por admin » Sab Ago 27, 2011 12:43 pm
Por el amor al dinero.
La nueva estrella del tennis no es timida acerca de su motivacion no comunista para ganar.
China ama a Li Na la ganandora del French Open de 29 anios, la primera en el Asia en ganar un Grand Slam. Su publicidad de Nike esta en todas las esquinas del pais. Su ciudad natal le ha puesto un monumento en su honor (el gobierno), los ninios estan jugando tennis en China inspirados en Li Na.
Toda China la idolatra, pero ella ama a China, ella sorprendio a todo el mundo cuando al ganar el French Open agradecio a su familia, y hasta a sus auspiciadores, pero no a China. Desde su triunfo, ella se ha esforzado en remarcar que el triunfo es de ella, no de China, ni del programa manejado por el gobierno.
Eso por supuesto no nos llama la atencion, nunca se espero que Pete Sampras agradeciera a US.
La respuesta del gobierno ha sido el moderar los alagos a Li Na.
Li Na compite fuera del sistema del gobierno Chino que le permite a los atletas quedarse con solo el 35% de los premios ganados, Li Na ahora se queda con el 90% del dinero ganado.
For the Love of Prize Money
China's newest athletic star isn't shy about her non-Communist motivations
By Abheek Bhattacharya and Raymond Zhong
Beijing
China loves Li Na, the 29-year-old French Open tennis champion and the first Asian player to win a Grand Slam singles title. Her Nike ads are all over the country. The government of her native Wuhan, in the central Hubei province, has erected a statue in her honor. Youngsters are picking up rackets to emulate China's newest and—with Yao Ming having announced his retirement from the National Basketball Association—possibly its most famous sports role model.
It's natural, then, that sponsors eyeing the vast Chinese market love Ms. Li too. Since her June victory, new endorsements have put her on track to become the second-highest-earning female athlete in the world, after fellow tennis player Maria Sharapova.
But does Ms. Li love China back? She generated a lot of chatter when, at the winner's podium at France's Roland Garros in June, she thanked her family and even her sponsors, but not China. She has since made it a point to remind people that the victory was hers, not that of the Chinese nation or of its state-run sports system. "I appreciate everyone's support, but it was by my own personal diligence that I won it, after all," she told reporters at a press conference here last month.
Such statements wouldn't raise eyebrows anywhere else in the world. Nobody expected Pete Sampras to thank American democracy every time he won at Wimbledon.
But this is China, where stardom does not quite operate by the same rules that obtain elsewhere. If an international sports competition can't be converted to the glory of the motherland, it isn't worth winning. Which explains the Communist Party's reaction to Ms. Li's attempts to distance herself from nationalist promotion. According to leaked censorship instructions, the Propaganda Ministry in early June ordered domestic media to keep a lid on their praise of her. "Do not continue to hype Li Na's win," the terse directive reads.
At the same time, Beijing isn't foolish; it's happy to use the existing hype to its advantage. Hubei province's Party secretary said last month that Ms. Li's French Open victory was "a demonstration of the superiority of socialism with Chinese characteristics under the leadership of the Communist Party of China."
Like many Chinese tennis players, Ms. Li started out playing badminton. She switched after a coach told her that she played badminton like a tennis player, her stroke more a swing than a flick. Despite the limited exposure to tennis that growing up in China afforded her, she pushed ahead. "I remember wanting to win from a very early age," she told us in an interview. She joined China's national team in 1997 and turned pro two years later.
Luckily for Ms. Li, her early career coincided with a flourishing of Beijing's interest in tennis. China created its Soviet-style sports system in 1949, when sports were seen as a cure for a weak national psyche. After China opened in the late 1970s, sports also became recognized as a vector for advancing national pride overseas.
The government's "2001-10 Plan for Olympic Tennis Glory" placed emphasis on the women's team. The thinking was simple: The men's game was too competitive. It's the sort of calculation Beijing has made across the athletic spectrum, investing in fringe events like archery and weightlifting not out of interest shown in those blacklisted_site at home, but instead to exploit niche opportunities. This tack has paid off handsomely in Olympic medals, but it has cultivated champions who seem to plug away at their blacklisted_site without joy or even interest in the experience.
Ms. Li stands out from this crowd. She's blunt when she needs to be. She is also unafraid of showing impatience with journalists' questions, like when we bring up some of the items on the Li Na gossip mill. We ask whether it's true that she proposed marriage to her husband with a box of chocolates. "Who is spreading these lies?" she snarls. "I think chocolates and flowers are the most boring things."
Or consider her postmatch interview after winning the Australian Open semifinal in January, the one that made her a minor YouTube sensation. Was she nervous during the three-set match against world No. 1 Caroline Wozniacki? "Yes, because I didn't have a good evening [before]." Her husband's snoring kept her awake. What got her through the grueling third set of that match? "Prize money," Ms. Li laughed. The crowd in Melbourne roared its approval.
She was laughing then, but the quip was telling. Tennis players in the Chinese state system can keep only about 35% of their prize earnings. But since 2009 Ms. Li has competed outside of the system, which allows her to keep some 90% of her winnings.
The state cage would have trapped her in other ways, too. Until she left the system, the Communist Party had dictated every aspect of her tennis game: how she trained, what matches she played. It monitored her personal life; dating was discouraged. In 2002 Ms. Li left the national team for the first time, reportedly because of disagreements with tennis authorities over her relationship with a teammate, Jiang Shan. She later married Mr. Jiang—no chocolates or flowers involved.
But successes on the circuit were empowering the women's team by the year. In 2005, Ms. Li's teammate Peng Shuai was the first to challenge the system's strictures, demanding to pick her coaches and to decide which competitions to take part in. And, crucially, she wanted a greater share of her prize money.
The tennis authorities didn't agree right away. But after the Beijing Olympics, they gave players a choice: They could stay with the state system or they could "fly solo," more or less in line with Ms. Peng's requests. Flying solo would allow them to keep more of their winnings but would expose them fully to losses.
Eventually only four players, all women, chose to break free: Ms. Li, Ms. Peng, and the doubles team of Zheng Jie and Yan Zi, who won titles at the Australian Open and Wimbledon in 2006.
The experimental scheme doesn't spell complete autonomy for these players. Ms. Li still has to play on the national team in competitions where Beijing nervously eyes the medal tally, like the Olympics or the Asian blacklisted_site—"no questions asked," she says.
Ms. Li likes the new freedom. Managing her own career has been good for her, she says. It allowed her the flexibility, at least, to make one game-changing call this year. Ms. Li's husband had guided her ably as her coach since 2006, but after a string of losses at tournaments following the Australian Open, she took stock.
"After Stuttgart," where she lost in the Porsche Tennis Grand Prix in April, "we just sat in the room and I was like, 'OK, we should change something for the team.'" She fired her husband and hired Michael Mortensen, a Dane whom Ms. Wozniacki reportedly recommended to her. "He's a positive person," she says of Mr. Mortensen. The positive attitude worked a few weeks later at Roland Garros.
She isn't ready to conclude that her experience can serve as a model for others, though. "When I was just starting out, the system was very good for helping me mature as a player. But because not everyone is alike, it's impossible to say that what worked for me will work for everyone else. Only after you've had some experience in a system can you say which one suits you best."
Since her big win this summer, she has tried to emphasize that she isn't an avatar of political revolt, or at least she shouldn't be treated as one. As she repeatedly tells us, "I'm just an athlete."
Athlete or not, her achievement singles her out for emulation. Chinese are going to ponder the benefits of "flying solo," of exercising individual choice.
In one sphere at least, Ms. Li strongly advocates freedom of choice. She's excited about all the children who are picking up rackets now that there is a Chinese tennis champion, but she wonders: "How many of them are actually interested in tennis and chose it for themselves, and how many are just acting on their parents' wishes?" She wants tennis to be the children's own choice, not another box that their tiger mothers force them to check off.
That impulse to coddle also informs the way China's sports system treats its athletes, Ms. Li suggests. "In China there is greater fear of children getting hurt, so the system serves as a protection for younger players. . . . It's protection for everyone."
Beijing's idea is that without the protection, athletes would crumble under the strain. But with the protection, will they ever become great? The toss-up is between a system that guarantees safety but fosters dreary conformity, and one that doesn't protect China's athletes from pressure or failure but gives the great among them the opportunity to overcome great odds.
Ms. Li doesn't claim to know where the answer lies for China. For her own career, though, the way forward is clear. "If you want a life free of pressure, then you should return to the previous system, with all its protections," she says. "Now that I have to protect my own team, the pressure is of course greater by comparison. But pressure and motivation are twinned. You can't have one without the other. I'd rather have both pressure and motivation."
Messrs. Bhattacharya and Zhong are editorial page writers with The Wall Street Journal Asia.