Game, Set, Cash!

by Brad Hutchins

  ‘Well, do you need a girlfriend then?’ she joked.

  Fitzy didn’t miss a beat. ‘Sure, throw me your phone number.’

  She laughed and walked off to serve the next customers. ‘You’ll get me fired!’ she yelled over her shoulder.

  ‘Whatever,’ Fitzy shouted down the aisle. ‘Relax, it’s called flirting!’

  We drained our beers as the plane descended and started getting excited for a big night out with all the crew. At Grand Slams, the whole team comes together to work. They only roll around four times a year, so it’s a great opportunity to catch up with everyone and party hard. Once the plane landed, we disembarked and made our way to baggage collection. In the process, the hostess handed Fitzy a napkin with her phone number on it, and I got Emily’s number. High fives all round.

  While we waited for our luggage, Fitzy befriended a Frenchman named Henri who was standing nearby. They started chatting about the tennis and Henri told us that he was a full-time hitting partner who worked closely with some of the top French players. We were quitting so we threw caution to the wind and told him we were there to trade. He was nonchalant about it all. In fact, he invited us to come and sit with him during the week and gave us his number.

  Our luggage came drifting down the conveyor belt along with … Sandy. Nobody had noticed him disappear a few seconds ago and now the idiot appeared out of nowhere as a joke.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to do that!’ he laughed as we grabbed our bags.

  We caught a maxi cab into the city, dropping Henri and Emily off along the way, thanking them for their company and agreeing to meet up later in the week. We rendezvoused with the rest of the team and then the real fun began. They were staying in a hostel, and, while it might not have been as cosy as our boutique hotel down the road, it was certainly a lot more fun.

  The hostel bar served cheap drinks with a big screen showing sport, along with a pool table and lounge space where we could entertain ourselves. We made great use of these facilities and downed jugs of beer like Prohibition was about to be reinstated. It was incredible to catch up with our team and hear their stories. It had been a few months since we’d all been together in the same place, and excitement levels were high. We all got tickets to a gig and celebrated with a cracking night out on the town.

  *

  On Monday morning, it’s back to business. And, in the trader business, it doesn’t get any bigger than a Grand Slam event. This isn’t just any Slam, either – it’s my personal favourite. The first and foremost of the calendar year. The one that gets the ball rolling and challenges every player with its scorching hot days and energetic crowd: the Australian Open. I might be biased, but I honestly think it’s the best in every aspect. Wimbledon might have the history and prestige, the US might boast the biggest arena in the sport, and the French might be the only campaign fought on the ‘red stuff’, but for me the Aussie is the grandest slam.

  Melbourne has been voted the most liveable city in the world on a number of occasions, and it’s easy to see why. During January, the weather is incredible. Blue skies and greenery surround the vast venue, and the air is abuzz with activity and excitement. The CBD is a refreshingly navigable area, dotted with charming historic colonial buildings, girt by the Yarra River and serviced by Melbourne’s iconic tram system. If that’s not enough, there’s the ritzy Crown Casino, the mammoth structure of the Melbourne Cricket Ground and Federation Square, where you can watch all the tennis action on a giant screen for free! Australians love their sport and there’s no better time to celebrate it than in summer. You can walk from downtown along the river all the way to Melbourne Park and soak up the ambiance from numerous bars, pubs, buskers and cafes that energise the water’s edge along the way.

  But it’s the atmosphere inside the venue that makes the Australian Open for me. No other tennis crowd in the world is as colourful and vocal as the Australian public. The outfits and warpaint people wear, the chants they make up, the signs for their favourite players and the constant support are what make the place. With such a multicultural population, there is no shortage of supporters from any competing nation – Serbians and Croatians are the most avid and emotional of them all, and they show up in hordes to support their players.

  In my opinion, Margaret Court Arena is one of the greatest assets to the game of tennis. A ‘free entry’ court that anyone inside the grounds can get onto (provided they make it on before the queue explodes), it is often the site of gladiatorial battles. The crème de la crème will never play here – they’re on one of the stadiums dishing out straight-set thrashings against lower-seeded players. However, the best of the rest are showcased and pitted against each other in their most important hours. Struggles for a berth in the next round and battles of will and skill take place. This is often the venue for these players’ most desperate, most explosive and entertaining tennis. I once saw Marcos Baghdatis smash four racquets in a row on Margaret Court during an outburst of pent-up frustration. The crowd loved every second of it.

  The bogans, diehard fans, loyal supporters and average punters all converge on this arena to witness some of the most hard-fought tennis you could ever hope to see. With beer flowing steadily from midday to midnight, and chants booming across the grounds, the pregnant silences of Wimbledon and the umpire’s omnipotent ‘quiet please’ become a distant memory. Mexican waves, pub songs and beach-ball games take precedence over ceremony. Archie once came up to me after his first Margaret Court Arena experience gushing, ‘It was like a soccer match. The place was absolutely buzzing. I’ve never seen anything like it!’ Every point becomes a spectacle. It’s something special and unique in tennis, and in my eyes it epitomises the Australian Open: big, loud and rambunctious. While beer may not be as sophisticated as a genial Pimm’s, it sure brews a more boisterous broth.

  *

  I realise that I’ve painted an alcohol-fuelled picture of our world here. Admittedly, we drink a lot more than your regular group of workmates. While most staff get together for Friday drinks, we have a talent for igniting massive and uncontrollable binges on any given day of the week. Put a bunch of good mates in their mid-twenties in a hotel after a long day at work and what do you expect? However, in saying that, I must admit we still have a hell of a lot of fun when we’re sober – which, amazingly, is more often than when we are drunk. This week there are Snickers-eating competitions, arm-wrestles, dry-biscuit-eating races, pool games and numerous wagers taken on to make things even more interesting.

  On Monday, Freddy is forced to relieve himself behind the stand because he can’t leave court in fear of missing a pivotal point or injury. His match is still going on while he takes a rushed piss underneath a stand full of oblivious spectators. Not to be outdone, Nads goes one better in his hungover state by having an unanticipated spew over the railings while sitting in the stand. Nobody notices and he doesn’t even have to leave his seat. Now that’s dedication! These stories keep us all entertained during our boring days on court as they filter around via text message.

  While standing out the front of the venue on Tuesday morning waiting for Felix to arrive with tickets, a bright orange and green bug a few centimetres long lands on Mono’s neck. He has no idea but I’ve spotted it.

  ‘Hold still,’ I warn, while I pick the bug off him. ‘I know how you English fellas are when it comes to creepy-crawlies.’

  I am thinking specifically of an occasion when Mono had a hilarious run-in with a wasp on court in Estoril, Portugal. He darted back and forth in his seat, with his phone in his right hand, to no avail as the persistent wasp homed in on his face.

  ‘Ah, get away! Get away!’ was the failed mantra. The wasp continued to buzz around his face as the match went on and he was trying desperately to concentrate on the points being scored. The wasp would not let up, though, and after being pushed to the brink poor Mono snapped. ‘Fuck off!’ he yelled at the wasp, hurling h
is phone at it in desperation. It missed and clunked down the steps of the steel stand, making an absolute racket.

  ‘Oh shit!’ quickly followed as he realised what he’d just done. The program on his phone was still running, as was the match. That meant gambling could still take place without his control. It was irresponsible trading at its best!

  ‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit’ became the new mantra as he ran down the stairs to retrieve his phone. Luckily, nothing drastic went down on court in that time and the wasp even left him alone after that.

  But it’s a simple fact: the English don’t mix well with creepy-crawlies, and Mono is no exception.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Mono asks, as I hold up the bug.

  ‘Well, this little guy was crawling around on your neck, trying to give you a kiss,’ I reply.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ he cries, and recoils.

  ‘He’s all right, mate,’ I tease. ‘He just wants to say hello.’

  I look at the colourful bug inquisitively as it crawls over my fingers and hand. I haven’t seen one before so I have to admit it’s a bit weird.

  ‘Oh, you’re so tough. Why don’t you go and eat it then?’ taunts Mono.

  I think about it for a second and decide no. I have an idea who might, though. ‘Umm, nah,’ I reply, ‘but you will, won’t ya, Fitzy?’ I offer him the bug.

  All eyes turn to Tim. He contemplates the bug for a grand total of half a second before snapping it up in a single gulp.

  ‘Oh my god!’ laughs Mono.

  ‘Ahhhh,’ screams Archie in a slightly more intense response and runs for the hills.

  We all laugh and watch him pull up about ten metres away, as if he’s finally found safety.

  ‘Archie, you clown,’ yells Fitzy. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ he retorts. ‘Orange and green, man! They’re the danger colours! You never go for the orange and green.’

  We all laugh as Felix turns up with the tickets. It is an entertaining start to the day.

  *

  The weather is great all week and so is the tennis. This is more like it. I am trading matches without the slightest hint of pressure from security. I am sitting in the stands, chatting to fellow spectators, enjoying the sunshine and loving my job once again. This week reminds me of the good old days, and it is a bittersweet way to end my trading career. However, it’s not quite over yet, and we still have a great weekend to look forward to. Things are destined to end in typical bizarre trader style.

  On Saturday, we start the morning with steaming hangovers from yet another hilarious night out. It is becoming hazardously familiar, but hair of the dog is the only palatable option. Fitzy and I arrive at the venue to witness the biggest crowd the Australian Open has ever seen. He can’t even get on court. I grab a beer and take off to my court, just scraping in on time to find a seat. The crowd is amazing, and I thoroughly enjoy the atmosphere. There are Mexican waves, chants and songs all unfolding around the stadium. I trade the match out and have a break for the next few hours.

  I message Tim to see how he has fared on Margaret Court. The line to get on has not moved. I find him in the same spot where I left him, albeit much drunker. To continue the trend, we grab more beers and blow the Margaret Court option off. It’s our last weekend of trading and we’re going to enjoy it.

  Fitzy messages Henri, the Frenchman, to see if he wants to hang out. He replies immediately and invites us over to Hisense Arena to join him. We part ways; I head off to trade an epic five-setter on an outside court, and Fitzy heads to Hisense. It’s not until Fitzy gets there that he realises they’ll be sitting in the players’ box. Is this a good idea? Fitzy is public-enemy number one as far as the tennis authorities are concerned. How will they react if they see him sitting on court among the French players? It will cause all kinds of uproar and controversy!

  A number of players are in the box, along with coaching staff and hitting partners. They’re curious to see what Fitzy is doing with this strange program on his phone. He explains it to them, and they’re completely unfazed. They had no idea court-side trading existed, and, if anything, they’re a little impressed and intrigued by this ingenuity. What a contrasting perspective to the officials’! The sad thing is, if these guys were to be seen sitting with Fitzy, they would probably be investigated by TIU and regarded with suspicion from that point onwards. It appears there’s no danger of that happening, though, because they’ve sat on court for an entire match and nobody seems to care in the slightest. Not only does Fitzy get to meet and hang with most of the French team, he also gets to trade from one of the best seats in the house.

  Meanwhile, in a juxtaposition of mammoth proportions, the most outrageous and unbelievable of all trading quandaries is unfolding on the other side of Melbourne Park. Archie has been working on centre court all day, so we haven’t heard from or seen him for hours. It has been a stinking-hot day in Melbourne, so he has taken a hotel towel with him to put over his head and cool him down while sat in the sun. The problem with Melbourne is it can be boiling hot during the day and still end up freezing cold once night falls. The towel is the perfect accomplice for these days, because it doubles as a blanket once the cool air filters into the stadium.

  Without thinking, Archie places this towel over his legs to keep him warm and hide his phone while he continues to trade. He hasn’t considered the fact that he is hitting buttons every point and moving his hand around an awful lot while it is concealed and positioned right by his crotch. You can imagine how that looks. It doesn’t help that he is trading a women’s match and sitting by himself up in the back row on a Saturday night, when any normal guy would be hanging out with his mates or girlfriend. To some spectators, he must look like a bona fide creep.

  Without any notice, the police storm into the stand and grab Archie, dragging him out of the stadium and taking him aside for questioning. Although he is disappointed and a little rattled, Archie simply assumes this is a routine booting. He is wrong. The police take his details, search his items and start going through his phone. It appears they are particularly interested in searching through his photos, for some reason.

  ‘Now, do you know what this is all about?’ asks a female officer.

  This is the usual question, and Archie counters with the usual response. ‘No, I’ve got no idea what’s going on here. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Well, mate, we’ve had complaints from people in the crowd that you’ve been up the back of the court playing with yourself.’

  There is a moment of shocked silence as this sinks in.

  ‘You WHAT?’ Archie blurts out in bewilderment.

  ‘Yeah, mate. Don’t play dumb, either. We watched you on camera for a while and you were blatantly fiddling around down there with a towel hanging over your lap. Enjoy getting your rocks off to women’s tennis, huh?’

  ‘No, no, no. There’s been a big misunderstanding here!’ he starts.

  ‘Save it, mate. We know what you are!’ snaps the officer.

  These words stun Archie. He’s been typecast as a pervert. In their eyes, he is a total creep and there is nothing he can do about it … Well, there is one thing: tell the truth. But the truth is only a lesser evil and it would get him in trouble too. It would guarantee his ejection from the venue and there is still week two of the Open to trade. Decisions, decisions. And only a split second to make one while the police glare at him with misplaced disdain. Archie’s shoulders slump in resignation as he decides to take this embarrassing predicament on the chin. Down to the very last tournament, he is loyal to the road and never gives himself up as a trader.

  ‘I don’t believe this.’ He shakes his head in dismay.

  ‘Well, you have two choices here,’ says the copper. ‘You can fight the accusation in court at a later date or you can take an on the spot fine and be on
your way.’

  ‘Really? Okay, how long will it take to go to court?’

  ‘We can’t say for certain but usually it takes a few weeks.’

  Archie doesn’t have weeks to spare. He is booked on a flight back to England in ten days’ time.

  ‘Right, just give me the fine then. Let’s get this over and done with.’

  He hates saying that – he is admitting to a creepy crime he hasn’t committed. With the fine comes a twenty-four-hour ban from the venue. Let’s think about that for a second. For trading on court, you get banned for life. For doing the five-knuckle shuffle in the stands, you get told to piss off for one day! That’s not the only crazy thing about the punishment, though. When the policewoman hands Archie the fine, he is flabbergasted yet again. Five hundred and sixty dollars! He stops in his tracks and considers trying to fight it in court. Then he thinks about how much it would cost to change his flight home and accepts this horrible happenstance. He is a self-confessed public masturbator and there is nothing he can do about it!

  He is fined for indecent public conduct and marched to the exit of Melbourne Park. At least he will be allowed to return next week and continue trading. He has learnt a valuable lesson from this caper – never again will he take a towel to the tennis.

  *

  The final week of the Australian Open and of our lives as travelling tennis traders was a thoroughly enjoyable one. We caught up with friends, enjoyed meals in restaurants and pubs, reminisced over beers on rooftop bars, and relaxed by the beach in St Kilda. I even met up with Emily from my flight the week before. It was the prelude to a normal Australian life, and, although it signalled the end of the road, it was a celebration more than anything. We said our farewells to the remaining traders left on tour (their numbers were thin these days), and finally the time came for us all to part ways. It was a sad but acceptable moment. We’d lived the dream but were ready to move on.

  My flight home to Brisbane was a bumpy one. It seemed the airways had saved the best for last. Maybe my theory was right and I’d milked too much from this great ride. Wouldn’t it be ironic if my final plane was the one to go down? For the first time in my life, I felt apprehensive about putting my faith in a metal capsule in the air. There was a cyclone approaching the coast and the gale-force winds were making life very difficult for our pilot. Our first landing was aborted as we burst through some extremely low-lying cloud to an abrupt and alarming view of a runway that was a lot closer than expected. I’d never been so ungrateful to have a window seat! Luckily, our second attempt was much more successful. A few moments later, I was on solid ground, thanking the pilot for his efforts. This is where the road ended for me, in the best place it possibly could: home.