Dave and The Tennis Centre

Because this story admits to an element of fraudulent conduct, let us instead treat it as a work of fiction. A very specific, very detailed work of fiction that just happens to line up exactly with my life.

In late 1987, my good friend Johnny and his girlfriend at the time, Meg, saw an ad in the newspaper: Casual hospitality attendants wanted for the new Tennis Centre, opening with the Australian Open in January. It was the very first year Melbourne Park would host the tournament, and they needed an army of casuals. Johnny and Meg applied, both got in, and were due to work a two-week stint.

The day before the Open, there was an orientation session. They were shown around, given uniforms, and sorted out with passes. It was supposed to be smooth and professional. It wasn’t.

That afternoon, they came back from orientation, and I dropped into Meg’s place in Malvern to see how it went. At that stage of life, I was between jobs. Which is the polite way of saying unemployed, broke, and spending the summer on a steady diet of bourbon, bongs, and avoiding responsibility.

“How’d it go?” I asked.

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Oh, it was a shit show, Dave. Their computer system crashed. They had no idea who they’d hired or where they were supposed to be working. It took forever to get it sorted. Luckily Meg and I had our letters of appointment, so we got processed quickly. But heaps of others didn’t.”

And then it hit me.

“So hang on… they have no idea who they’ve actually hired?” I said, leaning forward, the cogs in my brain already grinding into action.

Johnny gave me the side-eye. “What are you thinking?”

“Do you have your letter there? Meg, can I use your phone real quick?”

Within minutes, I was on the line to the catering company. “Hi, yeah, I was supposed to attend orientation today, but I was holidaying down the coast and my car broke down on the way back. Just got home and realised I’ve missed it. Sorry about that.”

“What’s your name, love?” came the reply.

“I’m David Hooper. Got the letter here you sent me back in October.”

Tap tap tap. Silence. Then: “Hmm, we don’t seem to have you in the system… but that’s fine. The system was down earlier. Let’s just get your details again.”

And just like that, I was hired.

I hung up the phone, smug. Johnny shook his head. “So you just bullshitted your way into a job?”

“You’re unbelievable, Hooper.”

Next morning, I rocked up to Melbourne Park bright and early. As instructed, I waited at one of the gates to the underground carpark, where a staffer eventually came down and escorted me to the catering company’s caravan, a faded old thing that looked like it had already done three tours of duty at country footy clubs.

Inside, they handed me a pass, a bundle of shirts, and instructions to bring in my bank details the following day. Then I was taken upstairs to the concourse to meet my supervisor.

My assigned role? Corporate catering. We were a team of about ten whose job was to prep hampers and drinks for the corporate boxes near the net on Centre Court. Good seats. Classy customers. Not bad for a bloke who’d just lied his way in.

The morning was chaos. We ran sandwiches and drinks from the kitchens (where Meg was stationed, so I even stopped for a quick chat) up to our concourse station. Then once the corporates arrived, we assembled their pre-paid hampers and carted them up to their seats.

By noon, it was done. Our shift turned into a waiting game. The boss told us we’d basically have nothing to do until the end of the session’s play, when we’d collect Eskies and boxes. So he started letting us take breaks.

Which is how I ended up wandering outside to visit Johnny.

It was a scorching day, and the bars were heaving. Johnny was working the bar near Court One, red-faced, drenched in sweat, pulling beers as fast as humanly possible. I leaned casually on the counter, watching him drown under the pressure.

“Geez, you guys are flat out,” I said. “It’s dead where I am.”

Johnny shot me a look that could strip paint. “You shouldn’t even have a job here, and I’m sweating my arse off while you’re just wandering around. If you’re so quiet, they should send some of you here.”

I grinned. “Why don’t you ask your boss? Then we could work together.”

He did. She thought it was a great idea, but told me to check with my own supervisor. So I went back inside, found him, and explained. “Hey, the bar outside Court One is slammed, their boss wants me to help out.”

He shrugged. “Fine. But make sure you still sign in here each morning and sign out at night, since they won’t have you on their paperwork. Finish today here, and start with them tomorrow.”

“Done,” I said.

Except on the walk back to Johnny’s bar, my brain lit up like a dodgy poker machine. By the time I arrived, I’d decided on my true plan.

“Hey,” I told Johnny’s boss, “unfortunately my supervisor reckons we’ll be much busier later in the week, so he wants me to stay where I am.”

Boom. Corporate thought I was working bar. Bar thought I was corporate. In reality? I was working nowhere.

Johnny was furious when he found out. “You’re a f#cking #unt, Hooper! Not only are you not meant to be here, but now you’re not even working and you’re still getting paid. And I’m sweating my arse off. F#CK YOU!”

I smiled, wandered off, and spent the afternoon doing absolutely nothing.

At the end of the session, our team collected Eskies and boxes. Problem: loads of booze left over. Bottles with scuffed labels, drinks that had sat in ice too long. Couldn’t resell them. Supervisor shrugged. “Split it amongst yourselves.”

I walked out with 50 mini spirit bottles, half a dozen wines, and some Crownies for good measure.

Day Two, I returned, signed in, and dropped into the admin caravan with my bank details. Nobody was there, but on the table was a stack of Access All Areas passes. So I pocketed one.

That morning, I sat in Centre Court watching Ivan Lendl train with Tony Roche. One of maybe six people in the whole arena. I felt like a VIP. Afterwards I headed back to the caravan and gave them my banking details.

For the rest of the fortnight, I lived like a ghost employee. I’d sign in, then disappear. I watched matches from the tunnels, wandered around the grounds, taunted Johnny whenever I felt like it, and even spent two whole days at the MCG watching one-day cricket while still “on shift.” During the first week Australia played Sri Lanka and Australia won the match by 38 runs. Late in the second week Australia played New Zealand, and Australian won that one by 8 wickets.

Meanwhile Johnny was still furious, still sweating, still stuck in that bloody bar. By the end of the fortnight, he wasn’t even speaking to me.

When payday hit, my jaw dropped. Around three grand for two weeks of skiving off, drinking, and watching sport. In 1988 money. I strutted into the city and blew some of it on new clothes, looking like a man who had scammed the system and won.

And the best part?

I’d swindled my way into a job I never applied for, dodged every ounce of real work, pocketed free booze, scored three grand, and spent a fortnight watching tennis and cricket like a VIP. I was convinced I’d cracked the code of life.

But when I strutted into Johnny’s place in my brand-new clothes, waiting for him to admit defeat, he just looked me up and down, shook his head, and said:

“You still look like a dickhead, Hooper.”

And that’s when I realised, I hadn’t cracked the code at all. I’d just cracked Johnny.