tampa's "short skirt" trades...

Many years ago, my mentor said something that shocked me at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I observed, the truer it became. It goes like this: It’s not as important that I succeed, as it is that my friends fail.

Let me start at the beginning – it’s as good a place as any. I was born September 30, 1945. It was near the end of World War II. I was the first born son, the first grandchild on other side of the family. It was a time of hope, after so many years of economic hardship and war. My early childhood was all but a dream come true. My parents had been high school sweethearts, we lived in a modest but very comfortable home just outside of Philadelphia. And I was the center of attention -–my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and all of their friends showered me with love, affection, and lots and lots of toys. After so many years of hard times, things were going to be different for all of the adults in my life, and I was the embellishment of the better times to come.

Eight years later, that all came to an end when my parents turned from being high school sweethearts to bitter enemies, and divorced. An ugly child custody battle ensued, ending with an eight year old child sitting on a witness stand, and being asked by a judge to choose between my mother or my father. I chose my mom – my dad never forgave me for it. Never.

The modest but comfortable home turned into a two-room, shared bath apartment. One side of the family all but disappeared from my life, the other side now had lots of children of their own – I was not to be the center of attention for a long time to come.

We’ll skip the details of the following years – with but one exception.

Unlike many people, I can identify turning points in my life to the exact moment in time that they occurred. The first such “turning point” came on a chilly Spring morning in 1958. It was the second Saturday in April, it was overcast, and windy, but it was a day that almost every boy in my town had been looking forward to for months. It was Little League tryout day.

I was 12 years old that year, fat, and very unathletic. But I loved baseball, and it was my last year of eligibility. I wanted nothing more than to be part of a team – to play baseball on a real field, with real uniforms, and real “fans” in the stands cheering us on. My hometown league was divided into two divisions – Majors and Minors. And on this particular morning the hopefuls were to be given a test, a simple test to let the “coaches” decide which division a boy would be assigned to play in. The test was nothing more than one of the men throwing a ball high into the air, and seeing how the would be player handled the simulated “pop-fly”. Each boy had two chances. Both times as the ball sailed high into the air, I lost sight of it in the overcast sky, and the ball dropped to the ground.

They assigned me to a Minor League team – Colls Camera, coached by Mr. Simpson. I was disappointed that I had not made the Majors, but not much. I was going to be part of the team, and that’s all that really mattered.

Fat kids in Little League almost always end up being the catcher, and I was no exception. Every night, after supper, we had a practice session. I was in my glory – it was everything I had ever dreamed it would be. I had never participated in any organized sport before, and to be honest, my skill level left much to be desired.

At long last the season was to begin – there was one final practice, and on that night Mr. Simpson would hand out our uniforms and hats. The anticipation was more than a boy could handle, so I showed up even earlier then usual. At long last Mr. Simpson showed up, and we could see the big cardboard boxes in the back of his station wagon – boxes holding the coveted uniforms and hats. The symbols that proved to all the world that a boy, this boy, belonged to the team.

But there was something else in Mr, Simpson’s vehicle that night – it was a boy, a stranger none of us had ever seen before. Mr. Simpson got out, but the stranger remained behind. Mr. Simpson called me aside – no doubt for a special strategy meeting, right? Wrong. He told me that I just wasn’t really good enough to play, and that he had found this other kid who was going to replace me. He also asked that I leave the practice field, so as not to be a distraction.

I did as he asked, got on my bike, and with the sounds of my former team mates laughing and gathering around Mr. Simpson’s station wagon to get their uniforms and hats, I began the trip back home. It was during the long lonely ride – the long lonely bitter ride home, filled with shame and despair that I vowed to never again be a “team player”. Life had taught me a lesson, and the events that had transpired during the Spring of 1958 changed me forever. That was 45 years ago, but I can remember that night as though it just happened. The memories are no less bitter, no less painful...

 

Well, unlike your Little League coach, the stock market will not send you home because your not good enough. The players in this league will be happy your still on the "team", at least for as long as your money holds out.

With regard to baseball you said "my skill level left much to be desired" Are things really any different in this new "league"? I can't tell from your tongue-in-cheek style of writing when your serious and when your not. Did you really lose over $29K trading Hersey's rockets? Then it looks like you take trades from this Mohan character, who ever the hell he is. Now your on to some DEMA thing that you don't want to discuss. So, how do you rate your skill level now?

As you found out in little league, just showing up doesn't make you a ballplayer. Neither does it make you a trader.

 

Growing up can be awkward and embarrassing – sometimes filled with moments and events a man would just as soon keep to himself. And that’s what I shall do – keep them to myself, keep them private.

Instead, I would rather move along to the times that are filled with more triumphs – the good times. After stumbling along, accomplishing little or nothing in life – uneventful years, unremarkable years – we come to the early 70’s. September 1, 1970 to be precise. It was on that day that my life would change forever – and this time for the better.

It was on that day that I entered into what you might call the world of “show business”. How or why are not important. The exact particulars will remain confidential. But for the next 29 years, 3 months, and 2 days – until December 2, 1999 – I could do no wrong. At least professionally. Yes, there were personal disasters – a divorce that almost sent me over the edge chief among them, and other things that I do not care to tell you about. But professionally, it was magic.

I met people, went places, and did things that mer mortals can only dream about. And for the last 15 years I made money – lots and lots of money. How much? My annual take was a multiple of what most people would consider a dream income – that’s how much.

For the most part, we keep score, and measure success in this country by how much money we earn. Right or wrong, it’s the way it is done.

My score was high – probably higher than yours. I had a degree of freedom, independence, and security most people will never experience. After more years than I care to acknowledge, once again I was the center of attention, and surrounded with toys – lots and lots of toys – just like when I was a kid.

Do you know what that feels like? Well let me tell you – it feels good, real good.

But unlike when I was a kid, there was no family to shower me with affection. There were no teammates, and there were very few friends. Money and a degree of celebrity wreck havoc in one’s life – they make you leery of strangers and associates alike. Privacy becomes an obsession. Arrogance and mistrust become your companions.

Along the way, people – people who dream of having what you have, being who and what you are – begin to treat you differently. They begin to kiss your ass, and you begin to expect it, to demand it. It’s not pretty, but it’s the way it is. You see what’s happening, and it fills you with contempt for the very people who have lifted you out from under the yoke of everyday life. But you dare not show the contempt, so you “pretend” to like the very folks you have come to hate – you begin living a lie. So you withdraw even further.

But what the hell, it’s a living, and it sure beats driving a truck. So you do what you have to do. And before you realize it, it becomes second nature. You put it on auto-pilot.

That’s the way my life was for 29 years, 3 months, and 2 days.

It was during this time that I discovered trading – the perfect outlet for a recluse.

 

It all began when I read an article in Playboy Magazine. It talked of how one could have turned $1,500 into $6,000,000 during a recent run up in Gold. Of course it was “theoretical”, requiring perfect timing, wild and crazy pyramiding of profits, etc. But it caught my attention – good God, Six-Million Dollars was a lot of money in those days! (smile)

I thought about it, and thought about it some more. I started reading books and articles, and soon was obsessed. I bought an Apple II computer, an expensive software package called CompuTrac – spending a little over five-thousand bucks, and opened an account with a Futures broker in Chicago. My first trade was in December Wheat. I made $800 in about ten minutes, and I was hooked.

Not only had I found something that absolutely fascinated me, but I had also discovered the preverbal money pit.

My losses were not large – just constant. Every month or two I’d write another check, and ship it off to Chicago. This went on for years. I would lose ten-grand, twenty-grand, as much as fifty large a year. All the while spending thousands more on data, books, courses, software, and seminars. It was my hobby, I could afford it, I didn’t care.

Like almost every other poor slob, I experimented with technical analysis – traditional and non-traditional. I went from Gann to astrology – you name it, I looked at it. All the while the losses continued. But I didn’t care, I loved the game, and besides, I knew, I just knew deep down in my heart of heart’s that I would find the answer. This went on for almost 15 years.

And you know what? I found it! I fucking found my answer – writing options on Bond Futures. It was a license to print money I tell you. And I ain’t shitting you. The problem is that a trade could take as much as six weeks to play out, and the profits were small when compared to the capital it took to trade. But I had turned the corner. All the work, all the effort, all the agony was beginning to pay off. All the nights spent alone at my desk, while my wife sat in the living room by herself. All the weekends spent reading, studying, plotting and planning – instead of doing things together were finally paying off.

And so it went for about a year. This brings us to the bull market in technology. I hate equities – I don’t know why, I just do. I guess it’s because I am not an investor – I’m a trader – and the stock market was for geeks. But gee, I kept hearing about all the action, and it starts to interest me.

Long story short. I closed my Bond account, and put the money with an on-line broker in January 2000.

A little over a month after that magical professional life had come to a sudden and unexpected halt. A little over a month after my gravy train had left the station.

But not to worry. Don’t you understand, I had finally learned how to trade, and besides, I had just been on a 29-plus year ride that proved I could do no wrong. Don’t you understand that?

 

While not wishing to belabor the point, if you've "learned how to trade", why are you having discipline problems now? Why are you having discipline problems at all? All of this should have been addressed and dealt with years ago. What do you think "learning how to trade" means?

And Gordon, the amount of money that tampa loses and/or the amount of time he spends losing it has nothing to do with whether or not you are a competent trader. Regardless of tampa's performance, you're still a loser.

 

It was the morning of December 3, 1999 – about ten in the morning. I got an unexpected call, an unpleasant unexpected call. The company I had helped put on the map, dumped me. No warning. Just a cold, curt, short, impersonal phone call, and it was over. Period. End of story.

I guess most men would have been devastated. You can believe this or not, but I was relieved. No more playing games. No more living a lie. It was over, and it didn’t bother me in the least.

I had money in the bank, a big house, a substantial trading account, a wife who loved and supported me – and what’s more important, I had learned how to trade.

During the first five months of 2000, I made more than three times day trading stocks than I had made the entire year before trading Bonds. OK, so not even close to what I had been making in my "job“, but it was only a matter of time. Right?

It was then that my world turned upside down.

Ten years before, I had been diagnosed with Diabetes. I suffered no real symptoms, and never took it seriously. That was a mistake. In an incredibly brief period, the disease began to eat me alive. From my vision to my heart, to my nervous system, to my circulation - the man who had “never been sick a day in his life”, was now very, very sick.

Who can say if it was my health, my mental state, or the market itself, but the profits turned to losses. Maybe it was all the above. Maybe I had just been lucky. Maybe I had just been kidding myself.

Day after day, week after week, month after month – I lost. The slow erosion in my trading account was hard to deal with. I stopped mentioning the results to my wife. I just sat here in utter denial – as the money slowly disappeared.

And then there was the bad luck. I had put on 1,000 shares of QCOM – the doorbell rang. I was gone for no more then five minutes. I came back to find myself down $4,000.00. Of course I did want any good, disciplined trader would do – I immediately closed it out. And then proceeded into a frenzy of revenge trading, losing almost another sig-grand – all before lunch. Or the day I was long ATHM with a $200 profit on 1,000 shares at the close. I held overnight. A doctor’s appointment kept me away from the open. When I got home, it was 8 points against me.

A lot of things like that happened. And there were a lot of mistakes. And there were several downright stupid blowout days. But it all ended up the same – a continual drain on my account.

Once I didn’t care about the losses. After all, there was more money where that came from – but things were different now. I had no reasonable expectation of climbing back on the gravy train. I was no longer young with my entire life in front of me. This was no longer a hobby, a game. This was, if you’ll pardon the expression, what I now did for a living.

That brings us to the end of 2001, I dreaded telling my wife how much I had lost that year. So I did what any trader in my shoes would have done – I filed for an extension with the IRS – just to keep from telling that beautiful, wonderful woman who had so much faith in me, who believed in me, just how much of a loser I really was. Just to put it off for a few more months.

The year had shown a beginning balance of $509,244.38, the ending figure was $231,815.91.

 

That is a whopper of a tale. I'll bet it feels good to you to be breathing.

"I believe we have two lives, the one we learn with and the one we live with after that. Records or not, they'll remember you."--Glenn Close in The Natural

 

Reader's Digest, Guideposts, Playboy, Money, Maxim, Forbes...

I keep tellin' ya Tampa, your strengths relate to writing. Go with what works. Sell some articles about your experiences!

You can always trade on the side too...

 

Someone asked if I had really lost “x” number of dollars trading Hershey’s method. The answer is no. Most of the entries in this so-called “Journal” are fictitious – intended to amuse those who understand, those who have been there. Most of the stories are gross exaggerations. Most of the situations reported are a figment of my imagination – done to amuse the reader, and to give the writer something to do. But sadly, not every thing in these seven-hundred plus posts is pure fiction. Some of it is the gospel truth.

The past 19 months – about the time I have been on ET – have shown a continued drain on my account. More slowly, but a continued drain none-the-less. I abandoned the equities and their quirks, and returned to the futures, trading mainly the ES.

BTW – for the benefit of the member who asked: Yes, I did indeed flirt with Hershey’s method. And actually made a little money doing so. But I found it cumbersome and not to my liking. As for the DEMA – it was also a figment of my imagination. Please see: Mathis and Rundy in the boards archives – that should explain it all.

You see, along the way I struck up a cyber friendship with another “sick” journal keeper, and we more or less had a competition to see who could get the most “page views”. Silly? Sure, but it helped pass the time, and it gave you something to read.

So, where is this all leading? I don’t know – I can’t say. The account balance is substantially lower than it was when I first showed up around here. I am scared, disillusioned, and confused. You can add to that words like: Embarrassed, ashamed, and the good old, ever popular “sick to my stomach”.

So why would a man expose himself, his very soul in this way? Why not. Remember how this “series” – Part I – started. Remember the saying I told you my mentor passed along to ne?

Just think of me as your “friend”.

Read some of the “replies” in this journal, and you will find that quite a few of the posters need me – it’s always nice to be needed.

 

You know what the first step in AA programs is? Admitting the truth. Good job.