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![]() Then, in 1998, representatives from PING, an American golf club manufacturer, visited Guangzhou International. “So bad.”įor two long years, Zhou walked and watched, hoping one day he’d get a taste of the game that captivated him so. “It was like having a delicious piece of meat in your mouth, but not being able to eat it,” Zhou said. He’d lie back down and close his eyes, hoping to be transported once again to a world where he was allowed to play. He’d see the cement floor and walls, the mosquito nets, the three roommates asleep nearby, the metal fan that did little more than move hot air around the room. Then Zhou would spot his security guard uniform hanging in the dormitory window. He’d sit up in bed, out of breath and sweating. Backswings gave him goosebumps, and the moment of impact – when clubface and ball would collide – was an explosion of excitement he could feel move from his fingertips to his arms to a place deep in his chest cavity. “I even dreamed of hitting balls in my sleep.” Often, his dreams were so vivid he could feel the softness of the fairway grass beneath his feet, the texture of the club’s rubber grip in his hands. Zhou spent his days watching other people play the game. He didn’t quite understand what they meant, but he knew they must be important. He started taking note when golfers reached into their bags to select a different club, and used his binoculars to try and make out the number printed on the bottom. There was strategy, and Zhou appreciated this. This was more than grown men hitting a white ball into a hole in the ground, more than trying to see who can make the ball go the farthest. The more Zhou watched, the more he appreciated the nuances of the game. The shapes their bodies made when they hit the ball. One of Zhou’s duties was following playing groups around the course, and reporting their whereabouts back to the clubhouse via walkie-talkie. Zhou, despite overseeing a large portion of the security force, was not officially a manager, and the rule proved torturous for him. ![]() Thus, the club’s manager made it a rule that non-managerial staff were not allowed to play the game or even use the driving range. Guangzhou International was a private club with a wealthy clientele, and keeping up appearances was important. The one Taiwanese person he’d met in all his life – the general manager at Guangzhou International – was the only thing standing between him and golf. Sure, he held an irrational hatred of all people from Taiwan, but for Zhou it wasn’t political. This is what many are raised to believe, even if they’ve never actually encountered someone from Taiwan. Taiwan, the orthodox line goes, is a breakaway province, and the Taiwanese are traitors. It’s not uncommon for people from mainland China to speak openly about their distrust of the Taiwanese. ![]() But he couldn't: security guards were forbidden to play. Zhou had always been athletic – he grew up playing basketball on a dirt court in his village – and he was fiercely competitive. This had nothing to do with money or fame – the concept of “pro golfer,” which had existed as an official vocation in China for less than two years, was still unknown to him. ![]() He was drawn to the game, and desperately wanted to be part of the action. Soon, just being in the environment wasn't enough for Zhou. Excerpted by permission of Oneworld Publications Ltd. See our interview and book review.Įxcerpted from The Forbidden Game: Golf and the Chinese Dream by Dan Washburn. This excerpt appears in "The Forbidden Game: Golf and the Chinese Dream." The author also joined Bill Littlefield on Only A Game. ![]() Facebook Email This article is more than 8 years old. ![]()
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