Game, Set, Cash!

by Brad Hutchins

  If Andy had retired that day, my week could have been very different. The experience made me a much better trader – and I haven’t had a pulled-pork sandwich since.

  *

  Hours later, I find myself in a fun boozer called Sandbar in Coconut Grove, Miami. I’m trying to put a decidedly shithouse week behind me and drink myself out of post-loss depression with a bunch of my mates. The whole crew are out this evening enjoying end-of-week drinks, and as usual we are getting hammered like men on a mission. Vodka, lime and sodas, beers and shots of Jäger are the main orders. The place fills in and gets rowdy. It’s a typical American dive bar – plenty of booze, not many rules and heaps of fun to be had with a raucous crowd.

  A few of the lads finish their night matches and turn up as reinforcements. By ten, we have a solid crew together and the stories from the week are flying. Who got to watch the best matches, the best-looking girls, the longest three-setters, the most painful and boring duels? (Plus a few obligatory jokes about who made the most gargantuan error in history.) Once we’ve all had a vent, the chat turns to funnier stories from the road and travels. Then we mix it up at the bar and mingle with the crowd. They’re a friendly bunch, and we all do our best to chat up the local girls. Soon enough, I’m standing on a stool hollering and dancing around. I’m not wasted yet but well and truly on the way. I’m in that coherent, excitable mood that I hit when I’ve drunk a lot in a short time.

  Two girls walk past and notice my outlandish behaviour. Somehow, this garners their attention and I yell hello at them. They come over and we hug and talk shit and get to know each other in the way drunk strangers do so well. One is blonde and the other is brunette. I like them both. Amazingly, they both seem to like me. Being forward and friendly, like most American girls, they waste no time in making out with me. Brunette first, blonde second. They then turn to each other and start making out. The boys erupt in cheers. I’ve got one on each arm and for the first time this week I feel like a complete winner (not to mention a total showboat at the same time). Most the guys in the bar have seen this and are taking notice.

  Felix is gleefully snapping photos with his camera and trying to document as much of the action as he can. The girls suggest all three of us make out at once. I concur. What a great idea. I’m as happy as a pig in shit and all the lads are having a laugh, wondering how I managed to swing this bullshit. Then a dude walks right up to me, puts his arm around the blonde girl and extends his other hand for me to shake. I do so, wondering what the deal is, when he introduces himself.

  ‘Hey, bro, I’m gonna have to steal this one away from you,’ he says. Damn, that sucks. ‘She is my girlfriend after all.’ Oh … shit. ‘But make sure you take good care of my sister, man!’ What. The. Fuck? There’s not even a hint of menace in his voice! I’ve just been making out with his sister and his girlfriend in front of everyone at the bar and he gives me credit for it by shaking my hand! I’m lucky I didn’t have my head punched in.

  So, I make good on his request. I have a few more drinks with the brunette. We dance, make out and talk. I suggest we go back to my place and she agrees. And that’s a wrap! Sandbar: five stars! Did I say the week was beyond redemption? As I am quickly finding out, the trader lifestyle is a roller-coaster of extreme highs and lows. I am also realising I much prefer this ride to a week of mundane normality. The clay season is fast approaching, and now that I am a little wiser (albeit poorer), I can’t wait to hit Europe for the summer.

  7

  MONTE CARLO

  I’m feeling quite out of my league among a prestigious crowd at the Monte-Carlo Rolex Masters. It’s a lavish event, perched on the rocky cliffs of Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, which is actually a stone’s throw over the border in France. Although the tournament isn’t technically held in Monte Carlo, the stands overlook some of the most cherished and expensive land in the world. I’d hate to think how much the grounds themselves are worth. Millions is probably an understatement. The vista from centre court is nothing short of spectacular. Grand European architecture meets the azure shades of the Mediterranean Sea while rocky cliffs extend high above the arena. It is something special to see. Not to mention the crowd: the rich and famous fill the stands, dressed to the nines in fashion that you only see elsewhere in magazine advertisements or GQ exposés. And it’s trader heaven!

  I’ve never been to a tournament with more traders. They flock to the gambling haven in droves from Italy, France, Switzerland and all around the world. The top sixty-four male tennis players in the world duke it out for the week on clay courts and we sit in the stands and trade as much of it as we can. To my knowledge, nobody has ever been kicked out of this event for trading. Monaco’s image exists because of the gambling industry, and it would be quite hypocritical to evict traders from an event that openly celebrates betting. Here’s where tennis runs into a quandary. Many of the event sponsors are gambling companies. Why do the ATP and WTA accept such sponsorship while the officials insist gambling threatens the integrity of the sport?

  If the online gambling industry continues to thrive, then tennis may find itself faced with a paradoxical reality: relying on an industry it feels threatened by for support. It would be nice if the two could enjoy a harmonious, symbiotic relationship in the future, but I find it hard to picture with the officials’ current stance and intolerance towards gamblers.

  *

  The Andy Roddick fiasco made me focus a lot more on my responsibilities as a trader. While I was still loving the job, I realised it wasn’t all fun and games. Errors of that proportion would not be tolerated and I had to improve if I wanted to remain gainfully employed on the tour. I’d had a volatile start to the year and wasn’t confident with my place as a trader until the clay season rolled around. The blunder did, however, make me a better trader. From then on, I was more alert and aware of the subtleties unfolding on court. If a player stretched his or her back, I immediately took note. If someone grabbed at a calf muscle or hamstring, I’d suspend us from taking bets and monitor his or her movements to see if a trainer was called in. I was conscious of players’ physical states at all times.

  But there still remained one sneaky and frustrating problem that I could not predict: fixed matches. How does one know if a player is throwing a match? Are they having a shocking day? Are they injured? Or are they really fixing a match in front of the entire crowd? As I was about to learn, thrown matches could be even more dangerous than injured players.

  *

  Felix and I are staying at a beachside hotel on the border of Italy and Monaco. A few of the other boys are staying ‘down the road’ in Nice. Lodging in the Monte Carlo just isn’t an option if you value any of the money in your bank account. Our hotel is perched on a rocky cliff and overlooks a calm Mediterranean Sea. Over breakfast, we get to talk to the owners of the hotel. They are two ladies in their late thirties who can speak Italian, French, English, Spanish and German. The fact that most people in this part of the world can speak several languages leaves me feeling somewhat ignorant and linguistically incapable after my upbringing in Brisbane. That’s the only problem with growing up in Australia – our neighbour-less island state has no need to entertain any language other than English. We grow up sheltered from the rest of the world and its wonderful variety of culture. At least I’ll get my fair share this week.

  After breakfast, we grab our gear and head into the tennis. Our commute is a breathtaking walk along the snaking coastal road into Monte Carlo. I see Arturo, Romeo, Gio, Leo and Vittorio along the way. They are accompanied by about five other Italian traders, whom I’ve never even seen before. A Swiss guy named Jett joins the trader train too. As we near the venue, not one but two Bugatti Veyrons roll past us, with their beastly engines purring beneath their hoods. We all nod to each other approvingly and admire the vehicles. They’re the fastest and most expensive production cars on the planet. Quite fitting that I see my first one in Monaco. Seeing two at on
ce just epitomises this place: opulent and flamboyant to the point of hedonism.

  Most tournaments are quite classy events, as tennis is considered an upper-class sport. But the wealth and luxury are in overdrive here. Usually, I can do my best to blend in and feel like I belong at an event. Not here, though. As I walk through the gates, I feel underdressed, obtuse and insignificant. I’m a trader, not a brain surgeon. I watch tennis matches rather than brokering major deals and managing corporations. If I were to sit down at dinner with any of the members present at this event, I’d most likely be marginalised as a nobody with a silly hobby. They’d probably look down at me from their lofty social ranks and judge the nature of my disputably ‘shady’ employment.

  Then I think about the amount of pressure and tension in their lives and I’m quite happy with mine. This is probably the only day of the year when they come to the tennis and enjoy themselves while watching some live sport. It’s a daily occurrence for me. Let them judge my gambling endeavours all they want; at the end of the day, I’m still sitting next to them, enjoying the good life.

  *

  If I were to explain to the pompous people sitting next to me why I am constantly hitting buttons on my phone, they might put the pieces together and feel either annoyed that they didn’t think of this whole trading thing themselves or resentful towards the nature of this enterprise. We have the information before the general public, and we purposefully act upon it for personal gain. This leaves the average Joe punters back home at a distinct disadvantage. If the legality and morality of court-siding intrigues you, there are numerous accessible debates raging across online betting forums that you can research. Court-siding is a grey area. Hence it will always be a highly contested and volatile area of discussion in the gambling world.

  Now, before we go any further, I want to make my stance on this clear. We are not criminals by any means. I have met numerous traders from every corner of the globe during my time on the tennis circuit, and I can honestly say that none of them have criminal or negative intentions towards the gambling world or the wonderful sport of tennis. They are, however, entrepreneurs and capitalists making a living out of a market that most people don’t realise exists. In my opinion, if a group of people have the intellect and audacity to go and commit to something so distinctive and unusual, and be successful at it, then let them have it! Yes, we do have a marked advantage over all other gamblers and yes it is an opportunistic and surreptitious way to make money. The rest of the world might be a little confused and possibly resentful but, considering the lifestyle and profit that is to be enjoyed, I’d take the job every time. I think most people would. I never felt bad about it and I never met another trader who did either. It’s an entrepreneurial venture that requires commitment and risk. It’s like counting cards; most people wish they could do it but few actually dedicate the time and money to make it a reality. More importantly, only a few have the gall to get out there and give it a shot. Any bet-from-home gambler who complains about court-siders is welcome to take the same initiative and try their luck in the stands with us.

  The ATP, WTA and ITF, however, have different ideas regarding this somewhat mysterious and apparently ‘shady’ practice. As I learnt in Memphis, the officials do not like traders at their events because of their ties to gambling. There are deep concerns about corruption marring the sport. It is no secret that, in the past, tennis players, both male and female, have thrown matches. They will most probably continue to do so in the future. It is a frustrating and demoralising occurrence for any sport, especially one as popular and esteemed as tennis. Who throws these matches? I’ve heard plenty of rumours about dodgy characters and alleged cheats but I don’t have any concrete knowledge of specific incidents outside of the general public’s. However, it can be attested that these corrupt players generally sit on the periphery of the rankings and play for countries that don’t support their endeavours particularly well. Sponsorship deals, while incredibly lucrative for those at the very top, can only go so far, and those who miss out sometimes look for other ways to fund their bank accounts. In 2007 Russian former top-ten player Nikolay Davydenko was at the centre of a match-fixing scandal after retiring due to injury during a match played in Poland. Betfair refused to pay $7 million worth of bets to several Russian accounts because of the irregular size and suspicious timing of the wagers. Davydenko was cleared of any wrongdoing in 2008. He’s an incredibly talented player so I don’t figure him for a cheat. Ekaterina Bychkova has publicly spoken about being approached by Russian gambler, Dmitry Avilov, with a proposal to throw a match. She declined but also failed to report the incident and was subsequently fined and suspended for thirty days. I’ve never met Dmitry and I don’t want to. But there have been articles published wherein he speaks openly about his attempts to fix matches. The Russians have definitely had their share of scandals. They love their tennis, gambling and money. Many people also claim they have a powerful criminal network that thrives on corruption and forces players into difficult situations. Spain’s Guillermo Olaso claimed to be one of these victims of the Russian mafia at his disciplinary hearing in 2013 (he received a five-year ban and a $25,000 fine for violations of the Uniform Tennis Anti-Corruption Program). Russia may be in the spotlight but Italian, Dutch, Austrian, Spanish and Serbian players have all been fined and banned from the sport for corruption offences.

  As far as corruption in tennis goes, I despise it and have no respect for any professional athlete who takes part in a match knowingly acting to adversely influence or decide the final outcome. The other traders all share a similar perspective, considering we are all, at heart, tennis fans … and the fact that a thrown match tends to fuck each and every one of us over in a big way. The governing bodies, however, do not realise this. They believe that the more money available on the gambling market, the more likely it is that a player may be enticed or convinced to throw a match. We are the gamblers, adding money to the market, and, as a result, we are (apparently) part of, if not the, problem. This is erroneous, because I have never once met a trader who discussed an intention, past or present, to corrupt the sport. (Not to say this has never happened. I can’t testify for everyone out there – that would be naive and impossible.) However, seeing most traders’ faces after a suspected thrown match is enough to convince you of their hostility to it.

  As I’ve explained, traders watch the match’s progress and try to bet on the likely winner. Thrown matches usually result in the favourite giving away a winning position and uncharacteristically playing to a level well below their standard. This can have horrific results for traders risking large sums of money. Why would a match fixer come to the scene of their crime anyway? Surely, anyone who has fixed a match would sit back in the safety of their own home or be out celebrating their corrupt ‘win’ on a balcony with some champagne. Let’s hope it tastes bitter.

  I’m not attacking the tennis authorities in any way here. I understand their viewpoint and respect it. As far as our opinions on corruption go, we’re in accordance. It’s just a shame there has been no agreement with or tolerance towards court-siders thus far. Communication is the best antidote and unfortunately the governing bodies have chosen not to pursue that avenue with traders. They probably think it’s best to ignore us in an attempt to keep a gambling scandal involving tennis out of the media. They may have to rethink their prospective sponsors in the future if they want to maintain a cohesive image, though.

  *

  I ponder all of these issues as I sit on centre court during this sparkling Mediterranean afternoon. I’m trying to process the vexing spectacle I witnessed unfold on an outside court during my second match today. I’d never seen anything like it. The two players and the court will remain unnamed to avoid any speculation. I have no idea whether this was a thrown match or not, and it is not my prerogative to spark conjecture. But I am perplexed and a little shocked by the incident.

  The two players were middle order, ta
lent and ratings wise. The sun had stayed out and I was really enjoying such a relaxed yet upbeat tournament. Between points, I was watching paragliders float down from the rocky cliffs above, envying their view. I’d much rather be paragliding than working, but trading was still an agreeable consolation. There was no threat of security and all of the traders were sitting on court blatantly doing their thing. There must have been ten of us around the court. It was fun to sit there and spot new traders while they worked in the stands, like a real-life version of Where’s Wally?. Unfortunately, the fun did not last long. The match was into the second set and we were in a good position … when the shit hit the fan. Although, it wasn’t the explosive affair you might expect from such an idiom – it was a slow revelation that ground its way into our consciousness and left us all stunned and outraged.

  The player in the lead was serving for the set. After playing a good game of tennis, his serve was easily broken. This happens often, so the shit hadn’t hit the fan at that stage. But it was on a collision course. He lost the next game and suddenly the momentum had swung from the commanding position of 5–4 to the nailbiting apex of 5–6. Then, the player who appeared to be choking called for the trainer. He was given on-court treatment and the proverbial shit finally made contact with the rotor blades. It flung around the court in slow motion, taking another twenty minutes to really splatter across the stands. That’s how long it took for our possibly injured choker to lose the next game and the following set 6–0.

  It was all over. The traders jumped up and swore in a swathe of European cuss words. ‘Vaffanculo!’ ‘Mierda!’ ‘Che cazzo?’ ‘C’est des conneries!’ I could see them animatedly talking to each other, arguing and debating over the outcome. Vittorio even turned and kicked his chair. He was so angry he snapped the bloody thing in half! I looked around the court in alarm, still unsure what had happened. My communication with the back end had been at a minimum during that quick set and I had yet to find out the repercussions. The following conversation ensued: