A story to begin

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When Wolke started trading, he had just $4,500, a sum that could be wiped out in a single morning. He had spent two years at the exchange as a floor clerk, making $48 a session marking down buy and sell orders. But he was good at games, particularly chess and poker, considered litmus tests at the hyper-competitive exchange.

His goals were modest: To make at least as much money as he did serving drinks, and to gradually earn enough to move into a nicer apartment. His Uptown rental had leaky pipes, mold growing in the kitchen, and a hole in the ceiling "as big as two watermelons," he said. "I remember thinking, if I lose $250, then get out, because that's what I'd make bartending a night or two."

His new career almost came to an abrupt halt about nine months after he started. One morning, convinced that the market would rally, Wolke bought 10 wheat contracts -- equivalent to 50,000 bushels. It was a huge position for a novice trader. As the market fell, he refused to accept that he made a bad trade, and then panicked and sold when it bottomed. He faced a $8,000 margin call.

Suddenly, trading no longer seemed like a game. If he didn't pay, a collections guy would be calling, and his new career over. For three hours, Wolke stared at his apartment wall, unable to move. "Trading was one of the few things I ever truly loved doing, and I felt like I had failed."

Wolke maxed out two credit cards and the next morning, he was back on the floor, in an octagon-shaped area known as "the pit," yelling buy and sell orders with the whole force of his lungs. If he missed again, he would probably have to file for bankruptcy.

He heeded the lesson of his loss, refusing to hold firm opinions about where the market was headed. Within three weeks, Wolke recovered the money. Two months after that, he was up $20,000. And within a year, he had pocketed $1 million, largely by riding the upswing in commodities prices. He made about one-third of that sum in February, when many commodities were setting record highs.

"Opinions are dangerous," he said, after a Monday session in which he lost more than $10,000. "A lot of people think they know what the wheat market looks like if they look at a crop report. But if some big hedge fund is coming in and buying a billion dollars worth of wheat, wheat is going to go up."

A pit bull

Wolke typically arrives at the pit at 9:15 a.m. He mills about, often ignoring the flurry of reports on weekly crop conditions that might give a window into harvest yields -- the reports that help define the moves of more veteran traders.

At the 9:30 opening bell, he charges to the center of the pit. A former hockey player at Ohio State, Wolke isn't afraid to get physical, sometimes tugging at shirts to make sure brokers hear his trades.

Within his first six months, he was hit with a $500 fine for elbowing a floor broker in the stomach. Wolke claims the broker refused to acknowledge his order. Soon after, Wolke was fined again for swearing at the same broker. (The exchange allows foul language, except when directed at someone.)

"My general attitude was, 'I don't have any idea what's going on and I shouldn't pretend that I do,'" he said. "That may have helped me see things more clearly."

Indeed, Wolke's lack of trading experience may have been an asset. It freed him from preconceived notions about how commodities markets should work -- at a time when they were being turned upside down by the flow of new money.

Instead, he followed the money. He watches electronic trading markets and news wires closely from a handheld computer that he wears around his neck -- the first trader to do so. When he sees a fund buying or selling a large block of futures, he often assumes others will follow. In the buying orgy of earlier this year, he was usually right.

On a day in late February, he made more than $100,000 in a single four-hour session. He spent $2,000 of it that night, buying food and drinks at downtown Minneapolis restaurants for fellow traders.

"When the market was first getting hot, there was a lot of celebrating," he said. "You'd double your net worth in a day and say, 'OK, let's go out and have a good tine.'"

But since the commodities bubble burst, there's little to celebrate. He recently lost money on four consecutive sessions, prompting him to take a day off to relax and think things over. "If you're in a hole, stop digging," he said. On the day of his $16,000, 20-minute loss, he pondered why he was so quick to sell.

"There are some days I'm just bulletproof, and I'll stand in there and take $30,000, $40,000 and $60,000 hits because I'm so convinced that I'm right," he said, scarfing down a plateful of spaghetti at a restaurant in the skyway. "But the confidence just wasn't there today. I sweat a lot when I've got a bad position on, and today I sweated like a pig."

Overall, Wolke, a native of St. Cloud, has survived the downturn better than he had expected. He finally moved out of his dingy apartment and bought a modern $350,000 condo in downtown Minneapolis with a balcony overlooking the Mississippi. Another splurge: new front teeth. (His old ones were chipped and had been knocked out six times in hockey games.)

Most of his trading profits he's socked away in municipal bonds, giving him a cushion as the Grain Exchange goes all electronic in a few weeks. While he plans to try electronic trading, there's always bartending, he said.

These days, he's an active short seller, betting that prices will fall. He's still up more than $1 million for the year, but his $100,000-plus days appear over.

"People think it's easy being a speculator," said Wolke. "But if it's easy, then by all means, come right on in. It's not easy. It just isn't."

Chris Serres • 612-673-4308