A key ingredient for all this flourishing greenery is, of course, rain. A dry day at Wimbledon is rare, and a genuine experience at the Championships isn’t complete without a shower or two interrupting play. Hiding from a downpour is a great opportunity to partake in tradition and enjoy a helping of strawberries and cream or a generously garnished Pimm’s. The price tag on either is enough to make the average punter scream in despair, but they are undeniably delicious.
My only visit to Wimbledon prior to this was in 2008, while I was living in London. I went with my cousin and we watched a bunch of different men’s and women’s matches. The highlight for me was getting onto court one in the afternoon and watching Marat Safin play Andreas Seppi. Safin had always been one of my tennis idols, with his rampant temper and hilarious antics both on and off court. Not to mention his actual skills with a racquet. He proudly holds the world record for smashed racquets in a season – eighty-seven being the number – and has also stated that he broke over a thousand in his career. Sadly, the day ended in a minor tragedy as I left my wallet on the Tube and never saw it again. While that misfortune had left a bit of a sour taste in my mouth, I still couldn’t wait to return to the tournament (I’d never imagined it would one day be my workplace) and enjoy some A-grade grass tennis.
*
There are numerous entertainers, promotional workers, ushers and journalists among the crowd when you line up at Wimbledon. Chatting to them helps pass the time. While sitting on our newspapers, we are approached by a couple of reporters to do an interview for television. A few of the boys decline because they don’t want their faces being broadcast to the world from a tennis venue, but Mono is happy to oblige.
‘Who are you looking forward to seeing today?’
‘Umm, Pete Sampras,’ he says.
‘Pete Sampras? He retired years ago, mate. I don’t think he’ll be playing this week.’
‘I know that, but I’d still like to see him get out there and give it a go. Age shouldn’t be a boundary.’
‘Interesting. So who out of the women are you looking forward to seeing?’
‘Well, I’d have to say Maria Sharapova, I guess.’
‘Okay, and why’s that? Do you fancy her?’
‘Ah, yep.’
‘Right, that will probably do us then. Thanks for your time.’
Somehow, I don’t think they’ll ever use that interview.
Aside from the usual crew, we have two new traders sitting in line. They have recently been recruited to work with us and will be cutting their teeth this week. Archie is a native Londoner and Tim is a fellow Australian. I’ve been on tour for six months now and finally feel like one of the team. I am settled in the trading lifestyle and feel comfortable and competent in my job. Meeting the new crew and gauging their reactions and personalities on their first day, it feels funny to think I am now one of the more senior members. I know the ropes and gladly share this knowledge with the new guys, aiding them in their training and transition into such a foreign occupation.
We all chat, read and people watch during the four-hour exercise that is lining up at Wimbledon. By the time we make it in, everyone has got to know each other quite well. We each purchase a grounds pass, wish one another good luck and head off to our respective courts to start the day’s work. Despite my confidence and optimism, nothing has prepared me for the Wimbledon security team.
Court sixteen will be my office for the day. Nestled between the stadiums of centre court and court one, it is a medium-sized court, and the first match is to be a men’s singles. I nab a great seat in the second row and proceed to trade as per usual. My phone is tucked under my knee and I make the effort to clap every so often to blend in. Almost every seat is full (apart from the one next to mine) and I feel comfortable, relaxed and happy – I am trading the world’s premier tennis tournament!
I notice a red-headed guy in his thirties poke his head around the stand looking for a seat, and signal to him that I have one spare next to me. He jumps in with his tennis bag and thanks me. As play continues, he begins making comments to me about the match and how the players are performing. He is from New Zealand and it is obvious this guy knows his tennis. After six months of watching the game almost every day, I am well-educated enough to hold an engaging conversation with him. I ask whether he plays on the challenger tour or coaches, and he replies that he simply does ‘some work hitting with these guys’, signalling towards one of the players. Okay, he is involved with the players. I can be friendly, but not that friendly. My phone remains tucked under my knee.
‘So, are you living over here in London or doing some travelling around?’ he asks.
‘Well, I’ve been travelling around Europe the past few months,’ I reply truthfully, ‘and now that I’m in London I might find myself some work.’
‘Okay, so you’re not working … right now?’ He looks pointedly at the hand tucked under my knee. What. The. Hell? Surely I’ve misconstrued that question.
‘Ah, no, nah, I’m just staying with some mates and will probably start looking for work soon,’ I lie, feeling flustered. How does he know?
He drops the inquisition and we continue to talk about how the game is unfolding. The first set is over soon enough and he excuses himself to go check out another match.
‘Nice to meet you, mate. Have a good day,’ he says.
‘Yeah, you too,’ I reply.
It is then that I receive a text from one of the lads: ‘Be careful – a few of the boys have already been booted out – so keep an eye.’
Shit. I thought this tournament was going to be a walk in the park. I almost mention the strange run-in with the Kiwi but pass it off as a coincidence. There aren’t many people around who even know that court-side traders exist, let alone being able to make one on court.
I’ll never know whether the Kiwi had me done or not but a few games later security approach me. A middle-aged man with short, grey hair and a goatee walks around the corner of the stand and points straight at me.
‘Excuse me, mate – yes, you – come have a chat with me, please. Yep, you can stop texting and put your phone away, we’re going to have a quiet chat outside.’
Shit! I didn’t even see it coming. Even after my quizzical run-in, I remained on court in a confident and optimistic mood. Idiot. I vacate my seat, trying to ignore the curious and critical looks from fellow spectators, and round the corner to meet the head of Wimbledon security and two police officers.
‘Hi, mate. My name is James and I’m in charge of security here. Just come around the corner with us, please. We’re going to have a chat about that phone and what you’ve been doing today.’ James is polite but firm and clearly wants to do this as discreetly as possible. At such a prestigious club, event management obviously want to steer clear of any type of scandal.
‘Now, we have cameras, and we’ve been watching you. So you can say what you like but you are under suspicion of transmitting data and live scores from our event, which is a breach of the ticket-purchase agreement. These officers are going to search your belongings and take your details, then we’re going to politely ask you to leave.’
‘Right, okay then,’ I reply. There is no point arguing; they know what they’re doing and I have zero chance of getting out of this one.
‘Hi, mate, what’s your name?’ asks the male police officer.
I tell him and he verifies this by checking my identification.
‘Okay, my name is Sergeant Daniels. Do you have anything with you that you shouldn’t?’ he asks.
‘No. You’ve got nothing to worry about and if they are requesting that I leave then I’m happy to go right now.’
That doesn’t work.
‘Well, under the Terrorism Act 2006 we have the right to search and detain you if necessary. So I’m going to go through your bag here and search your things.�
�
‘If you say so,’ I reply. This is quite embarrassing; a lot of people are walking by and whispering about what I could possibly have done. Sergeant Daniels sifts through my jacket, book, water bottle, sunglasses and lunch before finding the spare batteries. It’s quite hilarious the way security staff and police react when they catch a glimpse of spare batteries in a trader’s bag. It’s like they’ve found a bloody murder weapon with fingerprints on it.
‘Okay, we’ve got spare batteries!’ declares the head of security. ‘You’ve got a few here – they would have got you through the whole day, wouldn’t they?’
‘Would have,’ I sulk.
He writes down a list of my possessions along with all of my personal details, as per my driver’s licence, which they have removed from my wallet.
‘One last thing,’ he says, while walking me towards the gate. ‘I just need you to stop here and look up at that camera over there for me.’
‘No, I don’t have to do that,’ I reply.
‘Yes, I’m afraid you do, sir,’ Sergeant Daniels steps in.
My shoulders slump in frustration and I look up at the camera. That’s when I realise how they spotted me so easily. If that CCTV camera – up on the wall about five metres high and ten metres away – can clearly zoom in on my face and take a decent photograph, then it’s no wonder they could see me trading on court. I thank Sergeant Daniels and James for being gentlemen and bid them good day. They walk with me to the gates and suggest I do not return to the grounds. I look at my watch. It is barely the afternoon and I have been given my marching orders. What an epic failure that has turned out to be! So much for trading my way through the week.
I contact the other lads by text and am shocked to hear that three of the others have already been booted. This security team are on a whole different level. They are hunting us with disturbing proficiency. When I meet up with Nads down the road, he tells me he was done first game! He’d scarcely had a chance to hit any buttons when they grabbed him. What’s even more amazing is that they took two elderly men out of the crowd near him and tried to kick them out for using their phones.
‘No, no, leave these guys alone,’ Nads cried. ‘They haven’t done anything wrong.’ The poor gentlemen were in a state of alarm and had no idea what was going on. The Wimbledon security team sure do, though. We’ve been eliminated in a matter of hours and only a few of the boys remain undetected.
*
Being booted this afternoon leaves me at a loose end. Instead of leaving late at night, I am now free to roam the city of London. My hotel is in nearby Earls Court, and on the Tube I have time to reflect on my day and consider my options. I’ve always had a love–hate relationship with the city of London. It’s probably the best city in the world in terms of transport, landmarks, culture, accessibility and excitement. As the old saying from Samuel Johnson goes, ‘When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.’ There’s always something to do – from restaurants, shops and tours to sightseeing and relaxing in Hyde Park. I love that side of London. But, as a born and bred Queenslander, I can’t stand the fucking weather! In winter, I damn near lost my mind living there. The foul weather is generally reflected in people’s moods – many carry a shitty, you’re-on-your-own attitude and their behaviour can range from snobby to hostile (depending on which district you’re in).
Despite my mixed feelings, I am happy to be back in the big smoke. It holds a certain air of nostalgia for me after the amazing times I spent here. I pass the afternoon wandering the West End, looking in shops and exploring Carnaby Street. The weather, for a change, is quite agreeable. But, no matter how sunny things look, I can’t ignore that little nagging voice in my head saying, ‘How on earth are you going to trade the week out at Wimbledon?’
*
Stock take. Court sixteen and all those courts between the two big stadiums are blacklisted. They’re under CCTV surveillance and it’s a suicide mission to try to trade them. We know that now. That leaves us with courts three through to fourteen: plenty of space to trade and hopefully stay out of sight … right?
*
The next day is overcast and cool. I wear a jacket and hat as a disguise and trade while keeping a constant eye out for security. To mix things up, I change courts after every match. It works, and I walk out those gates of my own accord that Tuesday afternoon. It’s a long day, waking up before 6 a.m., working until 8 p.m. and getting back to the hotel to eat dinner an hour later. But I’ve survived, and I drift off to sleep a content man.
Wednesday sees a warmer day so my jacket isn’t really an option. I continue to work the safer outside courts and move around the grounds after each match. I change sides after each set and try to find hidden vantage points from which to trade. At around three in the afternoon, I’m nestled into a nice little shaded area by court ten and am trading my third match for the day when a familiar voice says, ‘How are things going, mate?’
I look around to discover Sergeant Daniels standing next to me. I never even saw him coming … again!
‘Oh dear, you’ve got your phone out again, haven’t you?’
I sigh in defeat and hold up my phone. Daniels isn’t being facetious, just doing his job, so I go with the flow. ‘Caught red-handed!’
‘We’d better come over here for another chat then, mate.’
He walks me over to a quiet area, where James joins us. The procedure is much the same as on Monday, except for the minor detail that this time I am banned from Wimbledon for life!
‘We’ve given you a warning and you’ve returned, so the club has decided that you will be banned from the grounds from this day forward. A letter will be sent to your home address and we strongly advise that you do not return again. This club has a prestige and reputation to uphold. We have very good lawyers and it would be a shame to have to take action against you in the future.’
‘Fair enough,’ I reply. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
I bid them farewell for the second and final time that week and am escorted to the gates. Banned for life from the world’s premier tennis tournament! There is no way I will go back. A warning can be ignored but a direct legal order cannot. My time at Wimbledon has come to a premature close.
*
This sudden intensification in security vigilance has shocked us all. The authorities have just proven that, if they want us gone, they can do it quite easily. We need to be more alert to threats at upcoming tournaments – getting our names and faces recognised at events is not a good move for our future as traders.
While the Championships have been undeniably crowded and expensive, the level of discomfort hasn’t come close to that of Roland Garros, and overall I’ve found it to be a much more enjoyable experience. Despite the frustrating and astonishingly competent security team, I’ve enjoyed my time at the tournament immensely. I am disappointed to be banned for life – Wimbledon is a special place – and, despite coming away with a great story to tell the grandchildren one day, I can’t help feeling frustrated that I’ve had to sacrifice my privilege to attend the event because of my line of work. Banned for life from Wimbledon! I do say, old chap, what a jolly fucking shame that is.
12
GOD BLESS AMERICA
I wake up with the strange sensation that an earthquake struck last night. The building is still here, so surely not. But, if it was a dream, then it was pretty damn vivid. I remember being literally shaken awake. Except there wasn’t anybody there, just my bed vibrating like crazy for no apparent reason. I sat up and tried to shrug off a deep slumber but fell right back asleep again.
‘Did we have an earthquake?’ I ask Archie now, in his bed across the room. But he’s slept through the whole thing and doesn’t have the faintest idea. A quick trawl of Google reveals that LA did indeed experience a 3-point earthquake early in the a.m.! What a fitting welcome to the San Andreas region of west-coast America.
The new lads have cut their teeth in the toughest tournament of them all and are ready to be unleashed on the tour. I say unleashed because they are like a pair of wild animals (in a good way). I’ve never met blokes with a greater appetite for booze, women, banter and random acts of debauchery. I’ve got to know them quickly, and within no time their shenanigans on nights out have become tales of trading lore. As we crossed the Atlantic to trade the American leg of the tour, it became apparent how wild the road was going to be with these new recruits on board.
I’d flown to California a week earlier than the others to enjoy some surf in my favourite US city, San Diego. When I arrived at LAX to pick Archie up, I was greeted with a ridiculous scene. The kid stumbled through arrivals with a handful of black bin bags all piled up on top of each other. They contained the entire contents of what had been in his suitcase. He was dropping clothes, toiletries and books left, right and centre, trying desperately to juggle a load of luggage that one could have mistaken for trash. He looked like a bloody garbage man!
‘Good to see ya, pal. What the hell is going on here?’ I enquired, taking a few bags off his hands and helping him towards the car park.
‘All right, mate. Long story: I was late for my flight so they wouldn’t let me check any luggage onto the plane. There was no way I could miss it because I’d most likely get fired, so I resorted to desperate measures. When I asked the hostess if I could pile my clothes into bin bags and drag them on as hand luggage, she stared at me and said, “Nobody has ever done that before.” Ha ha! Well they have now!’
Game, Set, Cash! Page 11