The entire morning was spent practicing starting moves. We arrived a bit late, so the standing long jump was rescheduled for the afternoon.
At first, it felt fun, but after a while, it became incredibly dull—even more boring than studying.
We pushed through until noon.
The group drove to the Welcome Hotel to eat. The car was packed full, but luckily the business vehicle could handle it.
Wang Ping was waiting at the entrance early. Since his own coach was coming, he didn’t dare act arrogant. Fortunately, Li Houliang had warned him beforehand, or he’d definitely get chewed out.
In the sports world, this is normal—scolding and rough treatment are routine. But as long as you genuinely care for the trainees, everyone remembers it.
Is there such a thing as venting through scolding?
Of course there is—every field has its scumbags!
Normally, Wang Fangfang would come today too, but since exams are near, Zhou You didn’t call her, letting her focus on studying at home.
Having Wang Ping represent her was enough.
The way swimming coaches are addressed differs from the martial arts circle.
Martial arts have been around since ancient times—you either call someone "master" or "teacher."
Swimming coaches have many titles.
Some are called "instructor," others "coach," and close acquaintances might say "Old Li"—it varies.
Wang Ping saw the car pull in and, acting obsequiously, opened the door: "All the teachers are here? The private room was booked long ago. I’ll lead the way."
With that, he scurried ahead at a brisk trot.
The group followed. Old Li said, "Are there others at the pool today? Bring them all to eat."
"No, it’s the off-season. Everyone takes turns resting. There are many facilities now, and each person handles their own area," Wang Ping explained, then added, "If you need, should I call them over?"
"No, no, I was just asking. We just gathered for New Year’s," Old Li waved his hand. They had all visited him during the holiday, which warmed his heart.
Wang Ping sat at the lower end of the table, tasked with serving the big shots. Here, he had the lowest status.
With each dish served, he introduced it, and when it came to Zhou You’s own products, he gave a detailed explanation.
Several coaches marveled. Their sports school had its own logistics system, but they didn’t know if it was good or bad.
Coach Sun was very envious: "Your field used to be way behind ours, even worse. Who’d have thought it’d become so popular now!"
Old Li laughed heartily: "You’re jealous now? Back then, everyone envied you track and field folks for getting into schools—there were so many schools and high demand. Us swimming people had it rough; few schools offered swimming classes, and career paths were narrow."
Wen Qing smiled too, raising his drink: "Let’s toast Teacher Zhou together. I won’t make big promises, but at least now when I teach students, I have confidence. Before, I had none. When students asked what I could do after retiring, I couldn’t say—I couldn’t tell them I’d become a security guard."
As he spoke, his eyes reddened slightly.
Everyone at the table toasted Zhou You.
Zhou You quickly stood up: "Teacher Wen, saying that puts a lot of pressure on me, and I’m humbled. Back then, it was through Wang Ping’s introduction that I met Li Houliang, which led to this connection with all of you. I’ve always loved these things, but my personal ability is limited. If there are shortcomings in the future, please forgive me."
He couldn’t let himself be set up for a fall.
As the atmosphere grew warmer and they chatted, Zhou You learned that in the sports world, there’s a hierarchy of disdain among specialties.
Curious, he asked everyone: "With so many athletes and events, what’s the difference?"
Hearing this, those at the table couldn’t help but smile bitterly.
Old Li leaned on the table and said quietly: "Generally, those with more money look down on those with less. For example, swimming is mid-tier. Equestrian, golf, ice hockey, fencing, aerobics—those are for the rich, requiring big investments. Ordinary kids can’t afford them. With swimming, if you have talent, you can at least make a living."
Wen Qing smiled bitterly: "People say we martial artists are a bunch of brutes—lots of injuries and no money."
Coach Sun couldn’t help cursing: "Damn, they say we track and field folks are donkeys, running circles around the track every day."
Coach Tian stayed silent, eating his food.
But then everyone looked at him.
"What are you looking at me for? My field has no presence at all. I’m just here to freeload a meal."
Zhou You laughed heartily after hearing this: "I’ll toast you all—this is an eye-opener. Coach Tian, you’re a real character."
"Ah, it’s called accepting fate. No talent myself, no talent in my students, and I still have to grit my teeth and keep going," Coach Tian said, and everyone fell silent.
Everyone at the table was a loser in the competitive arena.
Zhou You grew more curious: "So, do your kids go into sports?"
They all chimed in.
"In literature, there’s no top; in martial arts, there’s no second. The sports world runs on results, not your dad’s name. If you’ve got talent, fine; if not, it’s just for fitness."
"The entertainment industry is better—it’s art, subjective, no fixed standards. There’s always a meal to be had."
"Same with the literary world—you can write nonsense and still join the writers’ association or become a teacher."
"Damn, other fields can benefit future generations, but not ours. No wonder people look down on us—we live off our youth and cut off our kids’ paths."
"We’re still okay. Those weightlifters can barely recruit students anymore."
"Back then, there were more job channels, with booming growth. Now, with so many professional athletes retiring every year and sports majors graduating, we from sports schools have even less advantage."
"The guys selling sports gear at the door—some are our former students or peers. A few even won championships. Now, they’re just scraping by."
Zhou You was dizzy from listening. The sports industry truly is:
One general’s success comes from ten thousand bones.
There’s only one champion. People don’t even remember the runner-up. Even champions with less prestige—like Li Houliang’s classmate—are barely remembered. But within their small circle, they’re top-tier.
Li Houliang and Wang Ping listened intently, not speaking, not qualified to interrupt.
If Zhou You hadn’t given them a hand, they’d still be drifting somewhere.
Now, they’re both flag-bearers in their circles, especially Wang Ping, who’s developed faster. But Wang Ping knows he won’t go as far as Li Houliang.
Because Li Houliang’s relationship with Zhou You will grow closer, with more help coming. It sounds harsh, but that’s social reality—a temporary helping hand makes you a benefactor. As your value diminishes, contact likely fades.
Still, Wang Ping is content. At least guarding the Welcome Hotel, he can still make connections.
Li Houliang, though beaten down by society, hasn’t seen as much as these coaches.
Listening to their talk, he treasured his current opportunity even more. Outwardly, he’s a champion, but there are many champions every year—countless events, countless titles. Nothing to be proud of. He used to cling to that, but got knocked down.
He’d heard before that the sports gear shop owners at the door had connections. Now he saw the root—it was a last resort, teaming up with schools to find a way out.
He couldn’t help feeling relieved. Good thing he was a sanda champion. Good thing he met Zhou You.
Can’t get cocky. Absolutely can’t get cocky.
Thinking back to his recent smug phase, he felt a chill inside. Flattered by his senior and junior brothers, he’d nearly lost his bearings.