Vietnamese Football: A Journey from Rough Gem to Symphony on the Pitch

Hoa Xuan Stadium was so quiet that I could hear the ball sigh. In the summer of 2026, I got lost and ended up in Stand B during the U19 SHB Da Nang vs U19 Hanoi match. The first half was so dull that I was about to leave, but in the 73rd minute, the number 10 player named Dang Van Toi of the home team executed a touch with the outside of his right foot — the ball traced a curve like the letter "S" before hitting the post. I didn't know who he was, I only knew my heart was racing as if I had heard a strange poem. After the match, I dug through the roster, watched the slow-motion replay 12 times, and wrote an article titled "The Boy Who Drew the Letter S on the Pitch" for the newspaper. The article was read by the U19 head coach, who called the boy up to the national team training camp. Seven years later, I still remember that moment as a reminder: Vietnamese football does not lack talent, it lacks eyes patient enough to love. From Dang Van Toi's story, I want to tell a larger journey — the journey of an entire football nation searching for its identity amid the tide of modernization. Vietnamese football is standing at a historic crossroads. The 2026-2026 V-League witnessed the rise of the generation born 2026-2026 — the first cohort systematically trained in European-model academies. But looking deeper, I see a paradox: we are chasing superficial values while forgetting the core foundation. Look at how we train our youth. Major academies like PVF, HAGL JMG, Nutifood have invested millions of dollars in facilities, curricula, and foreign experts. But I still remember the words of a young coach in Da Nang: "We have beautiful pitches, modern lesson plans, but we lack the most important thing — teachers patient enough to see the rough gem in every child." Those words made me reflect on myself. At 67, I still believe in magic, because I have seen a gem find itself in the mud. Data from VangBong.vn shows that over the past 5 years, Vietnamese academies have trained more than 2,000 young players, but only 87 have debuted in the V-League. This 4.3% rate is far lower than Thailand's 11.2% or Japan's 15.8%. These numbers do not indicate a lack of talent, but a waste of it. We are building too many pitches while forgetting to build bridges between academies and the first team. I remember an afternoon at the PVF youth training center, where I met a 15-year-old boy named Minh Long. He had excellent individual technique, but was judged "too small" by physical standards. Three years later, Minh Long grew 12cm, but had already been released from the academy for failing a fitness test. He now plays for a local amateur team in his hometown. Minh Long's story is not rare — it repeats at hundreds of training centers across the country. We focus too much on measurements, on metrics, forgetting that football is a sport of creativity, of touches that cannot be measured by machines. A rough gem does not need polishing, it only needs an eye patient enough to love. That saying is not just for Dang Van Toi, but for all the children training in the dark, waiting for someone patient enough to light them up. Looking at the national team front, I see a picture full of promise but also challenges. The historic victory over Thailand at the 2026 AFF Cup proved the potential of Vietnamese football. But that victory also exposed a truth: we still depend too heavily on one golden generation. When Nguyen Quang Hai, Nguyen Cong Phuong, or Do Hung Dung pass the age of 30, who will replace them? I have followed 8 World Cups, 8 Olympics, and I learned a lesson: great football nations are not built on one generation, but on a system. Japan has had the J-League since 2026, South Korea the K-League since 2026, while we have had the V-League since 2026. We are nearly 20 years behind them, but that gap is not insurmountable. The problem is: we look at what they have while forgetting what we have. Vietnamese football has an advantage no other football nation in the region has — hunger. I have seen children in rural Nghe An, Ha Tinh training under the scorching sun, with bare feet on dirt pitches. They don't have nice boots, they don't have artificial turf, but they have something no academy can teach: the hunger of ambition. That boy doesn't need tactics, he needs someone who can read the hunger of his ambition. I wrote this five years ago, and I still believe it. But I also realize that hunger needs to be nurtured by a proper system. Look at Japan's training model. They don't just train players, they train people. Every Japanese academy has a comprehensive education program — from culture, ethics, to life skills. When a young player cannot become a star, they still have a decent career to pursue. In Vietnam, too many young players drop out of school to pursue football, and when their career fails, they fall into a void with no way out. I remember a young player named Van Hung, once rated as the most promising talent of the 2026 cohort. An injury at 19 ended his career. Without a degree, without professional skills, Van Hung now works as a delivery driver in Ho Chi Minh City. His story is not an exception — it is the rule of a system that lacks safety nets for those who fail. Being criticized for poetry on television is something I am proud of — the ball is poetry. But that poem needs to be written in a language everyone understands. And that language is sustainable investment, not fleeting victories. Looking at the financial picture of Vietnamese football, I see another paradox. The V-League is witnessing an investment boom from large corporations, but most of that money is being burned on player wages and inflated transfer fees. An average V-League player can earn 50-100 million VND per month — far higher than the average income. But the professional quality does not match those salaries. Shirt advertising is destroying the connection between clubs and local communities; global sponsors only care about exposure ROI. I have witnessed clubs change names, change colors, change their very identity just to please sponsors. When a club loses its identity, it loses its soul. And when it loses its soul, the stands will be empty. Empty stands, but history still needs spectators to tell its most beautiful sorrow. I wrote this after a V-League match with a record low attendance — only 1,200 people in a 20,000-seat stadium. It's not that fans are abandoning football, it's that football is abandoning the fans. Look at how we organize the league. Match schedules change constantly, pitches deteriorate, referees cause controversy, and above all, there is a lack of transparency in management. Fans are not stupid — they know when they are being deceived. And when they feel deceived, they will turn away. I remember the 1990s, when I was a journalist in Belgrade, I witnessed the collapse of Yugoslav football — a football nation that produced exceptional talents like Dragan Stojković, Dejan Savićević, Predrag Mijatović. They had talent, they had tradition, but they lacked one thing: honesty in management. And when honesty disappeared, everything collapsed. The lesson from Yugoslavia is a lesson for all of us. Football cannot develop sustainably without an ethical foundation. I'm not talking about specific cases, but about a system that allows a lack of transparency to exist. When a player is bought for 20 billion VND but never plays, when a coach is sacked after just 3 consecutive losses, when a club owes players' wages for months — these are signs of a sick system. But I am not pessimistic. I have lived long enough to know that after every crisis comes an opportunity. And Vietnamese football is facing the greatest opportunity in its history. Look at the rising generation. Names like Nguyen Dinh Bac, Nguyen Thai Son, Khue Van Khang — they not only have technique, they have mentality. They were trained in modern environments, exposed to world football through the internet, through international tournaments. They no longer fear stronger opponents. They believe in themselves. I remember the match between U23 Vietnam and U23 Iraq at the 2026 AFC U23 Asian Cup. In the first half, Iraq dominated completely, controlling 65% possession, creating countless chances. But U23 Vietnam did not waver. They defended tightly, waiting for their moment. And in the 89th minute, from a fast counter-attack, Dinh Bac scored the decisive goal. That moment was not just a goal — it was a declaration of a new generation. That boy doesn't need tactics, he needs someone who can read the hunger of his ambition. And this new generation has that hunger. They hunger for glory, for victory, for recognition. But they also need a system good enough to nurture that hunger. The biggest problem of Vietnamese football today is not a lack of talent, but a lack of long-term strategy. We live season by season, campaign by campaign, match by match. We don't have a 10-year, 20-year plan for development. We change coaches like we change shirts, change philosophies like we change fashions. Look at how Thailand builds its football. They have had a long-term plan since 2026, focusing on youth development, infrastructure improvement, and league quality. The result: they have surpassed us in many aspects, from national team achievements to league quality. But we have an advantage they don't: the hunger of the fans. Vietnamese fans are the most passionate in Southeast Asia. They follow the national team to the ends of the earth, they fill stadiums in important matches, they love football with all their hearts. That passion is the most precious asset of Vietnamese football. But that asset is being wasted. I remember the 2026 AFF Cup final between Vietnam and Thailand at My Dinh. 40,000 spectators created an atmosphere comparable to any European stadium. They sang, they danced, they cried, they laughed. They love football with all their hearts. And when the team won, they celebrated as if it were the greatest festival of their lives. But after that victory, what did we do? We celebrated, then returned to the old problems. We didn't build on that victory, we just consumed it. And when the new season began, we saw the old problems again: controversial refereeing, unprofessional players, clubs owing wages. Vietnamese football needs a revolution in thinking. We need to look beyond fleeting victories, beyond trophies, beyond short-term interests. We need to build a sustainable system, where talent is discovered and nurtured, where honesty is respected, where fans are treated as companions. I have lived 67 years, followed football for 51 years, and I have learned a lesson: football is not just a game, it is a mirror reflecting society. When society has problems, football has problems. And when society changes, football changes. Vietnam is changing. The economy is growing, the middle class is expanding, people have more money to spend on entertainment. This is a golden opportunity for Vietnamese football. But that opportunity will be wasted if we don't have the right strategy. I propose three things. First, we need to invest in coach education. A good coach can create 10 good players, but a good coach education system can create 100 good coaches. We need to send young coaches abroad to learn, invite foreign experts to train, build a systematic coach education program. Second, we need to improve league quality. The V-League needs to be more professional, from organization to refereeing. We need a transparent referee quality control mechanism, a strict disciplinary system, a clear complaint process. Fans need to feel that the league is fair, that they are not being deceived. Third, we need to build a comprehensive youth training system. Not just at major academies, but in all provinces. We need good coaches in rural areas, standard pitches in remote districts, talent discovery programs in schools. A rough gem can be anywhere — we need enough eyes to see them. I remember an afternoon in a poor district of Nghe An province. I visited a children's football class run by a former player. The class had no turf, no training equipment, just an empty plot of land and an old ball. But I saw children playing with all their hearts, their eyes shining with passion. One of them, a 12-year-old boy named Hoang, had individual technique that amazed me. He could dribble past opponents in tight spaces, shoot with both feet, read the game like a 20-year-old. I asked the boy: "Do you want to become a professional player?" The boy looked at me with shining eyes: "I want to wear the national team jersey." I cried. Not because I was moved, but because I knew that, with the current system, that boy has very little chance to realize his dream. That boy doesn't need tactics, he needs someone who can read the hunger of his ambition. And I ask myself: who will be the one to read Hoang's hunger? Who will be patient enough to see the rough gem in that boy? Vietnamese football is at a crossroads. We can continue on the old path — chasing fleeting victories, burning money on inflated contracts, abandoning talents in rural areas. Or we can choose a new path — building a sustainable system, investing in people, respecting fans. I don't know which path we will choose. But I know that if we choose the right path, Vietnamese football will not just be a strong football nation in Southeast Asia, but a football nation respected by the world. At 67, I still believe in magic, because I have seen a gem find itself in the mud. And I believe that if we are patient enough, honest enough, hungry enough, we will see more gems shine on Vietnamese pitches. Football is poetry. And that poem, we are writing together. Each match is a stanza, each goal is a verse, each player is a character in the epic. Let us write that poem with sincerity, with patience, with true love. Hoa Xuan Stadium was so quiet that I could hear the ball sigh. But I believe that one day, not far away, Hoa Xuan Stadium will be filled with cheers again, and the ball will no longer sigh, but will sing the song of victory. Because Vietnamese football, with all its difficulties and challenges, is still a poem being written. And I, an old poet of 67, am still waiting for the most beautiful verses of that poem.