ON A COOL autumn night, a man dressed as Guan Yu, a legendary general from 1,800 years ago, mounted his black steed and charged around a stadium. From the stands 26,000 fans erupted in cheers—and then thunderous chants for their football team: “Yiyang must win! Nearly two hours later, Yiyang had lost, 1-0, to their stronger opponents from Changsha, the capital of Hunan province.
Yiyang’s players, their bright orange jerseys muddy and socks torn from the hard-fought match, could not hold back tears.
Welcome to the spectacle, and the emotion, of the grassroots provincial football leagues sweeping across China. But the passion is real, more so than that surrounding China’s perennially inept national team. The skills are—put politely—uneven, with lots of missed passes, fluffed shots and, in the Yiyang match, a goal review that took 11 excruciating minutes.
“Xiangchao (the Hunan league) is better than the World Cup,” goes one local joke.
The city-versus-city amateur competitions began only in spring 2025, starting in Jiangsu, and have inspired copycats in about 20 other provinces. Some hope the triumph of these leagues will radiate upwards to the national team, which has not reached a World Cup since 2002. In Yiyang, seats were just 9.9 yuan ($1.50); nearly 90,000 people had entered the ticket lottery.
When scalpers muscled in, authorities introduced facial-recognition turnstiles, ensuring that original ticket recipients could not sell their seats. Officials see the leagues chiefly as economic catalysts. Their most striking impact, though, has been social. Against the backdrop of a sluggish economy, they have given people something to cheer, and with all the devotion and irrationality of sports fans anywhere. A few hours before kick-off, the plaza outside the Yiyang stadium had a carnival-like atmosphere. Stalls sold spicy soup, stinky tofu, a mashed tea drink and other local delights. The biggest queues were for giveaways, including jars of Hunanese chilli relish. Superfans gathered early to bang on drums, wave oversized flags and belt out their chants. They were a good-natured bunch, joking with fans of the opposing side and wrapping Chaguan in a team scarf. Cheerleaders warmed up for their half-time performance; in keeping with the family atmosphere of the whole event, they were clad in ankle-length Chinese opera-style robes. In the streets around the stadium, the penumbra of China’s property downturn is visible in closed restaurants, half-finished buildings and unoccupied flats. Officials had tried several things, from night markets to concerts. It drew spectators, young and old, as well as out-of-towners. The inaugural season of the Hunan league brought a Cinderella story when Yongzhou, much poorer than Changsha, clawed its way to the championship. The provincial leagues may help football’s image in China. At the professional level, the China Super League is seen as hopelessly corrupt, marred by match-fixing scandals. The provincial leagues have a purity about them. But the provincial leagues come far too late in players’ development to feed into the national programme. Nevertheless, rekindled enthusiasm may entice more young people to play. Rules are in place to keep the provincial leagues resolutely amateur and local. In Hunan, for example, each team must have at least three high-school students on the pitch at all times. All players must have ties to their city, such as a hukou (household registration). Governments also keep ticket prices down.
“It’s been a morale booster for us,” says a sponsor of the Yiyang team. A business partner of the Hunan league says it was created in part to revive economic activity. Nothing worked as well as football, he says. With domestic tourism bemoaned as homogeneous and predictable—cities offer similar pedestrian streets, similar trinkets, similar virtual-reality experiences—there is something to be said for the drama and uncertainty of sport. “There’s no money in these games, just people struggling to win,” says one fan at the Yiyang match.
For all their grassroots feel, the leagues are mostly run from the top down: bureaucrats organise the matches, vet the entertainment and manage the commercial deals. Their charm depends on that hand staying light. Much as Chinese cities compete to attract investments, they may also start treating league standings as a performance metric. Languishing at the bottom of the table could reflect poorly on a city’s organisational abilities, so the pressure to lure better players or spend more on training is likely to grow.
