Vietnamese Three-Cushion Billiards: The Rhythm of Those Who Learned to Count With Their Eyes

For more than twenty years sitting in the commentary booth, I learned something strange about three-cushion billiards: the winner is rarely the player who makes the most cushion contacts. In a typical world-class match, the gap in efficiency between the champion and the runner-up is sometimes just 0.08 cushion contacts per inning. That number is so small that if you blink, you miss it. But multiplied across forty innings of a final, it is the entire difference between a trophy and a flight home.

I still remember one evening at a domestic tournament, when a young Vietnamese player stepped into the final inning with the score level. He did not play a single flashy shot. He simply placed the cue ball in exactly one quarter of the table, let it run two cushions, and tapped it gently against the golden point. The shot was so slow that the spectators around me had not even stood up before the ball stopped. And he won. What I want to say here is not the story of one player. It is the story of a billiards scene learning to trust small numbers.

For many years, Vietnamese billiards was viewed through the lens of improvisation. People talked about players with "feel for the ball," about shots that "cannot be explained," about moments of brilliance that flared and then faded. That view is not wrong, but it is half the story. Behind every beautiful shot is a chain of calculations the eye cannot see: approach angle, push force, spin, cloth speed, and even the temperature of the room.

I came to billiards not from the table. I came from the spreadsheets. In 2026, I entered the profession as a note-taker, and over twenty-three years as a snooker commentator for a Vietnamese television station, I sat through nearly every classic final of what people still call the golden era. I heard the sound of balls rolling more than the sound of voices. And I learned that each billiards discipline — snooker, nine-ball pool, Chinese eight-ball, carom — has its own frame of reference, its own grammar, and that if you apply one discipline's grammar to another, you will speak incorrectly from the very first sentence.

In Vietnam, the mainstream current is not snooker. It is carom — specifically three-cushion. This is a fundamental difference that many outsiders overlook. While most of the world speaks English through snooker and pool, in Vietnamese cities, from small billiard halls in alleyways to large centers, people count in cushions. Three-cushion is not just a discipline; it is the cultural foundation of Vietnamese billiards.

And precisely because of this, when we talk about Vietnamese billiards, we must speak in the language of carom: the cushion-contact average per inning, the success rate on decisive cushions, the ability to control the cue ball in forbidden zones, and what is called "table position" — the way a player arranges positions to open up the next scoring sequence.

The context of Vietnamese billiards is the context of a sport rising from modest practice rooms. There is not much expensive equipment. There is no automated analysis system like those in European centers. But there is something else: the number of players. And in sports, the number of players is the raw ore from which elite players are refined. I once wrote that "Binh Duong back then had no expensive software, only people who believed every number would find its way." That is true for football, and even truer for billiards.

Over more than two decades of observation, I noticed a recurring pattern: Vietnamese players often excel at reading the table — that is, visualizing the cue ball's path before shooting — but lag behind in the consistency of long innings. This is not criticism. It is a data signal, and it has specific causes.

The first cause is the training environment. A European player can practice on the same table, the same cloth, the same balls all year. The stability of physical conditions creates stability of feel. Conversely, a Vietnamese player often has to adapt to different tables, different humidity, different cloth speeds. This trains adaptability — a valuable skill — but degrades the ability to repeat a shot precisely.

The second cause is how points are counted. In carom, each inning is a chance to score a sequence. Good players do not just score one point; they score five, seven, even fifteen points consecutively in one inning. The ability to sustain this sequence depends on what I call "positional memory" — the ability to recall hundreds of ball configurations and their corresponding paths. This is a trainable skill, but it requires a systematic method.

And this is exactly the point I want to dwell on longer. Vietnamese billiards does not lack talent; it lacks a common language to turn talent into repeatable data. In football, people have xG, PPDA, sprint counts. In carom, people have the cushion-contact average, success rate, and point distribution by inning. But these metrics have not been standardized at the grassroots level in Vietnam. As a result, each coach teaches in one way, each player understands in another, and no one can compare one player to another objectively.

I once witnessed a debate lasting several months between two groups of fans about who is Vietnam's number-one three-cushion player. That debate had no conclusion, because the two sides used two different yardsticks. One side counted titles. The other counted average cushion contacts. And both were right, in their own way. But no one placed both yardsticks on the same board to look at.

That was when I began applying the method I had used for football to billiards. That method has three steps. Step one: define the core unit of measurement — for carom, that is cushion contacts per inning. Step two: define the context — opponent, format, table conditions. Step three: compare with control — only compare what can be compared.

When I applied this method to a dataset of hundreds of domestic and international matches, a much clearer picture emerged than what I had once thought. Vietnamese players, on average, have a significantly higher cushion-contact average in the early innings of a match than in the late innings. In other words, they start well but decline toward the end. Meanwhile, top European players tend to do the opposite: they start cautiously and accelerate later.

This is an important finding, and it has deep tactical meaning. It shows that the problem is not basic technique, but the management of stamina and psychology throughout the match. A three-cushion match can last two to three hours, sometimes more. Over that time, concentration is a limited resource. And how that resource is allocated determines the final result.

I remember analyzing a match in which a Vietnamese player led by a fairly comfortable margin, but then let the opponent equalize and overtake in the final innings. When I charted the cushion-contact average across each ten-inning period, his curve declined almost steadily. There was no single serious miss. It was just that with each inning, he lost a little accuracy, and that "little" accumulated into defeat.

His opponent was different. The opponent's curve was almost flat, with a slight dip in the middle and a slight rise at the end. That is the mark of someone who knows how to conserve energy, how to choose when to attack and when to defend. In carom, defense does not mean playing safe shots. Defense means placing the cue ball in a position where, if you do not score, you also do not give the opponent an easy chance to score.

This is the point I want to emphasize, because it is often misunderstood. In three-cushion, an inning that scores no points but puts the opponent in a difficult position is worth nearly as much as an inning that scores. And Vietnamese players, with their strong attacking instinct, sometimes undervalue such innings. They want to score. They want sequences. And in chasing sequences, they expose gaps that opponents can exploit.

I have sat with the spreadsheets after the stands had gone dark — you may call it work, I call it fate. And on those nights, I realized that Vietnamese billiards is at a crossroads. On one hand, it has achieved significant results on the international stage, with Vietnamese players appearing regularly at World Cup events and Asian championships. On the other hand, it has not yet built a data-driven training system, making success depend too much on exceptional individuals rather than on a reproducible process.

When talking about the achievements of Vietnamese billiards, people often mention specific names. And that is right, because achievement always belongs to specific people. But what interests me more is the structure behind those achievements. One champion can be born of luck. But ten champions within a decade can only be born of a system.

In Vietnam today, three-cushion billiards has an advantage many countries lack: it is part of everyday life. You can find a three-cushion table in most provinces. You can find players of all ages. You can find amateur tournaments running all year. This is a population base any sports federation would dream of.

But a population base is only a necessary condition, not a sufficient one. To convert quantity into quality, a bridge is needed. And that bridge, in my view, is data. Not complex data with sophisticated algorithms, but basic data recorded with discipline: every match, every inning, every cushion contact. Just record it. Just count it. And then, just read it.

I once proposed to several coaches that they should start recording their students' matches. The first reaction was usually hesitation. "Record for what?" they asked. "I can see how my student plays just by watching." And I replied: a good coach's intuition can see whether a player is playing well or not. But only data can tell you whether he is getting better or worse, and in what respect.

This is the difference between diagnosis and monitoring. Diagnosis tells you the current state. Monitoring tells you the trend. And in elite sports, the trend matters more than the state, because the trend is what predicts the future.

When I applied this approach to a group of young players, the results were quite surprising. After about six months of recording and analysis, we discovered that the group's biggest weakness was not ball-striking technique, but the ability to control the cue ball after the third cushion contact. In other words, they could score, but they could not control the cue ball's position to continue the sequence. This is a very specific problem, and it can be fixed with very specific drills.

Without data, this group might have spent hundreds of hours practicing things that were not their real weakness. They might have improved skills they were already good at, and ignored the skills they actually needed. This is the most common trap in sports: we like to practice what we are good at, because it gives a sense of success.

And this is where I want to shift to another angle, one I know will irritate some people.

The truth is, most of the metrics we praise in modern sports do not measure ability; they measure presence. A player who makes many cushion contacts is not necessarily a better player. He is simply on the table longer. A footballer who runs a lot is not necessarily a more efficient player. He is simply running more. And in carom, a player with a high cushion-contact average in a particular match is not necessarily a more capable player — he may simply have just gone through a match in which the opponent made more errors.

I once watched a match in which the winner had a lower cushion-contact average than the loser. It sounds absurd, but it is perfectly logical mathematically. The winner needed fewer innings to reach the required score, because he scored at the right moments. The loser had a higher cushion-contact average, but he scored at moments that did not matter. In sports, timing matters more than quantity.

This means that when evaluating a player, we should not look only at the average number. We should look at the distribution of those numbers over time, by opponent, by context. A player with a cushion-contact average of 1.2 but stable throughout the match may be more valuable than a player with 1.5 but wildly fluctuating. In elite sports, consistency is a more valuable asset than breakthrough.

It took me many years to understand this. I recall that World Cup 2026 taught me the most important lesson: numbers are only beautiful when they know how to stand on the side of the story. Back then, I analyzed a team with the highest distance covered in the tournament, and I thought that was a sign of superiority. But on closer reading, I realized that a large part of that distance was ineffective movement — running without creating value. The number was beautiful, but it did not tell the truth about the team.

And that lesson applies fully to billiards. In carom, there is a metric I call "ineffective cushion contacts" — contacts made but not leading to points, and not putting the opponent in difficulty. A player can have a high cushion-contact average, but if most of those contacts are ineffective, the number means nothing.

This is why I always recommend that coaches and billiards analysts consider the context of each number. A cushion contact in the first inning has a different value from one in the decisive inning. A cushion contact while leading has a different value from one while trailing. Context is everything.

I once said: "Before trusting a number, I ask where it was born. Just like watching a player before commenting." This is true for football, and it is also true for billiards. When you see a player with an impressive cushion-contact average, ask: in what context was that number born? Who was the opponent? What was the format? What were the table conditions?

If you do not ask these questions, you will fall into the trap of blind admiration. And in sports, blind admiration is the enemy of understanding.

Now, let us talk about the future.

Vietnamese billiards stands before a great opportunity. The growth of international tournaments, the rise of sports media channels, and the increasing public interest are creating a wave that those in billiards need to seize. But to seize that wave, they need a foundation more solid than isolated exceptional individuals.

That foundation, in my view, consists of three pillars. The first pillar is a grassroots data-recording system. It need not be complex. Just a notebook and someone who knows how to count. The second pillar is a coach-training program based on that data. The third pillar is a comparable competition system — that is, tournaments using the same format and the same measurement standards.

These three pillars may sound dry, but they are the foundation of every developed sports scene. Look at European football, and you will see this clearly. Look at professional tennis, and you will too. Look at the sports where Vietnam has strengths, and you will see that countries which have built systems go further than those relying only on individual talent.

But I also want to add one thing, because I do not want this article to become an empty call for reform. Data is not a miracle cure. It is only a tool. And a tool has value only when there is someone who knows how to use it. The most important thing is not having data, but having a data culture — a way of seeing the world in which truth is sought rather than assumed, and assumptions are tested rather than defended.

In Vietnamese billiards, that culture is gradually taking shape. I see young coaches beginning to record their training sessions. I see young players beginning to learn about metrics. I see debates about billiards becoming deeper, less emotional. These are good signs, and they need to be nurtured.

I remember the feeling of 2026, when stadiums were empty and the entire sports world had to adapt. The empty stands of 2026, I could clearly hear the ball rolling and the sound of my note sheet falling onto the stadium seat. That was the period when I learned that the presence of spectators can change player behavior, and therefore change the data. The same is true for billiards. A match with spectators and a match without are two different contexts, and we need to analyze them differently.

In recent years, I have seen Vietnamese billiards tournaments attract ever-larger audiences. This means our data will increasingly be influenced by psychological factors. A young player performing before a large crowd will behave differently from one performing in a quiet practice room. And if we want to understand their ability correctly, we need to measure both contexts.

This is an area where Vietnamese billiards could lead. Not many billiards scenes in the world invest in studying the effect of psychological factors on player performance. If Vietnam can do this — combining technical data with psychological data — it will be a real competitive advantage.

But I do not want to dream too far. Let us return to what can be done right now. And what can be done right now, most simply, is recording. Record every match. Record every inning. Record every cushion contact. And then, read back what you recorded. You will be surprised by what you find.

I once witnessed a young player completely change his game after just three months of recording. He discovered that he often lost points at a specific position on the table — a corner he had not realized he was weak at. Once he knew that, he spent time practicing that position specifically. And his cushion-contact average rose significantly.

This story sounds simple, but it contains a big lesson. We often do not know where we are weak, because we do not record. We rely on memory, and memory is selective. Memory remembers the beautiful shots and forgets the bad ones. Data forgets nothing. It records everything, including what we do not want to remember.

And that is precisely the value of data in sports. It does not only help us understand opponents. It helps us understand ourselves.

Looking ahead, I believe Vietnamese billiards will continue to develop. But the path of development will not be the same for everyone. Some players will succeed through innate talent. Some will succeed through hard work. And some will succeed through understanding. The players in the last group are the ones I care about most, because they are the ones who will pass knowledge to the next generation.

Football has its own rhythm, data has its own rhythm. It took me many years to learn to let them stand in the same sentence. And in billiards, I am learning the same thing. The rhythm of the table and the rhythm of the spreadsheet do not always match. But when they do, you will see a picture you have never seen before.

Every season is a sequence of data, but my memories are not in any model. I remember the nights sitting alone in the practice room, looking at the chalk marks on the table, wondering whether the numbers I was recording really mattered. Many years later, I know the answer is yes. But not because those numbers were accurate. Rather because they forced me to look more closely, to be more patient, and to be more humble.

People see the goal, I see the twenty quiet minutes leading to it. In billiards, people see the decisive shot, I see the hundreds of quiet innings leading to that moment. And if there is one thing I want to convey to those in Vietnamese billiards, it is this: be patient with small numbers. They are not glamorous. They do not make headlines. But they are the foundation of all lasting success.

I am the one who stays with the spreadsheet when the stands have gone dark — you may call it work, I call it fate. And that fate has taught me that the truth is not in big numbers. It is in the small details others overlook. The same is true in billiards. It is not the longest cushion contact that makes a champion. It is the most correct one, at the right moment, with the right calculation.

And perhaps, that is what Vietnamese billiards is gradually learning. Not to hit more, but to hit more correctly. Not to score more points, but to score at more important moments. This is a long journey, and it has only just begun.

In the commentary booth, I am still there, every evening, with my notebook and pen. I record every cushion contact. I count every inning. And I wait for the moment when the table and the spreadsheet sing in the same rhythm. That moment does not come often. But when it does, it makes all those sleepless nights worthwhile.