The Pitch and The Martial Way: Rediscovering the Pulse of Vietnamese Football

The empty training ground on a July afternoon, as the first rain of the season had just stopped. I stood at the corner of the pitch, where no one noticed, watching puddles reflect the gray sky. No spectators, no cameras, only the sound of studs scraping on wet grass and the heavy breathing of young players. I have followed Vietnamese football for 16 years, from my early days as a journalist in Australia to returning home, and I realize that this moment – the empty training ground, but the pulse of the ball still echoing – is where the truth reveals itself. Vietnamese football is at a critical crossroads. After resounding successes at SEA Games 31 and the 2026 Asian Cup, the national team is facing a harsh reality: the golden generation of Quang Hai, Cong Phuong, Van Duc is gradually passing its peak, while the next generation has yet to prove its mettle on the international stage. The 2026 World Cup qualifiers are approaching, and the biggest question is not tactics or squad selection, but whether we have the courage to confront our own mistakes. Over the years, I have witnessed many generations of Vietnamese players grow and depart. I remember mornings waking at 4 AM in Busan to document every training session of Lee Jeong-hyeop – a striker who scored 15 goals but missed 6 penalty kicks. I learned that a player's frustration comes not just from technique, but from the eyes of 300 loyal supporters who came to the stadium despite the rain. Similarly, in Vietnam, I see young players burdened by the expectations of an entire nation, while the youth development system still has many gaps. Look at the reality: Quang Hai, Vietnam's brightest star, endured two difficult seasons at Pau FC and is now seeking a new destination. Cong Phuong, once expected to shine in Japan and South Korea, returned home after unsuccessful stints abroad. Van Duc, one of the most technically gifted players of his generation, is struggling with recurring injuries. These stories are not just about them as individuals, but about an entire system searching for direction. From the observer's seat, I see that football is not a sport – it is a symphony of beautiful mistakes. When a young player misses a penalty in the final, when a defender makes a positional error leading to a goal, when a striker squanders a golden chance – these are moments when human nature is exposed. And in those moments, we see the truth about Vietnamese football: we have talent, but we lack patience. Look at how South Korea developed their football. They don't rush the process, don't place excessive pressure on young players. They build the system from the roots, from coaching education to infrastructure investment. When Son Heung-min was young, he was allowed to make mistakes, allowed to learn from failures. In Vietnam, we are often too harsh on young talents, demanding immediate brilliance, and when they don't meet expectations, we quickly write off their careers. In the summer of 2026 at the Russia World Cup, I witnessed one of the most emotional moments of my journalism career. After the historic 2-0 victory over Germany, I stood in the mixed zone and saw Son Heung-min crying like a child. But my article wasn't just about the victory – I noticed goalkeeper Jo Hyeon-woo, criticized throughout the previous match, standing alone in the corner of the dressing room crying for 15 minutes. I wrote about the fear of being forgotten among backup players, and the anxiety of the coaching staff when fielding young faces. That lesson remains relevant for Vietnamese football today. That night in Russia, the sound of Korean vuvuzelas echoed amid June snow – I had never been so afraid of the cold. But I had also never seen a nation rise so powerfully after the final whistle as the Koreans. They weren't just celebrating victory; they were celebrating perseverance, resilience, and faith in their own system. When I look at Vietnam, I ask: do we have that faith? The 2026 World Cup qualifiers will be the biggest test for Vietnamese football in this decade. We are in a difficult group, with strong opponents like Japan, Australia, and Saudi Arabia. But instead of focusing solely on results, we should look at the process. Will young players be given opportunities to develop? Will the training system be improved? Will we have enough patience to build a sustainable football foundation, rather than chasing short-term successes? When the stands are empty, I hear the breathing of players more clearly than ever – a sound no television broadcast can capture. During the 2026 pandemic, I was one of the few journalists allowed into the empty Busan Asiad Stadium. Sitting in the silent stands, I heard the sound of players kicking the ball echoing as if in training. Young players like Lee Dong-jun faced psychological crises, not knowing who they were playing for; the coach asked me to talk to them, to reassure them over the phone. I proposed a column called "Voices from the Empty Stadium" – interviewing fans via video call and printing their words on paper stands, helping players feel they weren't forgotten. Vietnamese football is going through a similar phase – not because of a pandemic, but because of generational transition. We are standing between two worlds: one of past successes, one of future challenges. And in that gap, we need to listen to our own breathing. Players run on the pitch, I record the rhythm of every step – the memories of an observer never sit still. From Busan to Russia, I learned that a season never ends with the final. Each match is just one note in a long symphony, and mental resilience matters more than any single victory. For Vietnamese football, this lesson is more important than ever. Look at how other nations overcome crises. Japan, after their 2026 World Cup failure, undertook a comprehensive reform from the grassroots level. They invested in coaching education, built football academies across the country, and patiently waited for results. The outcome: they qualified for the 2026 and 2026 World Cups, and are now among Asia's strongest teams. Vietnam can learn from this model, not by copying, but by adapting it to our own conditions. One of the biggest problems in Vietnamese football is the lack of consistency in development strategy. Every time a new coach arrives, we completely change our football philosophy. When Park Hang-seo came, we shifted to defensive counter-attacking. When Philippe Troussier took over, we switched to possession-based play. But football is not a game of sudden changes – it is a game of patience and consistency. I remember an evening in Busan, sitting with a group of loyal supporters of the local team. They talked about the team's ups and downs, about seasons of promotion and relegation, about players who came and went. But what impressed me most was their unconditional love for the team – not because of achievements, but because of the stories, the memories, the moments. I asked myself: do Vietnamese fans have that love, or do they only love when the team wins? That summer, I didn't cry because we lost a match – I cried because I saw an entire nation rise after the final whistle. That was the moment I realized football is not just a game; it is part of a nation's identity. And for Vietnam, football has become an important part of national identity – from the crowded streets of Hanoi to the peaceful villages of the Mekong Delta, football is a common language for everyone. But for Vietnamese football to develop sustainably, we need to change our perspective. We need to stop placing excessive pressure on young players, stop expecting them to become stars overnight. We need to build a system that allows them to develop naturally, make mistakes, and learn from those mistakes. We need to invest in coaching education, improve infrastructure, and create a healthy football environment from the grassroots level. I am the keeper of the rhythm – not for the match, but for the stories bleeding on the sidelines every minute. And the biggest story of Vietnamese football right now is not about victory or defeat, but about how we build the future. When I look at the young players training on the pitch, I see not just potential talents, but people carrying the expectations of an entire nation. And I hope we will be wise enough to give them time, space, and patience to develop. The empty training ground, but the pulse of the ball still echoes. That is the message I want to send to all who love Vietnamese football: be patient, have faith, and remember that a season never ends with the final. Football is a long journey, and we are only at the beginning of that journey.