Game, Set, Cash!

by Brad Hutchins

  So you’ve got St Basil’s at one end of Red Square, marking the point of the city centre, then at the other end is the Resurrection Gate and Iberian Chapel, rebuilt with red bricks in the nineties after centuries of historical importance. Red Square is considered by many to be the spiritual and physical heart of Russia. It is the origin point of all the major roads in the capital city, which, in turn, connect to all the major highways of the nation. Look it up on a map; it’s quite fascinating to see. Lenin’s mausoleum is situated in the square, and, if you’re willing to line up between 10 a.m. and 1 p.m., you can catch a glimpse of his embalmed body. I say glimpse because the security team there are even stricter than those at the tennis. You’re only allowed to linger for a few seconds before you are firmly moved on, and photos and videos are strictly forbidden.

  The rest of the week is spent travelling on the Metro (which is a national treasure in its own right, adorned with grandiose marble sculptures, statues and chandeliers), checking out the sights and frequenting bars and shisha cafes. Russia is a strange animal. There are rickety old cars, roads and buildings from the Soviet era, all used by supermodel fit women with incredible fashion sense. Then there are fancy new hotels and shopping malls next to grand old Orthodox churches in the city centre. It’s a unique landscape that depicts a superpower still trying to find its identity and strength after the fall of Communism.

  Wandering down the street, Freddy G and I see a guy walking his … goat. Fred stops to pat it and it headbutts him in the leg! I snap a photo and laugh. I can’t make head or tail of this strange place, but Freddy is loving it. He accosts random people on the street and tries to talk to them. Most cannot speak English at all but those who can are keen to practise it. The Russians are a friendly and hospitable bunch if you can break through the icy facade they unintentionally present to the world. People there will stare straight through you with piercing eyes that feel as cold as the weather, but it’s simply a matter of difference in culture – eye contact is a sign of trust in Russia.

  Freddy G is determined to get himself a Russian tattoo as a memento of this trip, so he asks our waitress if she will write out some words in Cyrillic for him.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, nothing special,’ he answers. It’s obvious he hasn’t given this idea much thought.

  ‘Okay, that’s kind of cool,’ she replies, writing ‘nothing special’ – or, should I say, ничего особенного – down on a napkin.

  ‘Oh … thanks,’ stutters Freddy, realising what’s just happened.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Our waitress smiles and heads to another table.

  Fred and I burst into hysterics at this hilarious misinterpretation.

  ‘You know what, mate?’ he blurts out over his beer. ‘I’m going to fucking get it!’

  ‘You serious?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, why not? I wanted some Russian writing on me and now I’ve got a funny story to go with it.’

  By the next tournament, he is sporting those very words on his arm. Classic.

  *

  It seems the tennis gods are willing to give me a parting gift for the year. Security doesn’t even come close to getting me in Paris. I trade with my phone tucked into my leather jacket for the entire week and it’s a welcome relief to finally do some bloody work!

  The weather is shithouse and I keep things low-key. It’s Paris. I’ve been here at least five times now. I’m sure most people would kill for a week off in Paris, staying in a boutique hotel, sampling fresh food from patisseries, visiting museums and watching the world go by from the traditional cafes that line the street. But, after the past two years on tour, it barely raises an eyebrow for me. I know what you’re thinking – I’m a spoilt brat. It’s been a long year, though, and, once again, all I can think about is the warm weather and golden beaches back home.

  In no time, I’m back in Paris’s Charles de Gaulle Airport, waiting for my final flight. It’s 5 November 2012, and I’m looking forward to swapping three degrees with rain for twenty-seven and sunny. It’s safe to say this has been the best year of my life. Sure, I put up with some shit and had some close calls, but that just adds to the excitement in the end. Somehow, I’ve managed to top last year. Snowboarding in Canada, jet skiing in Mexico, freediving in Thailand, backpacking through Israel, feasting on a range of the world’s most delicious cuisine, and soaking up culture in new countries, not to mention about thirty other stops in-between. Then again, I’ve come to the same conclusion around this time of year for the past five years. That’s how long I’ve been travelling now, and that’s a pretty good point in my argument that travel is the most fulfilling thing a person can do.

  I’m stoked to survive the trading week in Paris. At least this way I get to finish the road on my own terms. Despite my recent troubles, the undercover police who frequent the stands and the fact that Sandy (who’s still a fresh face on the tour) got booted on the Monday, I made it through. It was a strange tournament in every way. All of the top players bowed out or withdrew early. David Ferrer won his first Masters title, and a young Polish guy named Jerzy Janowicz made a name for himself by defeating five of the top twenty en route to the final. We won a bucketload.

  So, is this the end of the road for me? There’s talk of us trading the Australian tournaments in January but that won’t really be ‘the road’ for an Aussie. I’m not holding my breath (apart from when I practise my freediving exercises of a morning). In the meantime, there is a whole summer of waves waiting back home. Year two on tour is over, and it’s time to put down my phone and pick up my surfboard.

  23

  THE LAST HURRAH

  It’s January in Queensland, and the weather is steamy and sunny. Most afternoons, crackling thunderclouds rip through the city, unleashing the pent-up precipitation from another humid day in the subtropics. It’s the first week of the tennis calendar and the rapscallions are back together. I’m with Fitzy and Archie for our trading swansong on the Australian circuit. Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne. I’m in my homeland, and I’m comfortable, but I certainly won’t be complacent on court. There are snitches at every tournament now. Freddy G has already been caught and thrown out of the VIP area at the Heineken Open in Auckland, prompting the New Zealand Herald to run an article headlined ‘Sport-betting spectators ejected’. Things are escalating very early in the year and these hired scouts are the reason.

  The officials like to call us ‘the rodents’. So what should we call the vermin who rat on the rodents? We despise these guys and vice versa. The hypocrisy of it all is that we’re both here doing the same thing – getting paid to travel the world and watch live sport. Our battles are no longer with officials or umpires. The snitches are our main problem now. Which is frustrating because they’re not even professionals. They’re just young punks – friends and family of officials who have been hired by a large company that is making aggressive moves to ensure it owns the live scores exclusively. Somehow these young punks have lucked into a fun job that allows them to get paid, watch live sport and see the world. Sound familiar? Disguises, pre-emptive movement and covert trading are all necessary to outfox them. I thought my job was easy – all they have to do is spot me and call it in! I’m in the wrong line of work. The boys and I joke about becoming turncoats and wrangling a deal with the enemy. We’d be the best damn scouts possible, already knowing every face on tour and all. No chance! So this game of cat and mouse continues, unknown to the spectators, as the action unfolds on court in a new year of tennis.

  It’s just not the same now. The game has changed and the fun has been taken out of this job. I’m constantly pursued through the first few days at the Brisbane tournament, meaning I spend precious little time court-side trading. When I escape to a beer garden to trade the big-screen action from a beanbag, I’m pounced on, thrown out and banned from the event. Not even my home town is safe these d
ays!

  This is what my trading life has been reduced to – giving it a crack, getting spotted by a scout, booted by security, embarrassed in front of a crowd, and releasing my frustration by passing the rest of the week with borderline alcoholic antics. I want to get in there and get on court and watch some points and hit some buttons. I’ve been doing this for two years – I’m good at it, I’m used to it, and I’m pissed off that a set of rules has deemed me unworthy of entering the premises to continue my work.

  At this point in time, January 2013, no trader has been prosecuted by the law. But a very large and influential company has purchased the rights for live score updates. They have a contract that guarantees them fast live updates directly from the umpires’ chair. Quite amusing that the umpires who despise us so much have now become the ultimate court-siders! Moreover, how can anyone claim to own the score of a match?! It unfolds in the public eye. It is general public knowledge from start to finish. The idea seems a little preposterous to me. Yet they continue to vilify us with increasing malevolence. The hypocrisy of it all is that they’re creating a lucrative monopoly by muscling the competition out under corporate demands for millions of dollars. It’s okay for them to do it but if we try to trade then we’re suddenly ‘threatening the integrity of the sport’. Bullshit.

  The back end are getting frustrated. Nowadays, they’re trading most matches from inferior TV broadcasts because we’re being kicked out. At home, in front of the computer, it’s hard to understand just how impossibly tight venue security is. Every point we miss is a trading opportunity lost. The profit margins are dwindling and we can’t continue to run a viable enterprise under these circumstances. Our trading lives have run their course, and it’s time to admit defeat. Even fancy gadgets and fake moustaches can’t help us these days. Nads, Fitzy and I have discussed our options and regretfully decided we’ll be turning our phones in once the Australian leg is over. While our faces are now blacklisted, there will always be opportunities for new players to enter the trading game and try their luck. Some European traders may try to keep the dream alive, but, for the Aussies, retirement looms.

  Sydney turns out to be an infuriatingly similar affair to Brisbane. On the second day, I see the snitch on court during my first game. I recognise the smug little prick from last year. Before I even have a chance to duck off court and give him the slip, he’s called security. I’m trapped. Game over. I don’t even wait for them to approach me. I meet them halfway down the stand and simply say, ‘Let’s do this.’

  After being escorted from the grounds, I sit on a park bench and wait for the inevitable. They’re on a blitz so it won’t be long now. Lo and behold, within five minutes, Fitzy comes lumbering out the gates after also being banned from the grounds and read the Trespass Act. It sucks not being able to do your job. The time off is great, but you still feel like a failure.

  The guilt washes away later that week at Bondi Beach. We see the inside of a fair few pubs, then meet up with old mates before bar-hopping all the way to Kings Cross and back. On Sunday morning Archie wakes up on a park bench with two hippy girls standing over him offering him croissants for breakfast. He gratefully accepts them, then runs home to wake us up so we can get organised for yet another taxi to yet another airport.

  *

  We were astonished that things were so dire Down Under. It was a sure sign of the times and an affirmation that we had made the right decision in letting the road go. We did, however, have high hopes for Melbourne. The Grand Slam crowd and massive venue would make life easier for us. With any luck, we might even be able to survive the two weeks.

  Our flight from Sydney to Melbourne was the most entertaining flight I’ve ever been on in my life. In his post-hangover revelry, Fitzy decided he’d rather stay drunk and become the unofficial in-flight entertainment for the duration of the trip.

  ‘Can I have your IDs, please?’ the hostess had asked at check-in.

  ‘Do you really need them?’ Archie complained from below the counter as he rifled through his bag for his misplaced passport.

  ‘Um, yes. Of course we do. You can’t get on a plane without it,’ the annoyed hostess answered. ‘Also, I’m going to ask that all three of you boys go have a coffee and chew some gum before boarding, otherwise you may not be allowed on the flight.’

  ‘Yeah, we might have had a few drinks last night,’ I conceded.

  ‘A few?’ she scoffed. ‘You stink like a brewery!’

  Archie was still rustling around in his bag like a tragic hungover mess and the poor check-in lady was really starting to get frustrated.

  ‘There are people waiting,’ she reminded him. Although I think most people in the queue were amused rather than annoyed.

  ‘Can you just put him in a separate seat from us?’ Tim joked. ‘He slept on a park bench last night so we’d rather not be near him.’

  ‘Oh, fuck you,’ Archie mumbled from his bag, finally finding his passport and jumping to his feet.

  Amusingly, the hostess had quite liked Fitzy’s suggestion and was in the process of allocating our seats. ‘Okay, I’ve put you two together. Archie, you’re a few rows back in a middle seat.’

  ‘What? You’re kidding me!’ cried Archie. Tim and I burst into laughter and walked through the gate with our outraged and soon-to-be ostracised English mate.

  This little manoeuvre turned out to be a blessing in disguise for me because it left a spare seat to my left. We enjoyed a mandatory hair of the dog and met up with Sandy and Freddy, who had recently turned up as reinforcements to trade the week out and were now flying to Melbourne with us.

  We finished our morning beers (so much for coffee) and wandered down to the boarding gate. Tim and I chatted in our aisle, and I waited to see if I’d get some extra leg space. The plane was almost full and nobody had sat next to me. I was pretty happy with the result when I heard an enchanting Cambridge accent lean over and say, ‘Excuse me, sorry, but that’s my seat.’ I looked up to meet the blue eyes of a very attractive blonde girl in her early twenties.

  ‘Cool,’ I replied, absolutely stoked with this outcome, and got up so she could buckle in. As I stood in the aisle, I looked back at Archie a few rows behind me. He’d seen the whole thing and was even more outraged than before. I shot him a cheeky grin and he shook his head as Fitzy and I sat down and introduced ourselves to our travel companion for the next hour. She was a friendly English girl named Emily who was backpacking around Australia and looking forward to seeing Melbourne.

  Twenty minutes later, we had beers in our hands and were laughing about stories from the past few days. Fitzy was ordering rounds of beers and getting them delivered around the plane to our mates. The service was amazing for a budget flight and we were all having a great time, until the turbulence kicked in. I personally couldn’t give a shit about turbulence, but Tim openly admits he’s a massive pussy when it gets bumpy.

  ‘Oh, nup, nup, this is not cool, man, fuck this shit, I’m not cool with this!’ he started.

  I laughed my arse off. I couldn’t help it. The poor bastard was shitting himself and all I could do was laugh at him. I felt a smidgeon guilty but it was just too funny. I knew the plane was fine and that everything was under control, but Fitzy was not having a bar of it. He’d chosen the wrong line of work to get into.

  After the bumps died down, the flight attendant returned to ask if we wanted more beers. ‘I just had a feeling you fellas might like a few more before we land,’ he said. Damn straight. Talk about service.

  ‘Yep,’ said Fitzy. ‘Six more, thanks.’

  ‘Well, I can’t serve you more than one each, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s cool,’ I interrupted. ‘He’s not having two. One’s for Emily.’

  The host looked at our attractive blonde friend as she nodded in agreement. She was a keeper. It was bullshit, of course; we all knew Fitzy just wanted two beer
s. He got them.

  Then the stench hit us. Somebody on board had committed the lowest of airline faux pas – the dreaded pressure-sealed fart. It was a fucking stinker too! Fitzy was outraged and was drunk enough to let everyone know.

  ‘That is fucking not on!’ he yelled. Everyone around us was coughing and nodding in agreement as they covered their noses with T-shirts or hats. The small Asian man in front of us was, according to Fitzy, the major suspect.

  He tapped the guy on the shoulder. ‘That really stinks, mate.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I said that really stinks, mate! Seriously, did you fart or what?’

  The question went unanswered and the laughter and coughing slowly dispersed with the noxious gas.

  Once it was safe, Freddy came up for a chat. In the process, he tripped up one of the hostesses serving food. She had such enormous fake boobs and lips that she could have started her own silicon factory. To me, it is not an attractive look. Apparently, this did not faze Fitzy.

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised on Freddy’s behalf, ‘my friend is a bit retarded.’

  ‘You!’ – the hostess spun around – ‘Are a menace.’

  Tim laughed; it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, and, judging by her tone, it was more of a cheeky jab than an insult. Tim saw an opportunity and ran with it. He started chatting her up and pretty soon she was asking where he was off to next with his incredible job.

  ‘Ahh, London, Montpellier, Amsterdam, Indian Wells, Miami,’ he boasted, just getting into his stride. ‘Monte Carlo, Madrid, Rome, Paris …’ He knew full well, of course, that he wouldn’t be going around this year.

  ‘Okay, okay, that’s enough,’ she laughed in amazement. As a domestic hostess, she must have found this pretty impressive. ‘How do I sign up?’ she asked.

  ‘Just have to know the right people,’ Fitzy replied with a wink.