*
So, here we are: the Championships. I’m nervous, worried and tense. But, at the same time, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will be trading this tournament, and I am determined to give it my best shot. I now know what we’re up against here and I’m ready for the challenge. If worst comes to worst, then what better tournament to be kicked out of? While I’m not overly excited about my predicament, I’m quite thrilled to be back among these coveted grounds and their courts. It’s such a wonderful atmosphere and a spectacle that it never gets old. No matter how this week pans out, I feel quite privileged to be able to say I’ve attended three Wimbledons.
As an additional precaution, we’ve got two new lads on board the trader train: Sandy and Freddy G. They’re both funny guys from the United Kingdom who’ve been keen to jump on the tour for years. A few fresh faces will hopefully ensure a couple of us survive the gauntlet we’re about to step into.
We go through the rigmarole of lining up and securing tickets, and eventually make our way into the grounds, half-expecting them to stop us at the gates. They don’t. That’s hurdle number one out of the way – best we split up to avoid any multiple ejections. We wish each other good luck and disperse for the day. It’s time to get my game face on. The Bosch primed me for this challenge and I’m ready to trade in stealth mode. The black cap, dark sports jacket and sunglasses are all on. There’s no way facial-recognition cameras are going to pick me up, and there’s no way anyone can see my phone while I keep it in my jacket pocket at all times. Additionally, I’m moving position every couple of games: standing up for twenty minutes, then sitting on the other side of the court for ten. This goes on for the entire day. I spot a few of the English traders and offer them only the slyest of nods so as not to give either of us up. I see a number of security members and officials throughout the day. Each time they pass by, I try to take a deep breath and look inconspicuous. None of them give me so much as a second glance. Before I know it, the sun is setting on a calm London day. I’ve survived, and so have my co-workers.
The only negative about surviving is you get home around 9 or 10 p.m., fall into bed and wake up at the crack of dawn to do it all again. I hardly have a chance to celebrate my survival before I’m back in the mix, doing my finest impersonation of a secret agent once again. It’s all serves, volleys and scores ticking over for the next few hours. I’m starting to relax and feel like I might just stand a chance here this week. After all, it’s been a year and I’ve had a lot of practice trading in a surreptitious manner since I was last here. So I settle in for a five-setter and enjoy the tennis.
*
Good tennis is beautiful. I’m sure any sports fan would agree with that. When two skilled and motivated players are pitted against each other in front of a supportive crowd and the stakes are high, you’re almost guaranteed a spectacle. If both players are in form and matching each other, struggling for the advantage, the rallies unfold like a mesmerising dance. Tennis requires a rare balance of grace and power that not many sports can showcase. Each match is a battle, and the crowd goes through this tug of war for dominance, offering its support and encouragement. Each point is a carefully constructed undertaking. Like a game of chess, the players move about the court, securing a stronghold from which to defend or attack – rallying from the baseline, volleying at the net or unleashing an all-court onslaught to wear their opponents down and run them ragged.
It is a game of strategy and resilience – mental strength plays a bigger role in this sport than any spectator would ever guess. The beauty of it is neither player can ever cover all their territory at once. No position is infallible, no premeditation is guaranteed. So players do the closest thing they can to guarantee victory: they back themselves, reading the play and moving in anticipation, turning defence into attack, and, after years of practicing shots and building court awareness, they give it everything they can.
There is no bigger motivation for a player than Wimbledon, and no finer venue to showcase these battles of will and skill. Grass tennis lends itself to the quicker, more aggressive shots and styles of play. The serve-volley, ace and slice all come into their element. As I’ve said, on grass courts, players can dive and literally throw their bodies on the line in desperation to make a shot. The action is fast, intense and exhilarating. I love it!
It’s a pleasure to watch, and, fortunately, it’s my job to watch it. More importantly, it’s my job to read it, to understand what’s happening on court and to premeditate the run of play as it’s unfolding in the players’ heads. The quicker I am, the more we profit. I’ve been doing this for eighteen months now and I’m confident, quick and concise. I can trade without moving a muscle, apart from my thumb. I can now sit on court with a deadpan expression (the traders’ equivalent of a poker face) and log points without looking at my screen once during a game. I don’t, though – I want to blend in. To do that, I need to clap and cheer, to get involved and play the role of an avid fan. I’ve had enough practice at this to throw most scouts off me if they’re watching in the crowd. And, because this is Wimbledon, I don’t need to pretend; I’m loving every second. Let’s face it, I am a fan.
Evidently, all the practice in the world won’t save me from Wimbledon security, though. It’s midway through the fourth set and I’ve just spotted the spotter out of the corner of my eye. It’s James, the same guy who personally turfed me out last year. I reach down and snatch my bag before swinging out into the crowd. It’s time for the cat-and-mouse game described at the start of this book to unfold. I give him the slip, hide in the toilet block and relocate to a new court. But James is relentless and I’m chased off that court too. A minute later, while weaving my way through naive spectators, a large man in a suit blocks my path and I hear those all-too-familiar words, ‘Excuse me, sir. Stop right there, please!’ The gig is up.
Now the big question is, will they take legal action?
‘Mate, you look mighty familiar to me. You were here last year, weren’t you?’ says James. And then he answers himself before I even have a chance to reply. ‘Yes, yes, you were. And you got sent a letter too!’
Uh-oh. This is the scenario I’ve been dreading for the past few days. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know about any letter,’ I explain. ‘I haven’t been back to my home address since we last met, so I never received a letter from Wimbledon.’
‘Ah, I see,’ he concedes. ‘Isn’t that convenient?’
I shrug my shoulders – there’s no way I’m providing them with any cannon fodder. The police arrive to oversee my ejection. There are three of them, and one liaises with the security team while two question me, take my details and search my belongings. This all happens right beside court ten with countless onlookers walking by.
‘Oh dear, looks like that chap’s in a bit of trouble!’ I hear one bloke say to his wife. This is the height of embarrassment as far as tennis boots go.
The police ask numerous questions and try to press for details of my co-workers. When I decline to answer, they do not persist. This is a civilised and professional investigation, nothing like Chennai.
‘So, how much do you earn then?’ asks one of the officers. I can tell by her tone that this question is not part of the interview and simply a matter of curiosity.
I wink at her and shake my head. ‘It’s a secret,’ I whisper.
The officers look at each other and smirk. They know why I’m being ejected and they’re not sure whether to regard me as a wealthy entrepreneur or an uppity punk.
I’m feeling okay about this whole situation so far. There’s no animosity from any of the security or police. It is a fine line I’m treading, though. I know that cooperation here is key. One of my friends was chased down the road, arrested and handcuffed last year for trying to push his way out the gates instead of obliging.
James joins our conversation and explains to the police that I was here last year. ‘Now, appar
ently he didn’t receive the letter we sent out, banning him from the event. So we’re going to make sure he receives one today in the presence of our club lawyer. That will settle the issue for good,’ he declares.
We wait for the lawyer to arrive while spectators pass by and ogle me in the custody of three police. ‘I wonder what he’s done!’ is the general remark.
An official lawyer of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club (AELTC) arrives with a signed trespass order and presents me with it. There are police witnesses and I’m given my ultimatum: if I return, they will take legal action. I’ve officially been served with a trespass order in the eyes of the law; I’m banned from Wimbledon for life. Again. There will be no further excuses if I’m caught in the grounds in future. It looks like I’ve seen my last game of tennis at the Championships.
I make up my mind right there and then that I’ll never return as a trader. I tell James this as he escorts me to the gate with the police.
‘I’m glad to hear it, mate. You seem like one of the decent guys. I know you’re just doing your job here but so am I and I can’t have you breaching or ignoring our rules. We’ve given you a second chance but there won’t be a third. Don’t make us have to take action against you.’
‘That won’t be necessary, James. This is the last you’ll see of me. Thanks for being a gentleman about it all.’
We shake hands and part with some level of mutual respect. I’m elated to get off so easily. Once again, I’ve escaped any major consequence. It could have been a lot worse and I’m thankful the only lawyer I had to talk to was the one serving me papers. At the same time, I’m disappointed. My job has cost me the privilege of watching tennis here for a lifetime. Maybe I’ll come back here many years down the track, once my face has been forgotten. I’d like to be able to visit Wimbledon with my children or family if the chance ever arises in the future. But even then I’ll technically be breaking the law.
In many ways, this tournament signals the beginning of the end for my trading career. Being banned from tournaments for life is nothing to laugh at. If I am blacklisted from too many tournaments in the future, then I’ll be no use on the tour at all. With all of this security pressure, there is no doubt my job is starting to lose its appeal. The good times are now being outweighed by the nerve-wracking ones and the fun is fading from our beloved occupation.
*
The next day, I escape the clutter of London for the more peaceful countryside of England’s South West. I have family and friends who live in Bristol, so I’m going to spend my spare time catching up with them, exploring Bath, shopping, sipping ciders and relaxing away from the hustle and bustle. Although I’ve only worked two days, I feel burnt out and exhausted from the pressure of dodging security crews the past few weeks. As I stare out the window at the greenery while my train whisks me westwards, I wonder how much longer this tumultuous ride can last.
20
MISSION IMPOSSIBLE
My cab is hurtling down Interstate 40 in the damp darkness of pre-dawn, delivering me to my fourth airport in three days. My taxi driver’s a tad crazy – she’s disappointed I’m leaving town without sampling some of her home-made moonshine. Even I think it’s a little early in the morning for that. Two days ago, I flew from Cincinnati to Greensboro, connecting through Charlotte. Today, I’m flying from Greensboro to New Haven, connecting through Philadelphia. Why? Got the boot, didn’t I? Again. It’s the week before the US Open, and these sleepy little tournaments are on top of their security issues – not surprisingly, as there’s little else for them to do. Faced with a week to kill in Winston-Salem’s pouring rain and the realisation that North Carolina is one of the more boring places on earth, I feared I might go insane. Hence the 4.30 a.m. wake-up call and early flight to Connecticut was not entirely opposed as an escape route.
I touch down in New Haven, drop my bags at the hotel and head straight to the tennis … only to take a thorough booting within my first hour of trading. Fuckers! There’s nothing I can do. This week is mission impossible. I didn’t even walk on court and they got me. They are so on top of it. Each time I’m ejected these days, the police will approach me and address me by name. There’s no talking my way out of it or giving them phony details. They’ve identified me from the photos in the dreaded folder and they’ve got me covered before I even know it. All they have to do is look for me. I’m trying to trade tennis and keep an eye out for any security threats. How can I hope to survive?
As I’m escorted out of the grounds on a golf cart, I ask the police what there is to do in New Haven now that I have a bit of spare time on my hands.
‘Be careful!’ is the answer from the sergeant. I laugh but he’s serious. ‘This town has about as many shootings and murders as Detroit and Oakland, buddy, so watch yourself. The only reason we don’t have more murders is that we’ve got amazing medics who save a lot of lives at the hospitals in town.’
‘Hmm, okay, thanks for the heads up.’ I had no idea.
‘No worries. We’ll call you a cab if you like, pal. You’ve been much politer than that snotty little guy we kicked out earlier.’
‘Oh shit, you kicked one of the other boys out? Who was it?’ I’m intrigued.
‘None of your business. Don’t you worry. He was an Italian or something.’
‘Oh really. Was it Arty?’ They shake their heads, refusing to play ball.
‘Romeo?’
There is a sideways look shared between the police. I laugh.
‘Damn, you guys got Romeo too? So he was being difficult then?’
‘Oh yeah, he was a fucken asshole that guy. We sure didn’t offer to call him a taxi.’
Ten minutes later, in the taxi, I’m astounded to see a drug deal happen right in front of my eyes, in public, in broad daylight. A van pulls up on a one-way street and a wad of cash is thrown into the van’s window in exchange for a re-up. The slinger runs off down the street with his package and disappears into a back alley in a matter of seconds.
‘This here used to be a two-way street back in the day,’ my taxi driver explains. ‘But they had it cut down to one so the police could block people off running drugs.’
Not this time, though. I can’t believe the differences in society here in New Haven. Tennis tournaments are generally held in high-status towns or famous resort locations. The local population is usually well off and sophisticated. New Haven isn’t exactly a cesspit; it’s just a blindingly contrasted place. It is the home of Yale University and the headquarters of the charitable Knights of Columbus. The town centre is a cosmopolitan hub, full of chic restaurants and fine hotels (indeed, we’re staying in one). But this neighbourhood between the city centre and the tennis is like something out of HBO’s The Wire. Growing up in a conservative Australian suburb, I’m not used to walking through ghettos or projects, dodging drug dealers, panhandlers, junkies and actually being worried for my safety. My taxi delivers me to my hotel bullet free, and I decide I’ll stick to this side of town from now on.
In the hotel room, I remark to Archie how neat the bed is. You see, Felix was trading this tournament until he got the boot. He and I swapped places once we realised we were both dead weight. We booked flights and switched locations in an effort to trade the week out. The bed has just been freshly changed. For good reason, too. Archie divulges a secret to me. They had a big night out as soon as they arrived, and he got himself typically plastered. He took a girl home and then blacked out as per usual. When he came to, in the big-spoon position, the girl was gone. He had got up for a glass of water in the middle of the night and jumped back into Felix’s bed by accident! Felix was equally drunk and oblivious to his current small-spoon status. The worst was yet to come though. An hour later Archie awoke to the appalling realisation that he’d just pissed himself! He stumbled out of Felix’s soiled bed, still blind drunk, wondering where his girl had gone, and passed out in his own bed f
or a change. The next morning, Felix accused Archie of spilling beer in his bed. He took the allegation on the chin – he just didn’t have the heart to tell Felix the awful truth. I laughed in disbelief, and thanked Archie for having the bed refitted. To this day, I don’t think Felix has a clue what really happened.
The next day, I attempt to trade matches from the live internet feed on my computer while Archie returns to the tennis to resell our remaining tickets. He manages to get rid of a few but also makes the poor decision to walk home afterwards. On the way back, he gets thoroughly lost and finds himself wandering through the heart of the hood like a complete misfit.
‘Yo! What da fuck is whitey doin’ up in the projects with his fuckin’ tennis hat on?’ was the most memorable quote he recounted to me after his sketchy detour.
By the time Sunday rolls around, we have seen the sights of New Haven and are ready to train it down to New York. The train turns out to be an interesting little ride. We’re drinking beer to avoid our hangovers from the night before. Archie offers the girl across from us one and she joins the party. She gives us free tickets to a club opening that Jay-Z will be appearing at during the week. She also wants to keep drinking and offers to buy us a round of shots at Grand Central Station once we arrive. Half an hour later, we’re shotting whiskey at midday and Archie’s new-found friend is catching the metro back to Queens with us. We check into the hotel and I take my leave. Archie makes use of the room the instant he checks in and christens our new digs while I catch up with a few of the other lads. You never know your luck in the big city. The kid is a prodigy.
Game, Set, Cash! Page 20
