Game, Set, Cash!

by Brad Hutchins

  Me: Nads, what the fuck happened there?

  Nads: You tell me, buddy. We just got fucked big time!

  Me: Oh, no! How bad? Looks like every trader on here did too!

  Nads: Pretty bad, mate – worst loss since Roddick.

  Me: What? Fucking hell, I do not need that next to my name! How did it happen?

  Nads: Well, we were big into ‘the choker’ when he was serving for it.

  Me: Fair play. I suspected enough. Would have made sense at the time.

  Nads: Exactly. But, just as he got broken, somebody on the market threw a truckload of cash on his competitor. By the time the trainer came out, our money was already matched and we had no way of escaping our position. We got taken to the cleaners.

  Me: That sounds dodgy as hell to me. You think it was fixed?

  Nads: Hard to say, mate, but it sure looks suspicious, doesn’t it?

  I looked around the stand again and saw traders shaking their heads as they left. We’d all been screwed out of a significant amount of cash, and it appeared someone had known something before everyone else. Could it have been one of the traders on court? I doubted it. I knew most of them and nobody looked the least bit impressed. Could it have been fixed? Possibly, but I sure like to think not. The fact of the matter is someone could have easily arranged for a bet to take place at a certain point in the match. Now, that would suggest the match was fixed, and the realisation that I may have just witnessed such corruption left a sense of revulsion in my stomach as I left the stand.

  Incidents like this one are exactly why the tennis officials despise us. I can see why they want us banned from their events. From their perspective, we are a viable threat. All it would take is a few bad eggs to do great damage to the sport. But why not communicate with us and clear the air rather than blindly label us as ‘rodents’ and incense us to the point of mutual loathing? We could be an asset rather than a scapegoated enemy.

  To combat such incidents, the governing bodies formed the Tennis Integrity Unit (TIU) in 2008. On the unit’s official website, it states, ‘This decisive action followed publication of a comprehensive, independent report into the risks and threats that faced tennis as a sport subject to ever-increasing attention from the gambling community.’

  Interesting, then, that the governing bodies still allow gambling companies to promote themselves by sponsoring tennis events. The TIU has the power to investigate players, coaches, officials and any other would-be corruptors. They can request phone records and bank details, and interview anyone under suspicion. They also liaise with the large gambling companies to identify any suspicious betting patterns or incidents that may have taken place during matches. If they do identify a breach in the anti-corruption code, the TIU can fine players hundreds of thousands of dollars and/or ban them for life from the sport.

  Good. Fuck every corrupt player out there, and anyone else involved, whether they be officials, coaches, traders or various nefarious others. The TIU is a proactive initiative from the governing bodies to stamp out corruption in the sport, and so far they have had some success. I sincerely hope they continue in their endeavours and keep tennis a clean and respectable sport. I just wish they’d come to a better understanding of traders’ intentions on court and stop harassing us like we’re the kingpin criminals! They could save us all a lot of time and money!

  *

  Like most people, I try to clear my head and forget about this crap once work finishes for the day. I’m in Monte Carlo, after all, and we are going out. It’s not every day you go and hit the tables at the Monte Carlo Casino. After passing the strict dress standards at the entry, we grab a few drinks and take in the view. The establishment practically doubles as an art gallery, and many fine paintings adorn the walls. ‘People watching’ is also an entertaining option, as half the patrons have bodyguards, chauffeurs, trophy wives and fat stacks of chips to play with. We take our drinks to the roulette tables for a quick dabble, and exhaust our relatively limited funds in no time at all. I keep one of the sparkly orange chips as a memento (yes, it’s only a five-euro effort), and I still have it to this day. We leave the ultra-rich in their casino and once outside realise we’re standing next to the famous Formula One track.

  ‘Hey, I recognise this hairpin corner from Gran Turismo on PlayStation!’ shouts Felix.

  We proceed to run around the track, making revving engine noises like complete dickheads, pretending to be cars. To think we were rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous a few minutes ago.

  When we come to our senses and find a suitable venue (it takes some time as we don’t want to sit down at a billion-dollar buffet), we enjoy an indulgent dinner. It is amazing. It has to be. There are no cheap options available. It’s either an expensive restaurant or private dinner on a yacht where your personal crew serves champagne and caviar. While some of the lads have had a profitable day’s trading, none of us owns so much as a private canoe. We opt for an expensive three-course-restaurant meal like the other plebs of Monaco.

  *

  After a busy working week, I’m rewarded with a bit of leisure time. I realise I’ll be spending most of my downtime in Nice, so I switch hotels to stay with the other lads. The train ride along the Côte d’Azur is the definition of a Mediterranean scenic coastal route. As I walk out of the station, I immediately notice a change in pace and atmosphere. Monte is nice but Nice is nicer. Monte has the über-expensive casinos and egotistical celebrities, but it can keep them, as far as I’m concerned. Nice is more my speed: a party town of raucous bars and nightclubs nestled amid cosy cobblestoned alleyways and quintessential European streets, all overlooked by a lofty vantage point and girt by the sparkling aqua-blue sea.

  In the new hotel, I find a brochure that advertises helicopter transfers from Nice into Monaco. It takes seven minutes and costs over a hundred euros per person. Unfortunately, that’s not an option after our huge loss earlier in the week. It would have been a pretty unique transit to start off a working day, though! It blows my mind to realise that some of the spectators I shared the stand with today will no doubt have taken the chopper in to save their precious time. C’est la vie in the playground of Europe’s rich and famous.

  Saturday morning, I manage a sneaky side trip to Cannes to see what all the fuss is about. It’s a debonair destination, and I enjoy wandering in and out of designer boutiques, watching the rich and famous drive their supercars, and most of all sitting in as a spectator while the old messieurs go about their traditional games of boules. Regrettably, I can’t stay all day – I’ve got an afternoon session to trade, and I need to purchase a second-hand ticket before they’re all gone.

  By the time I arrive at the venue, tickets are being resold by touts for a small fortune. After some unsuccessful haggling, I cough up the ridiculous asking price and jump on the charming centre court for a final session of trading that week. Nadal is set to continue his clay warpath and secure yet another victory at this coveted event. Although I’ve mentioned how I tire of his grinding, defensive style of play, it’s still an honour to watch the king of clay in his element. There’s no denying that he is one of the all-time greats.

  Work, however, is the lacklustre part of the day. After catching the train back along the coast, I meet up with my co-workers and a bunch of other traders. We enjoy an affordable pub dinner for a change, hit the beers and shots, tell stories, debate the suspicious happenings of earlier in the week and have a cracking night out that escalates into an early morning. I end up making the acquaintance of a lovely Norwegian girl and we wander back to the hotel through the pleasant streets of Nice. Life is grand on the Côte d’Azur … If only I didn’t have to fly to Africa tomorrow.

  8

  THE CANCER OF TENNIS

  I’m trudging down a dirt road, without a soul in sight, lost, rattled and alone after just being threatened with wrongful imprisonment. Night is fast approaching
and the chirping of crickets in the long grass by the road does little to ease my nerves. I’m a long way up shit creek. My phone is my only friend. Not to mention my worst enemy. I text my current predicament to my workmates – if only to complain – but there’s not much they can do for me. It’s always my bloody phone that gets me into these situations. My next text says it all: ‘Why the hell did we have to come and trade in Morocco?!’

  *

  I could have been enjoying an epic week of sunshine, beaches and comfortable trading in Estoril, Portugal. I could have been flirting with Corona’s charming promotional girls, drinking free beers, playing tennis with my mates and sneaking in a surf of a morning. A few of the other lads had scored that one, though, so I was stuck with Africa.

  After our enjoyable week on the Côte d’Azur, Felix and I flew from Monte Carlo to Casablanca, where we then took a five-hour train ride from Casablanca to Fez. At one point, a young boy entered the carriage with some naan bread and offered it to every person in there, including us. We accepted his offer and enjoyed some scraps of the delicious bread, but when we tried to reciprocate later with a bag of potato chips from the food cart it didn’t quite match his generosity.

  After a long, tiring day of travel, we looked forward to crashing in the comfort and solitude of our hotel. Alas, our taxi rolled straight past the luxurious hotel where the players were staying and pulled up at a very average-looking abode. We’d booked ourselves into a dive by accident! In developing countries, anything below three stars is the equivalent of a first-class shithole. The place stank. The mattresses felt like lumpy concrete covered in sheets, and the pillows were like bags of potatoes. The flashy hotel next to us was booked out. After living it up for the past week, we came plummeting back down to earth with the stench of sewage in our nostrils. It was going to be a long week, and we hadn’t even seen the tournament yet.

  After eating a bland breakfast of bread and pastry, and checking the order of play, we packed our gear and made our way to the tournament. There were no matches of interest being played today, and that was not going to change all week. Our taxi cost next to nothing, and we finally found something positive about Morocco – we’d spend very little cash here this week.

  The grounds were miles from town. Entering them proved a unique challenge. Upon trying to walk in, we were asked for our tickets. When we explained that we didn’t have any but wanted to purchase some, there was confusion. Apparently, this was an ‘invitation only’ event, and you had to have a personal invite from the tournament director to enter.

  ‘Okay, so how do we get one of those?’ I enquired.

  We were ushered into an official booth and given stamped tickets for next to nothing. Evidently, that was all it took. We walked into the dilapidated grounds and got the lie of the land.

  Fez is a major contender for the ‘world’s shittiest tennis tournament’ award. The players seem to agree – the top seed for the tournament was ranked forty-two in the world. There were zero traders present at this event, and for good reason. Fez is on the ‘no go’ list for traders. There are certain tournaments you just do not go to, unless you want to run the gauntlet of third-world police integrity. Morocco, Malaysia and India are all on this list. China, Russia, Croatia and Bulgaria are not far behind. There is never a moment when you feel comfortable or relaxed while trading in these countries.

  None of our crew had ever suffered anything harsher than a slap on the wrist while being booted out of a tournament. However, there was the story of Leo being arrested and detained in a Kuala Lumpur jail for nine days. I’d had my doubts about this story until I had dinner with Leo and Giovanni one night at a pub in Houston, Texas.

  ‘So, dude, tell me: you seriously got banged up in KL?’

  ‘Yes, don’t ever go there. It’s bad news. I’m never going back.’

  ‘Yes, but this madman returned after a previous warning!’ interrupted Giovanni.

  Leo explained how he’d been thrown into a cell full of rough local inmates and had to literally fight his way through the week. All they had to eat was rice, which they scrapped over and scoffed with their hands. One night, he awoke to the sound of loud panting nearby. He sat up to see one of the inmates kneeling across from him with his pants down. The creep was staring straight at Leo and jerking himself off! This led to yet another awkward but necessary fight. Needless to say, Leo was more than relieved to escape from that place. He didn’t quit trading, though; he was just a lot smarter in the future. Once that story spread, and we all knew the stakes, all of us traders were a little more cautious.

  *

  Yet, here we are, trading like fools in the simmering frying pan that is Fez. Being a relative newcomer to the game, I’m eager to impress and will trade any tournament. Felix and I split up to avoid being caught together and head off to our designated courts. It is downright awkward being here. As the only white spectator, I stick out like dogs’ balls and know it’s just a matter of time until somebody notices me. But I am there to do a job, and I get right to it on centre court, where massive cracks run through the shoddy clay surface.

  I walk onto a concrete stand across from the umpire that’s completely empty and baking hot in the open glare of the sun. I sit down for a grand total of twenty seconds then get the fuck out of there. After rounding the court, I manage to sneak into a VIP section and trade from the relative comfort of a tented area. Being a white, middle-class male from Australia means I still stand out – it does not matter where I go in this tournament. The only other spectators present are suited officials or locals in burqas and kaftans. To my surprise and relief, I survive the first two matches and we do rather well from them.

  I have a break before my next match is due to start so I try to track down some food. After walking around for a few minutes and having no luck, I ask one of the event staff if they can point me in the right direction. Coincidentally, the guy is a chef and walks me to the main food tent, where a buffet is being served. Oh, shit, I realise, he thinks I’m a player or a coach. I am given my own table and full access to the feast on offer. What am I going to do: get up and leave? I fill my plate and eat like a king. If I’m going to be eating couscous off a cell floor for the next nine days, I may as well get my fill now, I figure. It is uncomfortable, though. Players walk by and look at me with confusion. I don’t want to make conversation in case people pry about my business here, so I keep to myself and get out of there as soon as possible, making sure to thank the chef for his hospitality on the way out.

  I then do the rounds of the venue. There isn’t much to see. They have a few stands selling drinks and old confectionery in faded packets, a small park and a few practice courts that are in even worse shape than the match courts.

  No sooner have I sat down and set up my phone to begin trading the next match than an official approaches me. With his seedy moustache and tacky suit he looks like an angry Moroccan version of Borat.

  ‘You! Come with me now!’

  He is acting like a man whose time is too valuable for this altercation. I pause my phone and say, ‘What’s the problem?’ It’s worth a try.

  ‘Shut up and follow me,’ he says.

  Bluffing is not an option, apparently. We head towards the front office but on the way he stops to talk to another official. I am not going to wait around like some sacrificial lamb, so I keep walking towards the exit.

  ‘Hey! Stop!’ he shouts.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I ask again. ‘I’m going to leave.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he corrects. ‘Unless you want me to get their attention?’

  He motions towards the exit and I see five policemen with rifles over their shoulders. They lounge about, idly chatting to each other. But they would jump at any second if summoned by an official. Running is not an option either.

  ‘Shit! This guy has got me!’ I curse under my breath. It is the first ti
me I’ve been properly busted in four months on the job. Another official joins us as I am walked into the front office.

  ‘Passport,’ cranky Borat demands.

  I’ve heard that in many countries you need to have your passport on you at all times. I’d love to know how many people actually do this. I’m not one of them. I feel like telling him to fuck himself on the spot but a degree of caution is needed here. The tournament is organised and funded by King Mohammed VI of Morocco, whose wife is apparently a big tennis fan. Any official contracted to work this tournament is obviously on good terms with King Mohammed VI. It would be quite unwise to tell the King’s friend to go and fuck himself.

  ‘I don’t have my passport with me,’ I say.

  ‘Give me your passport!’ He slams a fist on the table rather impatiently, as if I am playing games he doesn’t have time for.

  ‘Sorry, I honestly don’t have it with me.’

  At this point, the other official steps in to mediate before things get out of hand. They question me as a team and settle for my driver’s licence. Then they take a photo, which I’m unable to dodge. They ask for my room key from my wallet to copy down my hotel details.

  ‘Why do you need that? That’s of no relevance.’

  ‘We must have your passport details. You have left these details with the hotel, no?’

  Shit. Why is the passport so important? ‘No, you don’t need it. You’ve already got my details.’

  ‘Passport or jail!’ Borat snarls, stamping his index finger on the desk.