A year ago this month, the 26-year-old Shanghai native Zhang Zhizhen, who hits a booming serve and plays with his long hair kept at bay beneath a headband, made history by becoming the first Chinese man to break into the top 100 of tennis’s world rankings. Four months later, he was joined by his compatriot Wu Yibing, who promptly went on to become the first Chinese man to win a title on the men’s tour – overcoming the American phenom Taylor Fritz in the process.
Welcome to the rise of Chinese tennis, in both player proficiency and infrastructure. If qualifying for grand slam main draws and climbing to double-figure rankings seem relatively modest achievements, it is proof of how historically underserved the sport has been in a country obsessed with basketball (and whose preference in racket sports has long been tennis of the table variety, as well as badminton).
Until last year, no Chinese man had so much as won a match at a major in the Open era. Chinese tennis fans have had few stars to follow: in the women’s game there was the charismatic Li Na, by far the country’s most successful singles player, who became its first grand slam singles champion (winning the French Open in 2011 and the Australian Open in 2014), and the Olympic medallists and doubles specialists Yan Zi and Zheng Jie. But, other than Li, there has never been a consistent presence on the global stage, and the men’s game in particular lagged behind.
That’s changing. In a world in which nations with less-than-stellar human rights records invest heavily in sport – a diversionary, soft-power tactic that isn’t new but perhaps is more prevalent and brazen than ever (see: the Saudi Pro League) – the Chinese administration has ploughed money into delivering what is essentially a tennis version of the Belt and Road Initiative, by which China invests in infrastructure worldwide to increase its influence.
Grassroots academies run by Western coaches and former players have thrived, stadiums have been built, and the sport is now a multibillion-dollar industry, with a market share second only to the United States, which encompasses apparel and equipment, events and broadcasting.
According to the International Tennis Federation’s global report, there are about 20 million people in the country playing on 30-40,000 courts, making it the No 1 country for participation; with the sport considered, as elsewhere, a middle-class pursuit tied to upward social status. Vogue has said that the “powerful allure of tennis in China … is as much a lifestyle and fashion phenomenon as a sports trend”.
This frenzied activity has paid off, with a crop of male and female prodigies rising up the rankings and winning silverware. The 21-year-old Zheng Qinwen, who can strike 20 or more aces in a match, secured her first tour-level title at the Palermo Open this summer and reached the US Open quarter-finals (knocking out Ons Jabeur en route). Her success is mirrored by Wang Xiyu, a former junior world No 1 with an attack-minded approach, and Wang Xinyu, who won the women’s French Open doubles title this year.
Global talent agency giants such as IMG have come knocking at the doors of the most-hyped youngsters. There are even tennis influencers, and in January, when Shang Juncheng became, aged 17, the first Chinese man to win a singles match at the Australian Open, his achievement earned more than 32 million impressions on the Chinese social media platform Weibo. With his exciting, variable style of play and rock star earring, many see him as a future poster boy.
The Australian Open is emblematic of China’s tennis revolution. In 2018, the distillery Luzhou Laojiao became the tournament’s largest Chinese sponsor; a $100m (£82m), five-year deal that included renaming one of the show courts after one of its liquors; and the tournament partners with four broadcast companies in China alone. “We’ve made no secret that China and the region are a major priority for the Australian Open,” the tournament’s chief revenue officer said at the time.
It’s a position that came under scrutiny when spectators raising awareness of the disappearance of Peng Shuai – silenced by her home state after exposing sexual abuse at the hands of a politburo official – were removed from the premises. Likewise, the 2019 cancellation of the Hong Kong Open to deflect attention from islanders’ anti-autocracy protests was further evidence of a morally dubious undercurrent.
This month, the professional tennis circuit has returned to China after a three-year pandemic-induced hiatus – and, in the case of the governing Women’s Tennis Association, a boycott. But despite the WTA’s chief, Steve Simon, vowing that the women’s game would not return to the territory until assurances were given over Peng’s safety and freedom – “no matter the financial ramifications” – that assurance has not held, in no small part due to the lucrative 10-year deal inked for the WTA Finals to be held in Shenzhen.
A fortnight ago Iga Swiatek triumphed at the China Open in Beijing, while Wang Xiyu won her first tour title in Guangzhou. On the men’s side, Italy’s Jannik Sinner won an ostentatiously gigantic gold cup (also in Beijing); Alexander Zverev of Germany was victorious at the Chengdu Open; and the Russian Karen Kachanov won in Zhuhai. On Sunday Hubert Hurkacz and Andrey Rublev battle for the men’s Shanghai showpiece crown.
It is, of course, heartening to see a crop of likable, talented young Chinese players progress, and China’s rapid expansion and investment in the sport has drawn plaudits from onlookers such as Maria Sharapova; but it is unsettling to know that this very success is the government’s ideal distraction from human rights violations; whether the treatment of the Uyghur people or the censorship that Peng and her fellow citizens routinely face. It’s no surprise, then, that there’s one thing this new generation of Sino stars seem nervous discussing during press conferences: China.
