Keep an eye out for trouble,’ they warn me, and we part ways to avoid being seen together.
Day two is also cool; I spend most of it in a leather chair in the BMW bar, overlooking court three. I also venture over to court four, where I relax in a Corona sling chair and enjoy the spring sunshine. I’ve missed warm weather and vitamin D over the past few months and my body is welcoming it back on this sunny May day. My time spent on centre court is limited, and I leave still optimistic that the world is not ending, like most traders would have me believe. A dinner of Bavarian fare and beer follows, accompanied by some reading and a movie back in my hotel room. I’ve slipped back into the stress-free trader lifestyle and I’m enjoying it.
Until the stress returns, that is. I’m sitting on centre court, trading the first match of the day in surprising humidity, when across the court I see an official talking animatedly to the head security guard. I’ve got my sunglasses on, so I watch from the corner of my eye while I trade the match. He has a folder with him. The folder. I might be paranoid but it’s likely he’s showing the guard photos of me from previous events. He points at me just as I look up from the game point. That seals it. I’m out of here. Luckily, half the crowd are moving in and out of the stand now too. I pause my phone, jump out of my seat and weave towards the exit. Damn it! I’m too slow – he’s already there. The head security guard is a large man dressed in a smart grey suit. I put my head down and stroll on but he puts his hand out to block my path and demands, ‘ID!’
‘Excuse me?’ I reply with false shock on my face.
‘Identification, you show me,’ he clarifies. He struggles with English. Good for me.
‘Sorry, what? No. What is this all about? I’m leaving,’ I bombard him, trying to confuse the man with my foreign tongue as I push forward. He grabs my arm. I stare in mock offence at his grip on my bicep and shoot him a look that says ‘You’re out of order and you know it’.
He hesitates. Perfect.
‘I’m leaving,’ I repeat, and shrug his hand off me before heading towards the exit. He follows me to the gate and even walks down the street after me. I hustle down a set of stairs into the subway station and then run to the exit that takes me up to the other side of the road. I’ve avoided any real confrontation … for today.
There are only a few days left of the tournament and I would very much like to start back on a positive note. I go in the next day because I’ve not been banned from the grounds yet. Escaping without them taking your ID or being able to talk to you properly is vital to your longevity at an event. When I return, however, I spend half my time trading from television feeds in the food court, while the other half is spent standing on the periphery of centre court, out of sight of the officials. It’s a dubious and vexing way to trade, but it works and I survive the week. I’m back in the game!
*
After work on Saturday, I meet up with Tor for dinner and some sightseeing around the city’s vibrant centre. We walk through the Englischer Garten – English Garden – a large park in the city centre, and take photos from a bridge as keen surfers ride the famous river wave in the Eisbach. If I had a wetsuit with me, I’d be down there asking to borrow someone’s board! We wander the streets, watch the landmark Rathaus-Glockenspiel do its thing in the heart of town and have dinner at a traditional German cafe just down the road. Over a few Paulaner beers, Tor opens up and divulges some interesting news to me.
‘You know Vittorio threatened one of the officials over in South America at the start of the year?’
‘What? No, I had no idea. What’s he thinking? That will only cause problems for us.’
‘I know. He told the guy, “Look, I’m from Naples, so I know people who you don’t want to meet. You’d better be careful how you talk to me. It’s very easy for me to discover your name and details.” The crazy bastard.’
‘Well, no wonder they’re cracking down on us like we’re all criminal swine,’ I groan. Sure, it was probably fun for Vittorio to mess with the official and give some shit back while he was getting booted, but no good can come of such stupidity.
‘Yeah, he’s caused a shitstorm,’ agrees Tor.
‘But it’s kind of a blessing in disguise, you know? We’re doing well now. With all of these security problems, a lot of guys have been pushed out of the game.’ In typical Swedish form, his English is near perfect. ‘Each time another trader goes bankrupt, the market opens up a little for us. If we can keep going and stay out of trouble, then we stand to make a lot of money.’
‘So are you guys working every week now?’ I ask.
‘No, see that’s the thing – we only go to tournaments where we think it will be safe. It’s not worth the risk of getting our photo taken and being recognised from then on.’
He’s right. It’s a game of balance, taking the right amount of risk for viable return.
‘That’s where you guys get fucked over, man. You go to tournaments every week, and they know who you are now. Even after three months away, they still recognise you.’
He’s right again. Our eagerness to trade every tournament could ultimately be our undoing. There’s no doubt they have my details and photograph in that folder and are looking for me on court these days. I’m a marked man, as are many of my co-workers.
‘That’s why I always run,’ he continues. ‘In Copenhagen recently, I was chased off court after about half an hour. I saw those guys coming for me from the entrance so I ran to a fire exit and busted out of the stadium. It
set off a fucking alarm and then I really had their attention! The whole security team were chasing me and I had to jump the fence. Those crazy bastards jumped it too, though, and it took half an hour of running down backstreets and hiding in someone’s garage to finally shake them.’
‘Jesus, that’s full on!’ I remark. ‘They’re really out to get us these days, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah, but they didn’t get my details or a photo that day, so it was worth it.’
‘And you had no problems this week?’
‘No, I had problems yesterday. The supervisor was watching me, so I got up and left. He followed me all the way out, and I could tell this because it was afternoon and I could see his shadow from the corner of my eye. It started coming closer and closer, so I picked up my pace and made it to the exit. After about fifty metres, I turned around and saw him speaking to security and pointing in my direction. That’s why I wasn’t there today. My partner went in and had no problems – they have no idea who he is.’
‘So he’s never been kicked out before then?’ I ask.
‘Once. In Sweden.’
‘What? You guys got booted in your own backyard?’
‘Yeah, the Swedish tournaments are very hard to survive now. The head of security came and kicked me out personally. Before I could go, he sat me down in a room for a long chat. He was pissed to learn that Swedish guys were trading. He was like, “Fuck, man, I can’t believe this. I know there are English and Italian guys doing this but Swedes too?” It was pretty funny but he banned me in the end.’
‘Bummer, man. You don’t want to get done on your own turf.’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to be defeated that easily, so I returned the next day wearing a full-blown disguise: boring clothes that a middle-aged man might wear and a grey wig with a moustache. It worked … kind of. After a few hours, the security team approached me and said I looked suspicious.’
Game, Set, Cash! Page 18
