Ping-Pong Diplomacy summary

We live in an interconnected world, so for many of us, it may seem hard to believe that only 50 years ago, there was simply no contact between the United States and China. And when that finally changed, the breakthrough came from somewhere completely unexpected: the ping-pong table. 

Ping-pong was originally more of an after-dinner game than a serious sport. It became formalized, modernized, and spread around the world thanks to the efforts of one man: Ivor Montagu.

He was a curious fellow: a member of the English aristocracy who had two passions – communism and ping-pong. Secretly a Soviet spy, Montagu had a dream. He wanted ping-pong to build an understanding between East and West; he hoped the game would show the positive side of communism. 

And, in the 1970s, his dream came true. 

In these blinks, you’ll learn

• why ping-pong is a perfect political and diplomatic tool;
• how China’s most important men personally oversaw the country’s ping-pong team; and 
• how a long-haired hippy and a ping-pong champion nicknamed “The Brain” delivered a diplomatic breakthrough. 

At Cambridge, Montagu quickly realized that team sports were key to popularity on campus. So he used some of his family allowance to build two ping-pong tables. He organized the university’s first tournament, and, to his surprise, nearly 150 people registered. In the final, the university’s top tennis player lost to its top chess player. The event was, undeniably, a huge success.

Montagu had an eye for an opportunity. Immediately, he challenged Oxford University to a team match and captained Cambridge to a thumping victory: 31 to 5. His enthusiasm was not dampened by the fact that all five of Cambridge’s losses were actually his. 

Not yet 18, Montagu established himself as chairman of the British National Ping-Pong Association. 

The key message here is: As a young man, Montagu codified and promoted ping-pong. 

In his new position, Montagu single-handedly designed the modern game. He finally brought clarity to ping-pong: he wrote its official rules, which gave the game much-needed structure. These rules have been translated into many languages and are now the global standard.

He did encounter one problem, however. While holding tournaments under the banner of the Ping-Pong Association, he discovered that the famous toy manufacturer, Jaques & Son, held a trademark to the words “Ping-Pong." The company was insisting that only its equipment could be used at official events. 

But Montagu wanted the game to be accessible to everybody, including the poor. And, in his view, one company’s attempt to cash in was simply unacceptable. The solution he found was both radical and simple. Montagu simply dissolved the Ping-Pong Association and immediately set up the Table Tennis Association. 

In the 1920s, Montagu made the sport a nationwide phenomenon. The first British championship attracted thirty thousand players. The winner in the men’s game received a car. And the women’s champion got a mink coat. 

Six years on, and the sport was ready for a world championship. Teams arrived from Hungary, Slovakia, France, Germany, and even India. Ten thousand spectators paid to watch, and after the event, Montagu set up The International Table Tennis Federation. 

Its first meeting took place in the library of Ivor’s family home. The message was clear: without Montagu, the sport would not have found its new success. 

A decade later, even the king of England was a player. There was now a ping-pong table at Buckingham Palace, and the king became patron of the English Table Tennis Association. 

But what the monarch didn’t know was that the association’s leader was about to become a traitor. 

When Montagu was 21, he traveled to Soviet Russia. This English aristocrat wanted to see communism, live and in color, and Moscow captivated him. Montagu visited the Bolshoi Theater and joined the slow queue to see Lenin’s embalmed and waxy corpse. Even the people’s obvious poverty did not dent his enthusiasm. 

Six months after returning to England, Montagu received an invitation from the Kremlin. This time, he got VIP treatment: he was even invited to watch a military parade from Josef Stalin’s box in Red Square. Montagu was being groomed. But for what?

The key message here is: The young Montagu became a Soviet spy, and he used ping-pong to advance the cause. 

The Russians recognized that a man of Montagu’s background would be well-connected. So they asked him to feed information to the Soviet Embassy. Over time, he would hand over some significant data about British military capabilities. Crucially, he even informed Moscow that British scientists had cracked a key Soviet encryption code. 

But Montagu never forgot his first passion: ping-pong. World War Two did disrupt his international campaign to promote table tennis, but, at the same time, it also helped spread the game at grassroots level. Bored soldiers played it wherever they went. And when the war ended, and Montagu stepped up his efforts to promote the game internationally, the seed for its popularity had been sown. 

Table tennis became, for Montagu, a matter of both sports and politics. His efforts now included an attempt to promote a positive view of communist states. 

In 1946, he successfully lobbied his colleagues at the International Table Tennis Federation to invite a Soviet team to the next world championships. Only then, he argued, could the federation be regarded as a truly global body. 

And Montagu also started to look even further afield, to the new People’s Republic of China. Chairman Mao declared its foundation on October 1, 1949. Three months later, Montagu sat at his desk to write a letter to Zhu De, founder of the Chinese Red Army. 

By 1950, ping-pong was practically everywhere in China, from bustling cities to remote Red Army bases. Even the leaders of the Chinese communist movement, Chairman Mao and Premier Zhou Enlai, played frequently against each other. 

For the communists, ping-pong was a very attractive sport – one which workers could play without even leaving their factory. But there was a problem: the Chinese weren’t particularly good at it. 

When Montagu visited China in 1952, he watched the All-China Table Tennis Championships and was depressed by the poor quality on display.

The key message here is: Post-war Japan showed the Chinese that ping-pong could be a tool for good. 

Montagu was determined to make table tennis the first sport to formally welcome Communist China. He wanted to use ping-pong as a diplomatic tool to make it useful for his Chinese comrades. But officials in Beijing were cautious. They feared that their players’ poor skills would leave the country red-faced. 

Meanwhile, their old enemies, the Japanese, were proving what ping-pong could achieve, both at the table and away from it. A Japanese team traveled to the World Championships in Britain in 1954 and then to the Netherlands in 1955. The initial reception was quite hostile. At the time, the world remembered, very vividly, how Japan had behaved in the Second World War and how brutally its army treated prisoners of war. 

When Japan’s star player, Ichiro Ogimura, walked into a London restaurant wearing his official team blazer, every customer stood up and walked out. 

But the Japanese not only won both competitions, they also made some important diplomatic advances. When Ogimura triumphed in London, he refused to raise a Japanese flag on the podium. This was a clever and sensitive gesture, and it was much appreciated in Britain. A year on, in the Netherlands, a Hungarian player was playing against a member of the Japanese team. At one point, the European stumbled and nearly fell, but Ogimura, who was sitting at the side of the court, broke the man’s fall and helped him to his feet. For once, booing turned to light applause. 

Ping-pong became a hit for Japan both at home and abroad, and people in Beijing were watching closely. When Ogimura produced a short film about his game and Japanese table tennis, one of the first buyers was the Chinese state. 

In the 1950s, Japan’s problem was its terrible post-war reputation. China’s was its lack of international relations. The People’s Republic of China was not recognized internationally; it had no seat at the United Nations. The United States and world powers instead acknowledged Mao’s nationalist opponents, led by the country’s former leader, Chiang Kai Shek. 

For Mao, this was unacceptable. He needed to set things right. And one of the levers he pushed was Montagu’s International Table Tennis Federation. When the Chinese Table Tennis Association – run by Mao’s functionaries – declared that it spoke for the whole nation, Montagu happily accepted. This opened a door for the new China. 

The key message here is: China’s leaders promoted table tennis as a route to international acceptance. 

Beijing was quick to spot the opportunities ping-pong could provide; and the Chinese government started to take ping-pong seriously. The country’s officials talent-spotted a promising player from Hong Kong, Rong Guotan. Soon, the government offered him a chance to spearhead China’s global ping-pong effort – and Rong happily accepted. The player’s life changed beyond recognition: he now had a large house and access to the best food and healthcare. 

Before long, the investment paid off. At a tournament in Dortmund, Germany, Rong secured victory. He became China’s first world champion. And not just at ping-pong: Rong was the first Chinese person to win a sporting gold of any kind. 

When Mao’s Prime Minister Zhou Enlai congratulated Rong and his teammates, he said they held a particular power. This power was – he said – greater than his. As a top Chinese politician, Zhou had limits on where he could go and whom he could see. But ping-pong players could go anywhere in the world. 

In the United Kingdom, the Daily Mirror said that the young Chinese nation had performed a miracle. Back in China, Chairman Mao personally congratulated Rong. The communist state media reported that Rong had “brought glory to the Motherland.” Factories in Shanghai took orders for over 21 million ping-pong balls. 

Rong’s victory was not, however, China’s greatest prize. No, something much bigger was on the cards. Montagu suggested that the country should now hold a world championship. Zhou and Mao recognized this for the opportunity it was. Ping-pong could help them highlight China’s economic progress and show China as a friendly nation. 

And it could also help their domestic agenda: at the time of increasing hardship brought on by Mao’s policies, table tennis could offer the country a good news story.

In preparation for the 1961 Beijing world championships, the Chinese squad spent months living and training together. Its players endured an unrelenting, punishing schedule. They received coaching during the day and watched slow-motion films of their opponents’ tactics in the evenings.

No ping-pong team had ever invested so much in victory. Athletes were keenly aware of the responsibility they carried, and Premier Zhou Enlai himself liked to visit the squad to discuss their progress. 

Outside the team’s compound, famine was raging. But, as the country descended into abject poverty, the regime spared its ping-pong players from shortages. Every time they sat down to a meal, the food on their table served as a reminder that they had to deliver results. 

The key message here is: At a difficult time, Beijing’s world championships showed a positive image of China.

When the tournament began, Mao’s government breathed a sigh of relief: Western journalists focused on ping-pong, not on politics. Most expected the Japanese to win, and experts were taken aback by the quality and doggedness of Chinese athletes. 

The home team was huge: it consisted of 70 players. When they inevitably came up against each other, they would deliberately play slowly. This was a ploy: the Chinese were waiting to see which of their opponents would go through into the next round. And then, they decided who was best suited to beat that opponent. The other player would deliberately lose. Like good communists, they played not for individual glory, but for the greater good. 

The championship final was a grudge match, with China’s Zhuang Zedong facing off against Japan’s Ogimura. To the screams of twenty thousand Chinese spectators, Zhuang demolished his opponent. The Chinese were world champions. 

For the Chinese regime, the championship was a triumph. It showed just how much progress the young People’s Republic had made. 

And Ivor Montagu was there to witness China’s triumph. As he rejoiced alongside Chinese fans, he knew that his dream had come true. Ping-pong had offered communist states a route to international acceptance.

A few years after the Chinese triumphed in Beijing, Ivor Montagu retired. But, as you will learn in the following blinks, we’re still living in a world which was, to some extent, shaped by his legacy. 

In the late 1960s, China and the United States started to think about building bridges. Decades of silence were about to end.

Both countries had good reason to look for a closer relationship. China faced hostility from its neighbors – the Soviet Union, India, and Japan. Meanwhile, over in the States, President Richard Nixon was heading toward a re-election campaign, and he was also embroiled in an increasingly bitter Vietnam War. 

China needed friends. The United States needed an ally with influence in Asia. But with no contact for decades, who would make the first move? And how? 

The key message here is: The Chinese hoped to contact the Americans at the 1971 world championships.

The Chinese Premier Zhou Enlai decided that sport could pave the way. Specifically – ping-pong. The government decided to send a team to Nagoya, Japan, for the 1971 world championships. Officials in Beijing knew that an American team would be there, and they hoped to establish contact. 

Events proved them right. The breakthrough happened when Glenn Cowan, a long-haired, head-band-wearing teenager and star player on the American team, stepped onto the Chinese team bus. The date was April 5, 1971. 

The Chinese claim that Cowan stumbled onto their bus by mistake. The doors closed, the vehicle pulled off, and Cowan found himself among “the dreaded reds.” An awkward silence ensued. The Chinese team was tense: they were not supposed to engage with Americans. 

But the Chinese champion, Zhuang Zhedong, seemed to be prepared. From the back of the bus, he walked toward Glenn Cowan. To the consternation of his teammates, he offered the American a gift, a beautiful silk screen-print of the Huangshan Mountains. Glenn accepted. There was a handshake. 

Zhuang’s actions probably weren’t spontaneous. Chinese team members were not allowed to carry such gifts. Even Cowan himself later said he’d been invited to join the Chinese athletes. 

And when the bus returned to drop Cowan off, a group of photographers were ready and waiting, a sure sign the event was choreographed. Photos of Zhuang and Cowan smiling together were published around the world. 

The Chinese expected a response, but Washington still felt uncomfortable about showing any signs of friendship with Beijing. 

Luckily, Cowan himself had an eye for a photo opportunity. The following day, he approached Zhuang and gave the man a hug. Cowan also pulled out two identical T-shirts. Their design was full of meaning: an American flag, a peace symbol, and the Beatles’ words, “Let it Be." 

To the delight of photographers, the two men smiled and put the t-shirts on. 

For Zhou Enlai, the moment was a triumph. For Nixon and Kissinger, it was a step forward. For Ivor Montagu, it was a vindication of ping-pong diplomacy. 

In Beijing, a decision was made: the American players would be invited to visit China.

The key message here is: The US table-tennis team’s visit to China was an important political breakthrough.

Glenn Cowan and his fellow players arrived in China to a strange mix of ping-pong, politics, culture clashes, and media frenzy. They attended endless banquets and politely tasted Chinese delicacies. On one occasion, they sat before two banners, one welcoming the American team, the other, calling for the downfall of "Yankee oppressors."

In exhibition matches, the far superior Chinese team politely arranged for modest scores and allowed Glenn Cowan – ever the showman – to entertain the crowd. 

For the hosts, the real priority was politics. The Americans were invited to the Great Hall of the People to meet Zhou Enlai – an honor denied to many visiting politicians. Zhou congratulated the US players on “a new page” for the two nations. 

Ping-pong players had become the world’s most important diplomats. 

In the United States, where ping-pong had rarely made the sports news, it was now hitting the front pages. On the first day of the visit, The New York Times published five articles about it. A day later, eight. 

And when the Americans left China, they were met by a throng of journalists. One reporter bought the film out of a player's camera for $200, even though he had no idea what was on it. 

The official response from Washington was lukewarm, but, secretly, Nixon was delighted by how the visit was changing perceptions of China. 

He was right; things were changing. A Gallup poll showed that, for the first time, most Americans supported China’s membership of the United Nations. The door was finally opened.

In the summer of 1971, in deepest secrecy, US national security advisor Henry Kissinger interrupted a visit to Pakistan so he could travel to Beijing. 

He flew with a small group of aides, all trusted to keep the secret. One, Winston Lord, waited until the plane neared the Himalayas, and then joined the pilots in the cockpit. That secured his place in history. Lord became the first American diplomat to enter the People’s Republic of China. 

The aim of Kissinger’s first, tentative talks with Zhou Enlai was to establish foundations for a future summit between Nixon and Mao. At the time, few believed that such a meeting was even possible. 

But Kissinger’s conversations in Beijing went well. Zhou started by suggesting that Chinese ping-pong players could pay a visit to the States. Kissinger, though, was happy to go much further. He even mentioned that China might eventually get a UN seat. It seemed that the United States was following in Ivor Montagu’s footsteps, bringing China to the front of the international stage – and, at the same time, gently pushing Taiwan out into the wings.

The key message here is: Ping-pong diplomacy delivered a lasting change in relations between the United States and China.

In the summer of 1971, in a televised address to the nation, Nixon announced that he would visit China next year. The two leaders, American and Chinese, would hold a formal meeting. 

The news was greeted with amazement, even with shock. Up to that summer, Nixon and Kissinger had kept everyone in the dark. 

A few months later, Nixon’s plane touched down in Beijing. China had once described the president’s first visit to Europe as a rat crossing the street. Now, Nixon and Zhou Enlai clinked glasses at an extravagant banquet, while a Chinese Army band played “America the Beautiful.” 

Nixon had secured his historic meeting with the Chinese leader. But, to reach the chairman’s private rooms, the president first had to walk past Mao’s personal ping-pong table. 

Later that year, the Chinese table-tennis team toured the United States. Athletes visited the United Nations, and world champion Zhuang Zedong was filmed in the Security Council chamber. He sat in China’s new permanent seat. Zhuang was smiling, as he should. Part ping-pong player, part diplomat, he’d done more than most to bring China back into the world.