, a phrase not translatable in a family newspaper, rang out whenever the referee missed fouls that, for the fans, were plain to see. Cheers erupted when a Shenhua midfielder scored the equaliser with a perfectly struck last-minute penalty kick. The crowd’s passion would have been familiar to football fans anywhere. But the canvas on which it was painted—a league beset by financial chicanery and political meddling—was unmistakably Chinese.
The government has high ambitions for football, encapsulated by President Xi Jinping’s stated dream for China to win the World Cup some day. That day remains distant. The national team is ranked 77th in the world, behind tiny Curaçao. And domestic leagues, a crucial building block, are mired in mediocrity.
The economics of football in China are atrocious. Average annual salaries for players of $1.2m in 2019 put theroughly in line with Ligue 1, France’s top division. But revenues in China are piddling, with tickets regularly costing as little as 50 yuan . Guangzhou Evergrande, a club renowned for its profligacy, took in only a third of the 2.9bn yuan that it spent in 2019.
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At the school next door here in shanghai, there is soccer training going on 7 days a week since about a year ago. They have a direction, a plan, and are executing on it. Count them in.
No doubt, the Chinese Communist Party will start doping the footballers to try and win for communist prestige, though I'm quite sure they're doping already.