Chapter Thirteen: There Must Be a Hundred Reasons for Losing the Match

On the other side, two players, Jin Yang and Pan Hui, who had yet to take the court, exchanged a glance.

Could it be that they expected me to take down Jiang Hong?

What a joke.

Even Wang Li lost so badly; if they stepped in, it would only be more embarrassing.

Better not humiliate ourselves.

“Captain, my stomach hurts; I really can’t play,” Pan Hui said, clutching his abdomen with a painful expression that could almost bring tears—a performance worthy of a drama school.

Everyone could see it was an excuse, but in sports, there are always more reasons for losing than for winning, and no one bothers to call you out.

Before playing, the most important lesson is “Excuses for Losing”!

Jin Yang shot him a glare—Hey, you stole my line!

He quickly turned his eyes, pressed his hand to his forehead, and furrowed his brows like twisting dough: “Captain, I…I’m dizzy. Maybe I’m suffering from heatstroke…”

Yu Lin glanced at both of them but didn’t expose them. If it were him, even if defeat was certain, he’d still play a few points.

After all, opportunities to compete with players of this caliber were rare.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Alright, then the participants will be me and Jiang Hong. No objections?”

Seeing everyone nod in agreement, Yu Lin nodded.

“Good, then everyone can practice freely. Feel free to ask me if you have any questions.”

After Yu Lin announced the lineup, Li Hua immediately rushed over.

Li Hua came charging like a cannonball, slapping Jiang Hong’s shoulder, shouting, “Old Jiang, you’re amazing! That Wang Li guy usually acts so arrogant in the club, mocking everyone and looking down on others. Today, he finally got slapped in the face!”

He had often been mocked by Wang Li for his poor skills, so this victory felt even sweeter.

“I told you I was going pro. Winning this match is only natural,” Jiang Hong raised his eyebrow with a smile.

“Otherwise, how else could I go pro?”

“I’m rooting for you!” Li Hua said, though inwardly he still had doubts.

Turning professional isn’t easy, but Jiang Hong’s progress was undeniably impressive.

“Jiang Hong, have you played any official matches before?” Yu Lin’s voice interrupted.

The founder of the tennis club, Yu Lin was easygoing and always patiently guided members. He was holding a ball in hand, clearly having come over intentionally.

“No, I haven’t,” Jiang Hong answered truthfully.

Yu Lin smiled and handed him a bottle of water. “If you want to go pro, I suggest you win this championship.”

Jiang Hong was taken aback—this amateur tournament was worlds apart from the pros. What use would it be?

“You don’t know, the championship here is always monopolized by the sports institute,” Yu Lin said irritably, clenching his fist, “Their players appear as students but are actually provincial team members, just registering as students to crush amateurs. We schools despise them!”

He paused, then added seriously, “If you win the championship, the provincial team might notice you, and going pro could be much smoother.”

Yu Lin’s meaning became clear to Jiang Hong.

In tennis, going professional doesn’t require registration through an association like table tennis or badminton; it’s more flexible.

Often, even if an athlete meets the standard, there are quota limits. If senior players in the same association need to participate, coaches or officials have to make selections.

But tennis is different. Once you register with the ITF, you can enter lower-level Futures tournaments.

Namely, the 10K, 15K, and 25K levels.

Above that are ATP Challenger events at 50K, 75K, 100K, and 125K, with some 175K tournaments.

Beyond that, come the ATP Tour events, which are categorized as 250, 500, and 1000 Masters tournaments.

Then the year-end finals at 1500 points, and the four Grand Slam tournaments—Wimbledon, French Open, US Open, and Australian Open—are the highest honors.

Points and prize money increase with the tournament’s tier.

Eligibility to enter is based solely on your ranking points.

Currently, domestic male players mainly compete in Futures and a few Challenger tournaments.

No player has yet been able to establish themselves on the ATP Tour.

Selection for these tournaments is fair—based on ranking points.

Yu Lin emphasized that Jiang Hong’s opportunity to go pro hinged largely on finances.

Tennis in the country is a niche sport with high training costs, making it very difficult for individuals to afford all expenses.

Freedom comes at a price.

Basketball and football clubs pay you a salary.

Tennis has no such system—you must win prize money and secure endorsements to support yourself and your team.

Players on the tour usually have coaches, trainers, hitting partners, and even nutritionists.

All these expenses are borne by the player.

However, there’s an alternative domestic path: joining a provincial team, where the government funds your training and competition.

Of course, prize money and other income are shared.

For many tennis players, that’s the best option.

Because prize money alone rarely covers the state’s investment.

But Jiang Hong definitely wouldn’t join a provincial team.

Just as Jiang Hong was about to speak, he noticed a system prompt.

[Ding! A suggestion detected. Would you like to accept?]

He opened the system panel and glanced at it.

[Participate in any match and win the championship. Rewards vary based on difficulty.]

The highest-level competition he could enter in the short term was this championship.

Jiang Hong felt a spark of hope for the suggested reward.

“All right, I will win the championship!” he said, raising his head confidently.

Yu Lin was momentarily stunned by Jiang Hong’s straightforward reply.

Shouldn’t he be more polite?

But bluntness was refreshing, and a smile appeared on Yu Lin’s face.

“Honestly, I want you to win because I have a personal stake. I’ve participated three times, and those guys have had my name engraved twice.”

“If you win this time, your name will be engraved too.”

Jiang Hong couldn’t help but chuckle. Having your name on the trophy is quite a taunt to the losers.

Judging by the captain’s expression, he meant business.

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring the trophy back!” Jiang Hong said confidently.

After all, if he couldn’t beat the provincial team, going pro was out of the question.

“Old Jiang, I didn’t expect you to be this good. You might even make the provincial team. You have to keep it up!”

Li Hua had worried Jiang Hong might lose focus, but now it seemed he truly had talent. Getting into the provincial team would at least offer a better future than their second-rate university.

“I won’t join the provincial team!” Jiang Hong said firmly after a sip.

“You don’t believe in yourself?”

“This match is mine to win!”

Li Hua was even more puzzled—if he was so confident, why refuse the provincial team?

In his past life, he’d been controlled by a boss at work; now joining the provincial team meant being controlled by leaders.

Controlled before rebirth, controlled after—what was the point of rebirth?