The Forbidden Game

by Dan Washburn

  Perhaps Wei was simply abiding by the gag order on all things Project 791, all things Mission Hills, all things golf. The open secret was still officially top secret. But not for much longer. The grand reveal was coming.

  *

  Less than three months later, on March 15, 2010, the International Federation of PGA Tours and the International Golf Association announced, and then the Associated Press followed with news that golf’s World Cup was changing homes, and in 2011 would move from Mission Hills in Shenzhen to the new Mission Hills mega-complex on Hainan. It seemed a pretty standard press release, but it was significant for one reason: it represented the first admission in the media that Mission Hills Haikou was more than a myth.

  It was unlike Mission Hills to do something so subtly. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of stories had been written about the Chus’ massive twelve-course golf club in Guangdong province (course Nos. 11 and 12 had opened in 2007 with a splash). Nearly every television broadcast in Asia of a major golfing event seemed to come “brought to you by Mission Hills.” Numerous advertisements would remind viewers of Mission Hills’ Guinness World Records-endorsed “World No. 1” status, even though Nanshan International Golf Club in northeastern China had Mission Hills beat by sixty-three holes. Ron Sirak, writing in Golf Digest magazine, called Mission Hills’ Shenzhen complex “golf’s version of Walt Disney World.”

  Chasing after the superlatives, Mission Hills didn’t content itself with golf, either. It boasted of having Asia’s largest tennis center (fifty-one courts), Asia’s largest spa, the world’s largest putting course and the world’s biggest clubhouse (Mission Hills’ Dongguan Clubhouse checks in at a tidy 78,000 square yards). And Cindy Reid, chief instructor at Mission Hills, was being touted as the “World’s No. 1 Female Golf Instructor.”

  Some who have worked with Mission Hills suggest the Chu family’s obsession with big numbers, with being No. 1, can often lead to unnecessary inflation of the statistics related to their projects. They want storylines they can sell to the media and the public, and to get them, sources said, they were willing to fudge the figures. Sometimes the publicized numbers were double the real ones, because Mission Hills wanted to be able to say, for example, that they had moved enough dirt to fill Beijing’s Bird’s Nest Olympic Stadium thirty-six times, or installed enough electric cable to wrap around Hong Kong Island ten times. A PR staffer at some of Mission Hills’ bigger tournament events, including the 2008 World Cup, at which the club claimed 180,000 spectators, said attendance figures were routinely inflated by as much as ten times. “It was weird,” the worker said. “The actual figures were impressive enough. They were historic, in fact. No sense in making new numbers up.”

  Ken Chu had another explanation for the string of superlatives in his company’s promotional materials. “We are perfectionists,” he said. “I think it runs in the family. You have to be devoted. You have to do it right.” Tenniel Chu, Ken’s younger brother and the executive director of Mission Hills, also held forth on the subject: “Mission Hills is a huge golfing PR machine. In the world of golf, whatever movement we do or event that we host, certainly we never hold back in terms of any of our golfing publicity.”

  But, there it was, Mission Hills Haikou, the soon-to-be world’s largest golf club, making its public debut by playing a supporting role to a golf tournament decidedly lacking in visibility and significance. One had to wonder whether the press release was sent out too early – there wasn’t even a mention of Mission Hills Haikou on the Mission Hills website. But the release referred to “the newly opened Mission Hills Resort Hainan” as if the existence of the once top-secret project was common knowledge. It included a quote from the elusive David Chu, who said, “We are extremely pleased to be bringing the World Cup to our new development in Haikou on Hainan Island. Similar to its role in setting off the golf boom in China when it arrived at Mission Hills for the first time in 1995, the World Cup will undoubtedly play a significant role in establishing Hainan as the world’s foremost sports and leisure destination.” George O’Grady, chief executive of the European Tour added, “The impressive new Mission Hills complex at Hainan Island will offer a new experience for our players and for fans from around the world.”

  A couple days later, however, a proper PR offensive took shape, and it was more befitting of Mission Hills’ typically grandiose style. After years of secrecy, the Hainan resort made its first appearance on the company website, where it promised travelers to the new destination they would find “limitless play” and “limitless prestige.” Then, on March 18, 2010, Mission Hills gathered media in Haikou for a press conference announcing not the club itself – that would have been too simple – but rather a star-studded tournament scheduled to make its debut at the new complex that October: the Mission Hills Star Trophy, billed as “Asia’s premier lifestyle event.” Reuters reported that the winner-takes-all purse of $1.28 million was “Asia’s richest individual prize.” On hand for the announcement were golf stars Greg Norman and Zhang Lianwei; Zhu Hansong, vice mayor of Haikou; Andy Pierce from Creative Artists Agency; Fan Xiaojun, vice chairman of the China Golf Association; and Tenniel Chu.

  The very same day, in a separate conference hall at Mission Hills Haikou, Du Jiang, deputy head of China’s National Tourism Administration, told the crowd for a special session of the 2010 Bo’ao International Tourism Forum, that “China encourages well-planned environment-friendly development of golf tourism, especially in Hainan, the country’s only tropical island province.” Xinhua, China’s state-run news service, ran a story from the forum entitled “Hainan aims to be China’s golf capital” and called Mission Hills Haikou, which had three courses open for play, “the largest collection of golf courses in the world.”

  This was another of those perfectly timed, expertly orchestrated Mission Hills “fortune teller” moments. China was in the midst of a tense crackdown on golf course development. The entire industry was on edge. And on the same day Mission Hills chooses to go public with its gargantuan Hainan project – at odds with Chinese law for much of its two-plus years of shrouded existence – it’s made clear that, thanks to recent changes in local law, the project was not only legal, but also part of an important government initiative.

  The following day, March 19, 2010, the International Herald Tribune, the global edition of the New York Times, ran a 3,300-word advertising supplement paid for by Mission Hills entitled “Golf Tees Off in China.” The five-page advertorial, which featured color photos of the clubhouse and the Blackstone Course, called the resort “Asia’s premier golfing destination” and mentioned multiple times that Mission Hills Haikou was “central to a government-led initiative to make the island into a sports and leisure capital.” A quote from Haikou Vice Mayor Zhu Hansong supported the claim, saying “both Mission Hills Haikou and the Omega Mission Hills World Cup are central features” of the government’s plans to “help promote Hainan around the world.” The piece mentioned that Mission Hills still had “grand plans” for the resort, but never mentioned more than the three completed courses. Ken Chu crowed happily about the big project: “Our reputation has earned us an early start in Haikou. The Hainan government was aware of the influential role we had played in stimulating investment and job creation in the Shenzhen area, and they were confident that our presence in Haikou would enjoy a similar effect. At the time of our launch, we will be employing forty thousand people in long-term, sustained jobs that will bring a renewed confidence and economic platform to further improve their lives.”

  Of course, there were superlatives, including the “region’s largest aquatic and natural-spring development” featuring “Lava Lake,” a twelve-thousand-square-yard pool where one lap might take fifteen minutes. There was mention of “ten-thousand-year-old lava rock” that “greatly inspired” the resort’s golf courses and architecture. And Ken Chu himself spoke glowingly about the environs, saying he found Hainan “wonderfully charming,” before concluding, “The people are friendly, and life here is ve
ry much in harmony with nature.” The advertorial went on to call Mission Hills the “leading golf brand in the world” and deemed the one-day-old Hainan complex “one of the world’s most memorable golf resorts.”

  It was like someone had flipped a switch. Just eight months earlier, Mission Hills Haikou was such a sensitive topic that Ken Chu denied its very existence. Now it was clear he and the rest of the family wanted everybody in the world to know about their newest resort. “They are advertising the hell out of that project now,” Martin said.

  By late summer, billboards announcing the latest jewel in the Mission Hills crown adorned nearly every major airport in China. In Hainan, it was as though Mission Hills had staged a complete takeover of the Haikou airport. A billboard featuring twenty-three celebrity headshots and the upcoming “Star Trophy” tournament event was the first thing passengers saw in the arrivals area. The last thing they saw at baggage claim was a permanent Mission Hills Haikou shop of sorts, a remote lobby where you could book a room or a tee time. It was sharp-looking with glass sliding doors, wood paneling and an illuminated sign announcing that the club had been “unveiled.”

  *

  Not long after the Mission Hills press conference, Martin said Hainan alone was building more golf courses than anywhere else in the world. “I wouldn’t doubt if there are one hundred golf courses under construction within Hainan within a year,” he said at the time. He added that the local government’s recent announcements had reinvigorated many of his projects, especially Mission Hills Haikou, where twenty-two courses now seemed like a possibility again.

  But even something as simple as the number of golf courses at the resort was a moving target. The company line constantly changed. One day Ken Chu would say to go with ten; the next day it would be six. This remained the case long after the grand opening. A Star Trophy tournament staff member was reprimanded for allowing a camera crew from a major international TV station to film from the top floor of the hotel – the true scope of the project was apparently still top secret.

  At one point, in an internal Flagstick newsletter, Martin wrote that his team was approaching the finish line on the first ten courses at Mission Hills Haikou.

  “Martin, what are you writing that for?” he was asked. Apparently the rest of the world was only supposed to know about six courses. But many outsiders had already heard it was going to be thirty-six courses. And the resort website listed ten.

  As they headed into the end of the year, there was talk about finishing those courses and adding two more – and doing it all in three months – for a total of twelve courses. But that never happened. Projects were stalled all over the country, even in Hainan, the future “Hawaii of the East.”

  Just after Christmas, the Washington Post published a story talking about the “12-month frenzy of construction” on the island. As far as golf courses, the paper wrote, “26 are complete, and 70 others are underway.” Martin scoffed when he heard those numbers. “No fucking way,” he said. “Dream on. I’d be surprised if there were seventeen under construction.”

  Even the seemingly unstoppable Mission Hills was running into roadblocks – literally. The resort seemed stuck on ten courses, a far cry from the twenty-two that everyone involved with the project thought was still the goal. Late in the year, Ken Chu had spent three days dealing with local government officials, trying to get some movement on the long-dormant southern portion of the property, where courses had been started but left to grow over due to what people close to the situation called “zillions of problems” relating to villager and government land disputes.

  Chu was determined to force the government’s hand. He requested a fleet of heavy machinery – twenty excavators, several bulldozers and a tractor-trailer or two – to head down to the disputed land to make a statement. But the convoy couldn’t even make it through the gate. A large and determined crowd of villagers stood in the road and wouldn’t let the construction equipment pass.

  Now, some workers who had originally expected to come back to work after the Chinese New Year had been told not to return until future notice.

  The past few years under the artificial ban on golf course construction had been bizarrely good for business. But Martin couldn’t shake his belief that it would be much better if he and his colleagues had some kind of pathway to stable, long-term legitimacy for their profession in China. If Beijing acknowledged the inevitability of golf’s growth, and actually tried to control course development rather than ignore it, many in the industry would applaud the move. Tell them the hoops they need to jump through to build a 100-percent legal golf course in China, and they would jump through them, he said. Everyone was tired of living in limbo, tired of looking over their shoulders wondering when the government bulldozers and helicopters might arrive.

  ‌12

  ‌The Road Is Wider

  Zhou Xunshu was not prepared for the 2010 competitive season. While there were several reasons for this, two stood out:

  He was extremely busy.

  For a long time, he had no idea if there was even going to be a professional golf season in China this year.

  The busy part was largely a good thing – it meant Zhou was no longer unemployed. In November 2009 he had landed a job at a driving range. It paid him eight thousand yuan a month and was his first steady flow of income in more than five months.

  But the job was in Chengdu, a city two hundred miles away from Liu Yan and Hanhan back in Chongqing, and the work itself was a chore. Zhou was teaching golf, which he enjoyed, but he was also involved in the daily management of the driving range, which he often found tedious. He did not like drama, and being stuck between layers of adolescence (his staff) and dysfunction (his superiors) added much of it to his life. Worst of all, he was working from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. every day and barely had any time to practice. And practicing was what he enjoyed most.

  “It was difficult, but I have to work, right?” Zhou said. “Without a job, the family has no backbone. I needed to find a job to balance my life. I couldn’t just stay home all day long – even if the job means I need to be separated from my family.”

  Zhou liked the driving range itself. It was newer and much bigger than where he previously worked. Its English name was Seasons International Country Club, and Zhou said his bosses were the richest men in all of Chengdu. One made his fortune from pharmaceuticals, the other from real estate development. He had been told that there would be a tournament-caliber golf course attached to the driving range and clubhouse. “But the government stopped construction,” Zhou said matter-of-factly.

  Zhou didn’t concern himself with the details surrounding this turn of events. He didn’t have time to. He had thrown himself into his new job, with barely enough hours to see his family. He worked straight through the first month, and only started making semi-regular trips back home to Chongqing – a day here, a day there – in late December. The one-way trip was four hours by bus, or two hours if his schedule and budget aligned with that of the newly built bullet train. The train cost ninety-seven yuan each way.

  Zhou was a hard worker by nature. He was what the Chinese might call a gongzuo kuang, a workaholic. But these days Zhou was also motivated by not a small amount of fear. He didn’t know when his next tournament might be; he didn’t know if there would even be one. The way the Omega China Tour had just vanished, coupled with the fragile state of the global economy, had Zhou wondering if professional golf in China was over. Would he have to stop counting on tournaments as an extra source of income? Would he have to give up on his dream?

  Zhou had no answers. So he put everything he had into his new job, and that meant barely playing the game he loved. Over the course of his exhausting fourteen-hour shifts, Zhou was lucky if he had time to hit one hundred balls at the driving range, seven hundred shy of his normal routine. He almost never got an opportunity to play on a course. In fact, in the nine months since he had lost his job at Haoyun Golf Club in Chongqing, Zhou estimated he had played a full round o
f golf outside competition only three times. He could count on his fingers the number of proper driving range practice sessions he’d completed.

  Then, in mid-March, the email came. “Did you hear the news?” a fellow golfer wrote. Zhou clicked the embedded link and watched the 2010 China Golf Association tournament schedule load in his web browser. It was surprisingly full, by Chinese golf standards, and it was starting soon. The first tournament, the Luxehills Open, was only a little over two weeks away. And it was taking place in Chengdu.

  Zhou was excited. His dream was still alive. He also was panicked. He had sixteen days to prepare for a tournament at which his new bosses, colleagues and students would have a front-row seat.

  “I wanted to golf well to win honor for my club,” said Zhou, who wore the Seasons International Country Club logo on his shirt for the tournament.

  Truth was, even if Zhou had prepared properly for the tournament, he had little chance of ranking near the top. The Luxehills Open was a stop on the OneAsia Tour, which World Sport Group (the same organization behind the defunct Omega China Tour) had launched the previous year as a potential rival to the already established Asia Tour. OneAsia’s goal was to “provide an Asia-Pacific alternative to the PGA Tour and the European Tour,” and the total prize money for Luxehills was one million dollars – a purse intended to draw the top pros from the entire Pacific region. The field was dominated by Australian and Korean players competing regularly in international tournaments. Simply advancing beyond the first two rounds would be an incredible accomplishment for a coachless golfer like Zhou.