From Saigon to Hanoi: The Journey to Rediscover the Pulse of Vietnamese Football

I stood in the stands of My Dinh Stadium on a November evening, as the first cold winds of winter began to seep through the seats. On the pitch, Vietnam's U23 players were warming up, but my eyes weren't fixed on their touches—they were fixed on a small detail: a 10-year-old boy in the front row, wearing a faded number 10 shirt, watching the captain's every move. The boy had no idea that this moment would become the starting point for the story I'm writing today. Vietnamese football is at a crossroads. After the resounding successes of the U23 team in Changzhou 2026 and the historic run to the Asian Cup quarterfinals in 2026, fans have grown accustomed to seeing the national team as a symbol of national pride. But behind those victories, there's a bigger question few dare to ask: what foundation are we building football on? And more importantly, who are the people quietly keeping the flame alive for Vietnamese football when the stadium lights go out? During my five years covering Vietnamese football from France, I've realized something: the pulse of Vietnamese football doesn't lie in goals or trophies, but in the people working day and night behind the scenes. Those are the young coaches at training centers in Hanoi, Da Nang, and Ho Chi Minh City—people without names in the media but who are daily teaching young players how to touch the ball, how to get up after defeat, and how to dream. I remember meeting a young coach at the PVF youth training center in Hung Yen. He was 32, a former youth player for a First Division club who had to retire early due to injury. He told me that every morning he wakes up at 5 AM to prepare lesson plans, and every evening he watches recorded matches of his students to find the smallest errors. "I couldn't become a great player, but I can help these kids become better people than me," he said, his eyes shining with belief. His story reminded me of a principle I've learned after years in this profession: tactics will grow old, but the stories of people never expire. While experts analyze 3-4-3 formations or high pressing, at small training grounds across Vietnam, silent teachers are teaching young players something more important: how to face failure, how to respect opponents, and how to keep the fire of passion alive. Looking at the bigger picture, I see Vietnamese football has an interesting paradox. While the national team achieves unprecedented success, the youth development system still has many shortcomings. Major training centers like PVF, HAGL JMG, and the Hanoi FC academy have produced outstanding talents, but the numbers aren't yet enough to create a solid next generation. I once watched a U17 national championship match where 16-year-old players ran tirelessly but completely lacked game-reading ability. They were taught how to run, but not yet how to think. This leads me to a counterintuitive perspective: the recent success of Vietnamese football might be masking deep structural problems. When we celebrate victories over Thailand or Indonesia, we rarely ask: why do Vietnamese players still struggle when playing abroad? Why haven't we produced a player who truly succeeds in Europe? The answer doesn't lie in fitness or technique, but in how we train tactical thinking and adaptability. I remember an evening in Lyon, watching a youth match at Olympique Lyonnais. The 15-year-old players there learn to read space, move intelligently, and handle pressure. They're not just taught football—they're taught how to live with football. In Vietnam, I see young players often forced into a mold: run fast, play tough, sacrifice for the team. That's good, but not enough. Modern football needs players who can think, create, and make split-second decisions. However, I don't want to turn this article into a lament. Because I believe Vietnamese football is heading in the right direction—it just needs more time and patience. I've witnessed the change in how clubs invest in youth academies. Hanoi FC, with its AFC-standard academy, is producing a generation with far better technical foundations than the previous one. PVF is applying Belgian curriculum, emphasizing individual development before tactical development. And young coaches, though lacking experience, are learning quickly from foreign experts. The story I want to tell today isn't about victories or defeats, but about the people quietly building the future of Vietnamese football. It's the young coach in Hung Yen, the 10-year-old boy in the number 10 shirt at My Dinh, the mothers bringing their children to training at 6 AM, and the loyal fans still singing in the stands even when the home team loses. They are the true pulse of Vietnamese football. I didn't come to Vietnam this time to write about a specific match, but to listen to the stories no one interviews. I sat with a former national team player who retired and opened a football class for children on the outskirts of Hanoi. He told me he teaches 20 underprivileged kids for free every week. "I can't give them money, but I can give them a dream," he said. That sentence reminded me of a principle I've held throughout my career: the pulse never lies in the ball, but in the people. As I left Vietnam to return to Lyon, I carried a new belief. Vietnamese football stands at a historic opportunity—not because they can win the AFF Cup or qualify for the World Cup, but because they're beginning to understand that football isn't just about results, it's about the journey. That journey may be long and arduous, but it's worth taking. And I, as a writer, will continue to accompany them, recording the stories of people making history in the quietest way. An empty stadium, but I still hear applause from distant balconies. It's the applause of those who believe Vietnamese football will go further—not because they have the best players, but because they have the people who love football the most. And that, in the end, is what matters most.