Game, Set, Cash!

by Brad Hutchins

  *

  Sitting on court, trying not to go insane in the middle of a sixty-hour week, I realise I have been trading on the tour for over eight months! I am settled in my role as a trader and have grown accustomed to a fantastic lifestyle. By my rough calculations, I must have traded somewhere between six and seven hundred tennis matches so far this year! No wonder I feel comfortable with the phone in my hands these days.

  After spending so much time on court, you become very familiar not only with the buttons on your phone but also with the players’ quirks and habits. It can be quite amusing to watch. Many of them display superstition through routine and behaviour. They can be pedantic about the smallest details on court. Sometimes, they’ll tell their coach to go away because they feel they’re being distracted by his or her presence. Sometimes, they’ll complain about noise in the crowd or flashing lights affecting their concentration. I’ve seen players become animated and agitated with the crowd on numerous occasions. And vice versa for that matter. Failed ball-tosses and double-digit bounces on serve get tedious to watch for spectators, and many players seem to drag their serve out on the big points to try and build a mental advantage. Some players have annoying habits (like cheering when their opponent loses a point), while others employ negative tactics (like waving their racquet about to distract their opponent during serve). There are a million little things that can affect a game but sometimes these quirks border on the obsessive-compulsive side.

  For instance, Rafael Nadal has to have his water bottles sitting in the perfect position before resuming play. He’ll hover the bottle meticulously an inch or so off the ground until he has it lined up in just the right spot. Then he’ll stride off to the back of the court (making sure he always crosses each line with his right foot first) and go through his serving routine. The serve itself has a whole ritual, which, last time I checked, consists of picking the legs of his shorts, left then right, then the shoulders of his T-shirt, left then right, bouncing the ball while wiping sweat from his eyebrows, then putting his hair behind his ears, then the famous wedgie pick before switching the ball to the other hand for a few more bounces and finally serving. He’s a prime example, but he’s definitely not the only one who does it. Many of the male and female players have their own superstitions and routines they follow to keep them calm and focused. Sharapova’s a stickler for it. She avoids stepping on the lines whenever on court. I go insane watching her sometimes. She’s stunning, but she’s so methodical and repetitive it’s almost robotic. Which is not hot, but it does win tennis matches. Before each serve she stares directly at the spot she wants to hit, trying to envision the action and willing it to happen. Djokovic does a hilarious impersonation of her pre-serve hair-flicking, racquet-string-picking routine. Having said that, even he’s got the time-consuming excessive ball-bouncing habit. A lot of the girls slap themselves on the thigh to pep up before serving. Dominika Cibulková even sniffs the balls (behave) before serving because she likes the smell of them! When players win a point on serve they often demand the ball boy or girl throw the same ball back to them so they can use it on the next point. They even refuse to take balls from one corner if they don’t feel like it. Wouldn’t want to fuck up the feng shui now would we? It’s all about maintaining rhythm, focus and a positive mindset - recreating good form and performance. For a trader it can be amusing, fascinating or (after long enough on tour), soul-crushingly tedious.

  As traders, we too have routines and patterns we fall into on tour. We need to be engrossed and relaxed to do our job properly. Just like the players, we are required to perform and we have our ups and downs. To get ourselves into a rhythm for the week and feel comfortable on court every day, we become creatures of habit and keep things simple. We might grow fond of a particular food stall or seat in the stand, which we keep returning to (year after year in some cases). We might all meet in the same cafe or park after work each day. Or we might eat breakfast at the same restaurant to kick off every morning. One thing we all love to do is share stories of massive wins, painful mistakes and other interesting occurrences that light up our day. It gets boring on court on our own, so we all enjoy a chance to share some banter. I know I whinge a lot about being bored, and I know I’m in no position to complain. But imagine watching tennis all day, six days a week for a year! I shake my head sometimes when I realise how often I take live tennis for granted compared to the average, excited, paying fan. They’ll be giving a standing ovation to a great match while I’m already jogging out of the stadium, ringing my mates to catch up for a feed and a beer.

  As I sit on court seven towards the end of the week, I notice an amusing dialogue take place between Leo and Romeo. Nobody else in the thousands of people around me have a clue. But, as I’ve taken note that Leo is sitting in the stand, my attention flicks in his direction when I see him signalling across the court. It takes me a second but then I see Romeo around fifty metres away, sitting on court six in the stand opposite us. He’s holding up seven fingers and has an exultant smile pasted across his face. He must have just won seven grand on that last match. I’m jealous. Lucky bastard! Leo is obviously jealous too. The two are good friends and Leo flicks him the bird dismissively. Romeo points in his direction as if to ask ‘And you?’. In response, Leo stands up in the middle of the crowd, bends over and makes a pointing motion back and forth at his arse. Looks like he hasn’t had quite the same amount of luck. ‘I’ve just been fucked!’ seems to be the message. I chuckle to myself in the stand and wonder what the other spectators around us must be thinking.

  While we all love to share good meals, funny stories and interesting tennis facts, the most predictable and recurrent habit of any trader is to explore each new destination’s sights and nightlife. My sixty-hour work week hasn’t afforded much time for the above leisure activities. But that’s the beauty of Grand Slams – they go for two weeks – the second of which is much less work intensive and a lot more fun.

  *

  ‘Okay, so we’ve got duck à l’orange, poached shrimp, grilled baby chicken, roasted lamb shanks and our special for tonight is the swordfish with chorizo,’ says our waiter. We’re in Dressler, a chic restaurant with a great range of meals and booze, situated under the Williamsburg Bridge. Our waiter has just recited the menu from the top of his head and also highlights some of the starter and dessert options if we’re inclined. The service industry in America really goes above and beyond that of many other countries. Waiting staff hustle to give you the best possible service, and this is where you see the tipping system really work effectively. We have a few beers, enjoy an amazing dinner (with a cheeky dessert), pay our bill, tip our waiter for his efforts and step out into the street feeling like a million bucks.

  The hard work is behind us and fun is on the horizon. Week two has been quite enjoyable and in my spare time I’ve managed to visit Wall Street, the World Trade Center site, the Natural History Museum, Times Square and the Statue of Liberty. That old rumour about the whispering gallery in Grand Central Station turns out to be true: on the lower floor there is a domed area where you can whisper into one corner of the room and another person can clearly hear it at the opposite side. I’ve enjoyed the remarkable view from the top of the Empire State Building, and ridden a bike around the enormous and revitalising grounds of Central Park (we even saw a few tennis players taking a jog through the grounds for their daily exercise).

  It’s been an amazing few weeks, I reflect, as we walk into a convenience store to buy some ‘road beers’ for the walk towards the Williamsburg bar district. I buy a few Tecates (they’re a Mexican beer in a red can, so it looks like you’re drinking a Coke if the cops pass by), and we stroll on down the road. We’ve had a successful tournament and it’s time to celebrate. Life is looking pretty incredible right about now. I’ve got two weeks off and flights booked to Mexico and Cuba, where I’ll be meeting an Argentinian friend of mine who does some part-time modelling when she’s not working as
a marine biologist. A week from now, I’ll be snorkelling with whale sharks, learning to kite surf, enjoying all-inclusive cocktails, buffets and entertainment, and following in the wake of Fidel Castro and Che Guevara across the Caribbean. There’s nothing I’d change right now. New York has been good to me, but the road always beckons.

  14

  BANGKOK MADNESS

  I come to in a bundle of cosy white linen, wishing my head felt as soft and fluffy. It’s pounding like a sledgehammer. I’m in Bangkok, I remember. I say ‘come to’ because it’s not just waking up; it’s that hazy, disorientating process you go through when you’re in a new location and your brain is fighting off a lack of sleep and an inundation of alcohol. Yeah, I’m still drunk. It’s 11.45 a.m. Oh shit! I jump up in bed, realising I start work at noon. It’s Monday morning and I need to be down at the tennis to kick off the week at the PTT Thailand Open. This means getting to the venue, collecting tickets and finding a suitable, discreet spot to trade from, all in the space of fifteen minutes. Then I look across to see an empty bed next to me. Mono didn’t come home last night. Ultimately, I assume this is good news for him, but it is Bangkok and he could either be lost, dead, kidnapped or on his way home after getting laid. I’m hoping it’s the latter.

  The venue is close, I know that much. So I run to the bathroom for a power shower then make contact with the back end. Nads is online, and I’m hoping he’s in a good mood so he’s less likely to flip his shit at us for running late.

  Me: NADS! HOLY FUCK I’M STILL SHITFACED! I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE MONO IS! HE’S NOT BACK AT THE HOTEL!

  Nads: Oh dear god.

  Me: I’m going to head down now and try to get shit sorted, hopefully get on court in time for play.

  Nads: Godspeed, I’ll try calling Mono.

  I run down to the lobby and enquire about transportation to the tennis venue. A courtesy golf cart rolls into the drive and invites me on. This is a new one! I’m enjoying the ride when, about a minute later, we pull up outside the venue. Oh. Now I feel like a dick – I could easily have walked! No time to complain, though. I thank the driver and run off to the ticket booth. The language barrier is a small issue but our order form has the necessary details and after a few minutes I’m in possession of our tickets for the week.

  Still no sign of Mono, though. I relay this to Nads, who is slightly bothered, but I’m sensing more of a feeling of pride and amusement from him. Nads loves Thailand and has been egging us on with various suggestions and tips; I’m sure he expected nothing less this morning. My phone rings. Mono is alive and at the venue.

  ‘Where the fuck are you, dude?’ I ask.

  ‘Um, j-just out the front of some, oh, I don’t know, mate. I’m near some stairs,’ he replies. His voice is unsteady and indicative of self-imposed suffering.

  I laugh. It’s been a big night for the lad. I look up and see him standing in the middle of the walkway wearing the same clothes he had on last night. He looks bedraggled. I laugh again. Welcome to Bangkok, Mono! As I approach, I notice the stains of booze on his shirt and the black bags under his eyes, and I can’t help but laugh some more at the state of him.

  ‘Hey, mate!’ I yell. ‘Ready to trade some tennis?’

  ‘Pfft, fooken hell, mate. I’m in no state for this. Ha ha, shit! What the fuck happened last night?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, bro. I was about to ask you!’

  ‘Oh well, we’d better get going. We’re late already.’

  Our tickets are in the fancy-pants area. This is not good because, for once, we don’t want to be in the fancy-pants area, out in the open, close to the action, where people can spot us and recognise us or figure us out. It’s hard to explain this to the friendly Thai ushers who want to escort us down to the gold seats. Fuck that, we’re hiding up the back in the dark! After a quick game of charades, we manage to slip by the ushers and sneak into some inconspicuous seats with a lofty vantage point. To our utter joy, the venue is indoors, air conditioned and fitted with cushioned, cinema-style seats. Score! As a sweetener, we will be able to sit together all day because the courts are both viewable from our vantage point. Today might not be so bad after all. We let Nads know we’re ready to roll and start trading.

  I’m not usually a fan of indoor tournaments – I’d rather be outside enjoying the sunshine and breeze rather than air conditioning and fluorescent light. But this one is a godsend. When you’re hungover to the point where you are trying to piece together the past twelve hours of your life, the luxuries of air conditioning and cushioned seats are like an early Christmas. The best part is almost every fast-food chain imaginable is open for business on the ground floor. At Thai prices! (Read dirt-cheap.)

  As we settle in for the morning, I realise there is a lot of local talent present at the event. It’s good to see some of the Thai players getting in as wildcards. Their names are incredibly hard to figure out, though. Names such as Udomchoke and Kumkhum are quite amusing, while longer ones such as Lertpitaksinchai or Wachiramanowong are downright impossible to pronounce for the average Westerner. Interestingly enough, the MC of this event is an Australian expat who has somehow found his niche in announcing Thai tennis events. In his professional manner, he alternates from announcing things in mind-bending, tongue-twisting Thai to speaking in Australian-accented English from sentence to sentence. It’s nothing short of hilarious to listen to, and quite a unique talent, I must admit.

  Between each break, the local Thai fan club break into song and dance, cheering their country on. They have drums, shakers, gongs and various other delightfully loud instruments. They make quite the racket for a hungover head to cope with, but they’ve got character and I quite like listening to them cheer their players on with ‘Thailand, Thailand’, rattle, rattle, bang, bang. Repeat. It’s surprisingly catchy.

  During one of these breaks, Mono describes his eventful morning to me. He woke up in bed with a local Thai girl by the name of Pornthip. He knows this because he has a piece of paper with her name and email address on it. He then realised he was going to be late for work and scrambled out onto the street to hail a taxi. Once he’d explained the destination to the driver (around forty-five minutes away), he did his best from the back seat to stress how important it was he arrive there in the next twenty minutes.

  ‘See my watch? It’s 11.40 a.m. now, right? If I don’t get there before 12.00 p.m., I’m done!’

  ‘Done?’ The taxi driver shot him a panicked look of concern through the rear-view mirror. He’d taken ‘done’ a little too literally.

  ‘Done,’ confirmed Mono with a stony nod, taking complete advantage of the misunderstanding. The man’s face widened in shock and he stepped on the accelerator. Apparently, the next twenty minutes were spent speeding past traffic in makeshift slip lanes and refuse bays, beeping the horn and weaving through the throng of glinting mobiles that litter Bangkok’s highways. Mono tipped the man well for his efforts and bolted into the venue to meet me. He wasn’t really going to die but he sure felt like it at the time.

  Back at the tennis, things are going smoothly. It appears we won’t have any issues with security this week – so far they are non-existent. We’ve also spotted a few traders in the crowd; Mikka, Romeo, Leo and a few of the English guys are all present. This is good news as we now have extra drinking buddies for the week.

  ‘Seriously, dude, what the fuck happened last night? I can’t remember much at all,’ I say during the second set.

  Mono relays the story of last night – taking particular joy in retelling moments I have no recollection of whatsoever.

  It is like The Hangover. Mono and I catch a cab into the centre of town to meet up with Archie, whose holiday just happens to coincide with our work schedule: a recipe for mayhem. We eat street-cooked egg noodle on the infamous Khao San Road and head up to Archie’s hotel for some Chang beers and a few rounds of pool to get us warmed up. Then we head
down to the street party and have a few mixers. Khao San is a circus. It’s the type of place I hate; a tourist trap that has spun out of control, populated by the whole range of seasoned travellers to ignorant and innocent first-timers. The locals who frequent the place just want money. They’re loud, aggressive and incessant. But they manage to talk us into going to a ping-pong show. It’s our first time in Thailand, so it has to be done, I guess. It’s kind of like a rite of passage.

  We jump in the tuktuk with our driver, who is happy to stop off at 7–11 while we grab some road beers. It turns out to be quite a journey. We’re in traffic for around twenty minutes, hurtling down side streets and dark alleys at intense speeds in our little cart. We’re yelling and screaming for dramatic effect, singing along to the radio and passing beers to our driver, who gladly pops them open with his teeth and hands them back. We tip him with a couple of beers and find ourselves out the front of the seedy establishment that is home to one of Bangkok’s infamous ping-pong shows.

  The next hour is grim. We get drinks and take our seats. A strip show follows and quickly deteriorates into hilarious yet sad acts of human debauchery. We laugh and shout in shock and fascination. We clap when prompted to and joke with fellow audience members about the depravity of it all but, by the time it finishes, we’re all slightly sickened and ashamed by the whole charade. We’re also hammered drunk on Thai whisky and fortunately it’s time to get back in the tuktuk. We’ve all had enough of the seedy Thai underbelly and avoid the swathe of prostitutes, ladyboys and panhandlers on the Khao San Road, opting for the old-fashioned entertainment of drinking in a bar. We find one with a live band and order a bottle of the dreaded but dearly loved Sangsom whisky. If you’ve never had it, be warned – that stuff sends you bat-shit crazy. If you have, then you know what I mean. I don’t know what they put in it but the results are never boring.