‘Did they know it was you?’
‘The head of security gave me the same chat as the day before, except he had no idea he was talking to the same guy! So I didn’t get busted for trespassing. To this day, I doubt that security guy has any idea he was talking to the same person he’d banned the day before!’
‘That’s fucking brilliant, Torsten!’ I laughed with approval. ‘You guys really do get away with some funny shit. Are you still trading with those Nintendo Wii controllers connected to your phone by Wi-Fi?’
‘No, not any more. We change our technology almost every week. We have to keep improving to stay competitive. You know Yves?’
I nodded. He was a good guy, very intelligent, and possibly the best left on tour.
‘He’s helped us out a lot. He’s got an IT background and does a lot of testing to constantly improve his technology. I’ve watched him in his hotel room doing the tests, and he’ll set up ten different phones linked to ten different Betfair accounts. He hits them all at the same time and notes which one is quickest for placing a bet. But he does this over and over, tweaking and adjusting things to get the very best result possible. He spends hours working on it. His technology is at the top now, and I think he’s the quickest and makes the most money out of everybody so far this year.’
‘And he’s never been kicked out,’ I add.
‘They’ll never get him. He’s just a normal guy who minds his own business and stays out of trouble. He always takes his girl with him and they remain incognito. It’s a good thing, too, because he works hard for this profit and he deserves it. That’s the thing they don’t realise about us; this is our job! We put a lot of time, money and effort into this job, but the officials don’t realise it. They think we’re just stealing money and trying to destroy tennis. It’s nothing like that, is it?’
I agree with him and we order another round of beers. Wanting to live on the tennis tour takes dedication, commitment and acumen. Traders spend hours on end studying, testing and improving their systems. I just wish the officials could accept that and understand us instead of turning a deaf ear and focusing on the negatives.
*
Two weeks later, I’m bailed up in Madrid, and the negatives are flying thick and fast at me along with spit from an outraged official’s quivering lip. I’m back in the game and back in the shit.
‘You are lazy. You are stupid. I don’t believe this disgusting thing you do. This is criminal and you will go to jail for it.’
‘It’s not illegal,’ I reply calmly.
‘It is illegal!’ the official shrieks.
‘If it was illegal, I wouldn’t do it. I’m not a criminal.’
‘What you are doing is illegal and you will end up in jail for it. It might not be today, but in a year or maybe even in a few weeks from now you will go to jail for this.’
I sigh and retire from the argument. I’m in no mood after what’s just happened. Mono and I were grabbing lunch during a break when we bumped into a fraught-looking Felix.
‘What’s going on, bud?’ I said to him as we sat down near a juice bar.
He shook his head at me, eyes wide.
‘Oh shit, what’s up?’ I stood up in alarm.
‘They’re after me. Go! Get away from me now.’
Mono and I nodded and walked away. It was too late, though, and as we rounded the corner we came face to face with an angry official and his entourage of sneering thugs. They didn’t even care about Felix any more.
‘Show me your ID!’ the official demanded, as his team blocked our path.
‘Sorry, but why are you asking me for ID? Do you mind explaining what’s going on here?’
Mono and I both knew the score but there are two reasons you always reply like that:
1. You always stand a chance of bluffing your way out.
2. It’s just plain rude for someone to address you like that and we want the officials to extend the simplest of decencies and justify themselves before barking orders at us.
It wasn’t the greatest play, though, and escalated into an ultimatum.
‘Either show me your ID now or we will hold you for the police.’
We both knew the Spanish Police would be a lot more trouble than the security team. The police had beaten a friend of ours last year on a night out in Barcelona, so we were forewarned. Doesn’t mean we did the smart thing, though, does it?
‘No!’ we answered in defiance, pissing our interrogator off to great effect.
A ruckus ensued. The guards grabbed us and threw us into all sorts of tricky security-guard holds before dragging us across La Caja Mágica in front of hundreds of shocked spectators. They did their best to manhandle us, trying to trip us up as they dragged us towards the office. Umpires and players walked out of the VIP area and threw quizzical looks in our direction. It was not cool. Then they did the full-body pat-down and search. What a fucking joke. Try shaking yourself free from a security crew and lecturing them by saying they have no right to touch you or your belongings. It ends in you either getting beaten to a pulp or just giving up.
I choose the latter. Mono and I are put in separate corners of the room while our belongings are laid out in front of us as if we were terror suspects or drug lords. I’ve been snowboarding for three months – so I’m wearing a hoodie and a flat-brim cap, jeans and high-top sneakers. Mono is rolling his standard monotone style in a black jacket with black shades and black jeans. I admit it; we look like a couple of punks. But we’re no drug lords.
‘Mucho batterias,’ one guard observes.
Mono and I roll our eyes at each other as if to say ‘Well done, Sherlock, you’ve found the magic clue’.
One overzealous guard pushes it too far with me and I just have to push him back. ‘Get your fucking hands off me!’ I erupt, to my own dismay. It could turn out to be a very bad move.
Two of them grab me and throw me back against the glass wall. ‘Tranquillo, amigo, tranquillo,’ they warn me.
‘Si, si, tranquillo. Tu tranquillo!’ I tell them.
The detectives arrive and, after flashing their badges, take over. They copy all of our details down from our identification cards and take photos of our belongings. Then they take mugshot photos and make us wait while they have discussions with the officials. Mono and I look at each other. What the fuck? What is there to talk about? I’ve had cops involved once or twice before but this is going one step further. As we watch the officials through the window, we realise they are practically begging to have us arrested.
Thankfully, the police officers present that day are honest and decent cops. If they were corrupt or jaded officers, it might have been a very different story. But they are buying none of it and deny the wishes of the officials, saying, ‘We’re not doing that because we can’t do that – these men have not broken any law.’
I’m dumbfounded by the officials’ actions, though. They’ve accused us of being immoral then tried to coerce the police officers into falsely imprisoning us. The moral to the story is … well, I’m not sure there is any morality to it whatsoever. The officials throw their hands up in frustration, and Mono and I sigh at each other with relief.
It isn’t over, though. We are then walked into a room and sat down at a desk with the officers. They hand me a pen and place a very official-looking document with a coat of arms that looks like a court order in front of me. Am I being sued? Fined? Put on trial? I try to read it but my Spanish is nowhere near good enough. I shake my head, no.
‘¿Qué es esto? I ask them.
There is a moment of translation as we wait nervously, and they say, ‘It’s a notice to say that you are banned from these grounds and will not return.’
I breathe yet another sigh of relief and scribble away. Even after all that rigmarole, they can only issue a trespass order against us. Two minutes lat
er, Mono and I are standing outside the grounds waiting for a taxi and trying to shake the nerves out of our systems.
‘Well, that was a fucking ordeal!’ Mono laughs. ‘As you can see, things are a little more intense these days. Welcome back to the tour, mate!’
19
SHOWDOWN AT THE CHAMPIONSHIPS
I step off the plane and stroll through Heathrow Airport. It’s sunny in London for once and I throw my Prada shades on to block out the piercing rays that shine into the terminal. Typical trader attire, I think. How these two years have changed me. A mate of mine often says ‘You become your environment’, and I can’t help but laugh in agreement today. When I started this job, I was a surf bum rolling board shorts, thongs and T-shirts everywhere. Now, as I head to the luggage carousel, I’m sporting a leather jacket with designer jeans and an expensive shirt. I’m even wearing Gucci cologne and Armani underwear, to boot. No wonder they spot me in the crowd – I’m a fully converted trader.
Of course, I’m here for Wimbledon. This is the big one. There are four Grand Slams, but just one is recognised by the players and crowd as ‘the Championships’. It’s the pinnacle event on the tennis calendar and only the most talented and in-form players will win it. This will be my third Wimbledon. Am I happy to be here, though? No, most definitely not. I am, after all, banned for life. However, my hands are tied in this issue. If I want to keep my job, I need to do my job. I’ve been surviving a few tournaments lately but it’s been testing work. It’s come to the point where I feel like some type of covert operative at times.
The weeks leading up to this Grand Slam have been tense. A fortnight ago in Halle, Germany, I found myself in the players’ hotel sneaking back and forth across balconies and hallways, trying to find a clear view of the courts below. I ended up on the top-floor penthouse, which was housing none other than Roger Federer and his family for the week, and decided it was probably more of a security risk to stay there than to be on court. I eventually opted to trade from a quaint cafe that overlooked the outside court. Security was tense at this event, and Mono had already been given his marching orders, so I knew I had to be careful. The vantage point was perfect, though. Security didn’t notice me and I had a full view of the court and scoreboard for the whole match. I sat back, enjoyed some Bavarian beer and a bratwurst, read the paper between points and leisurely traded a couple of matches, with my phone on my lap, in complete safety and comfort. Later in the week, with the cover of the crowd on centre court, Mono and I braved the stands. It went well for the majority of the time, but then a particular umpire with a disdain for traders spotted us.
‘Fuck. He’s seen us, hasn’t he?’ said Mono.
‘Umm, I’m not sure,’ I replied, trying to remain optimistic but quickly making up my mind when the umpire glared up in our direction.
‘Oh shit,’ we said together.
‘Yeah, it’s time to go,’ I decided, as the umpire pulled out his radio to call security.
We didn’t give them the chance to catch us, jumping up that second, leaving our seats and pushing through the crowd. I looked back just before exiting the stadium and saw a glare of absolute scorn on the umpire’s face. I smiled at him, then bolted down the stairs and dissolved into the crowd outside.
A few days later, the same umpire walked straight past me in ’s-Hertogenbosch, in the Netherlands (yes, it takes out the ‘most ridiculous’ name on tour – even the Dutch prefer to call it Den Bosch, ‘the Forest’, and in English we call it the Bosch). The Bosch is a mundane place. It offers none of the excitement that those other Dutch cities such as Amsterdam and Utrecht are famous for. Surrounded by farms and woodland, it’s a serene and refined tournament. The sponsors – UNICEF – put on a great spread for all to enjoy and do a fantastic job of making it a successful grass tournament.
It was Monday morning and I was doing my rounds, scoping out the grounds and trying to discover the most low-key courts where I could trade under the radar. So much for that! As I wandered around a corner, I heard an unpleasant guttural hacking sound right behind me, followed by a venomous spit. Spinning on my heels, I saw the same umpire from last week striding away from me, shaking his head in disgust. What perception could he possibly have to harbour such hatred? He was on his radio again, so I didn’t have time to find out. I legged it to another court and laid low.
The Bosch turned out to be quite the challenge indeed. Mono got the boot from a rather hostile security supervisor early in the week, and I was left to run the gauntlet on my own. A friend of mine named Billy, who happened to be backpacking around the Netherlands at the time, had come and stayed with us, sleeping on a makeshift bed of cushions on our hotel floor for a few nights. That was cool with me because it meant he could come and sit on court and drink beers while keeping me company. This helped me avoid detection and got me towards the end of the week without incident.
The only problem was that, once Billy left, I was in the stands on my own again. The heat picked up from then on. The officials’ building was directly across from the stand, and they could sit in their office observing me while liaising with security. I was determined to survive the week. I was sick of being treated like a second-rate human and a criminal because these people had chosen to subscribe to a misinformed perception. I wore a nondescript black cap, a dark sports jacket, a pair of jeans and some shades. I’d switch my outfit up as often as practical, and, as an extra precaution, I started trading with my hand in my jacket pocket at all times, only taking my phone out to check the score at the most essential moments. I developed a little technique where I could pretend to have a cough and at the same time look down while sliding my phone out of the pocket just far enough to confirm the right score. It worked. They watched me and watched me, but nobody ever did anything because they had no proof or reason.
On the last day, I was tested with an incredibly tight situation. I had to trade a long tiebreak under the watchful eye of about four officials and a TIU officer without checking my phone once. If I’d fucked up, it could have been disastrous, but I managed to keep it together and left the tournament victorious.
Interestingly enough, I did see a familiar face on centre court in the Bosch. It was none other than the red-headed Kiwi who may or may not have ratted me out at Wimbledon last year. I saw him further down the stand, sitting near the players’ area, and made sure I stayed well out of his sight. It was a reminder that, next week, I’d face the ultimate challenge and would have to be at the peak of my undercover trading ability if I was to stand any chance of surviving Wimbledon.
*
Even after the escalation in security problems and the crackdown on traders at tournaments around the world this year, Wimbledon’s security team is second to none. The Grand Slam crowd will provide some cover, but there will be CCTV cameras all over the grounds with facial-recognition technology to single us out. True to their word, the officials posted a formal letter to my Australian address after last year’s ejection, banning me from the grounds for life. There is no doubt they have my photo and details on record. The club will have their elite security team working the grounds all day every day, and there are countless police available at their disposal to apprehend traders and troublemakers alike.
So, as I walk through England’s busiest and most important airport, there is an undeniable sense of foreboding welling up inside me. Is this job really worth getting in trouble with the law for? I am a qualified schoolteacher, and a criminal conviction would be enough to void my registration. During my first year on tour, I cruised through the circuit without stressing too much on the security issues. I took it all as a bit of a joke – an added element of the job that kept it peculiar and lively. Tennis kick-outs had been a source of entertaining stories to share over beers. But things have changed after Chennai. It isn’t all fun and games any more. It is serious. They’ve threatened me with prison and physical violence. In Madrid, the officials pushed as hard
as possible to get me thrown in a cell. I escaped both incidents by a gnat’s knob, but how many lives does a trader get? There is now a real threat of criminal action if I get caught.
This time, I know I am pushing it, and I’m not happy. The honeymoon period is well and truly over with this job. I am still having fun, but I am also missing the surf back home and want to catch up with my mates from Whistler, who have continued snowboarding and living the dream, without the unnecessary threat of legal action.
As I collect my baggage from the carousel and head towards the underground terminal, I realise my love for the job is being tested. I want to see the year out and enjoy the many opportunities I’ll be afforded if I stay on the road, but am I willing to risk my future for this job? While my clothing may suggest I’ve converted into a fully fledged trader, I’m not sure how much longer I can stay in this increasingly demanding industry. Wimbledon will be the ultimate test.
*
Regardless of my concerns, it is uplifting and exciting to be back with all of the lads. London is a great place to socialise and mingle. There are numerous quality restaurants (we spend our first night at a restaurant called Dans Le Noir – ‘In the Black’ – where you eat your mystery meal in enveloping inky darkness, served by blind waiters, and only discover what was on the menu after you’ve paid the bill). There are trendy nightclubs, bars of all different sizes and crowds, and fluctuating attractions such as the Notting Hill Carnival, Borough Markets, art galleries and museums, and West End shows. It is a city that thrives on diversity and never fails to entertain.
I haven’t seen some of the lads for months, so it’s nice to share a few pints and catch up on stories. There are tales of kick-outs at dodgy events, new methods being employed to evade security and warnings of which scouts have been spotted sitting in the crowd lately. Once we figure out there’s a scout at an event, we all do our best to warn the others by sending a description of them and their outfit around to everybody else. Knowledge is power, innit? (As a Londoner might say.) Knowing what a scout looks like might still not be enough this week. There is a whole team of professionals devoted to identifying and ejecting us. The challenge has been laid down, and we’re here to tackle it head on. I’m just hoping I don’t have to call my lawyer this week.
Game, Set, Cash! Page 19
