Most of these sponsorships covered only the golfer's tournament travel expenses, maybe 80,000 to 160,000 yuan a year.
In China, usually a sponsorship came in the form of free gear or clubs, but no money.Ĭash sponsorships would come from a golf course that employed the golfer, or simply a rich businessman who happened to take a liking to a certain player. Only a handful of Chinese golfers had traditional sponsorships - money from a major brand in exchange for using a product or wearing a logo - like those enjoyed by golfers in the United States or Europe. And he felt the pressure to buy soon - property prices in Chongqing, like many cities in China, were rising fast. He wanted to buy an apartment, so he and Liu Yan could start a family. If Zhou were to finish near the top of a tournament or two, there was little doubt in his mind what he'd put the winnings toward.
"Being a certified pro golfer is the highest honor in golf in China, and once that happens, sponsors will find you and sign a contract with you." "And then I can attract some sponsors," he said. That would earn him his "professional player" classification. He wanted to finish 2007 ranked in the top 12 on the overall China Golf Association money list. I want to be able to tell people, 'Look, I played in that tournament against the best in China.'"īut he knew he needed some pragmatic goals for the coming year. "Even if I lose, I want to join the competition," Zhou explained, "because I want to have something to look back on when I quit playing. He had no sponsors, no coach and a mounting deficit. So why even bother competing, since the odds were so surely stacked against him? He was too old to be starting an athletic career. One student paid Zhou ten thousand yuan, and once he starting shooting in the 70s, he was so happy with the results that he gave Zhou another thirty thousand yuan on top of it. "My price may be a little bit high, but I don't want too many students. "That way, I am less bothered and I don't need to keep track of how many hours and how many lessons," he said.
Then he'd quote you a lump sum, and he'd be your coach until you attained those goals.
Instead, he'd assess your abilities and ask you your goals. If the trend continued, "I try to find more students," Zhou said, matter-of-factly.Īs a golf instructor, Zhou's methods - specifically how he charged for lessons - might, if he were lucky, help him break even. With tournaments taking place in all corners of China, his travel expenses trumped his winnings. He had finished on average twenty-six strokes behind a tournament's winner - a mountain in golf numbers. Although he made the cut in four of the six tournaments, he had never placed better than twenty-first, and never earned more than 10,800 yuan ($1,350). Courtesy of Zhou Xunshuīy a friendly accounting, Zhou estimated he had lost nearly 20,000 yuan playing on the China Tour in 2006.
Zhou Xunshu went from working the fields in rural China, to security guard at a course, to golf professional as the game exploded on the scene in the world's most populous country. "Itemize everything."īut a quick look at his books would suggest the business side of Zhou's competitive golf career was, to put it simply, failing. "You have to think like a businessman," Zhou Xunshu said. The passage below focuses on Zhou Xunshu, whose inspiring underdog story takes him from peasant farmer to security guard to professional golfer. The following excerpt comes from Dan Washburn's new book "The Forbidden Game: Golf and the Chinese Dream," which follows the lives of three men caught up in China's bizarre - and, in some cases, illegal - golf scene.