Between Two Whistles: The Breath of Vietnamese Football in the Regular Season

I have spent 39 years observing football, and one thing I learned from my early days standing by the training-ground fences in Madrid is this: the scoreboard never tells the whole story. Between two whistles, there is a world that the scoreboard cannot measure. The regular season of Vietnamese football is entering its decisive phase. But instead of looking at the league table, I want to tell you about what I see when I sit in the corner of the pitch, where no camera is pointing. Three weeks ago, I attended a training session of the Vietnam U22 team. The session lasted 90 minutes, but what I remember most is not the combinations or the shots. It was the moment a young player – I won't reveal his name because he is not ready – sat alone at the edge of the pitch after the coaching staff had gone into the dressing room. He looked down at his boots, as if whispering something to them. I have seen that look hundreds of times in my career. It is not a look of fatigue. It is the look of someone trying to understand why they are here, and whether they deserve to be. Vietnamese football is at a turning point. V.League is witnessing the rise of a generation of young players trained more systematically, but also facing unprecedented financial pressure. Clubs are spending heavily on foreign players, while the domestic players – those who will be the backbone of the national team in the next 5 years – are struggling to find their place. I remember the 2026 season, when I signed a contract to accompany Long An FC. They had just qualified for the AFC Cup after nearly a decade. I sat through all 9 home matches, noting 3 goals conceded in the final 10 minutes – a detail no one noticed. When the team was eliminated, I spent three days with Mr. Sau, the stadium gatekeeper, collecting stories about generations of players who had worn the Long An shirt since 2026. My article "The Sadness of Minute 10" caused hundreds of fans to gather in front of the stadium to sing the national anthem after the final match. I tell this story because it shows something: the emptiest stadium still has a breath, you just have to listen with your heart. Now, looking at the current regular season, I see a worrying signal. The top clubs are relying too heavily on foreign players in the striker position. In the last three matches of a big club in Ho Chi Minh City, I counted 14 clear chances created from combinations involving the foreign striker. But when I reviewed the training footage, I realized the domestic strikers are being neglected in the tactical system. They run a lot, but they run without the ball, without a clear purpose. This is not a problem of any single club. This is a systemic problem. When clubs spend heavily on foreign players, they inadvertently create an invisible barrier to the development of domestic players. Young players do not get opportunities to play in the most important position, and when they do not play, they cannot develop. I have been following another young player – a 19-year-old central midfielder playing for a club in the Central region. He has excellent tactical vision, but in the last 5 matches, he has only been given a total of 47 minutes on the pitch. 47 minutes. A number that reminds me of the 47 days I spent correcting a name in my article at the 2026 World Cup. Correcting a wrong name takes 47 days; keeping a person's trust is forever. Football never owes us a result, it only owes us a story. And this young player's story is being left unfinished. There is a common misconception that Vietnamese football lacks talent. I disagree. I have visited youth training centers from Hanoi to Can Tho. I have seen 16-year-old players with individual technique that reminds me of my early days in Madrid. The problem is not a lack of talent. The problem is that we are not creating an environment for talent to develop. A concrete example: in a V.League match this season, I observed a young right winger with speed and technique far superior to the opposing defender. But throughout the first half, he only received 3 passes. By the 60th minute, he was substituted. When I asked a coaching staff member about this decision, the answer was: "He is not experienced enough." I ask myself: how can a player gain experience if he is not allowed to play? This is a paradox that Vietnamese football is facing. We want young players with experience, but we do not give them the opportunity to accumulate experience. We want them to be confident, but we put them in situations that make them lose confidence. I do not keep the rhythm for the team, I keep the rhythm for those who have kept the rhythm for the team. And those people – the young players, the coaches, the backroom staff – are facing a pressure that the scoreboard cannot show. But I also see positive signals. I see some clubs starting to invest seriously in youth academies. I see young coaches daring to give opportunities to new players. I see fans still coming to the stadium even when their team loses consecutively. They come not because of the result. They come because they believe in the story. Contracts expire, but the promise to the old man at the training ground is infinite. I remember Mr. Sau, the gatekeeper of Long An. He never watched a single match from the stands. He stood at the gate, but he knew the name of every player who had worn the club's shirt for 50 years. He is the embodiment of the football I believe in – football that is not in the scoreboard, but in the people. This regular season, I will continue to watch. I will go to training sessions, I will sit in corners of the pitch where there are no cameras, I will listen to the stories that no one tells. And I will continue to write about what I see – not because I want to expose problems, but because I believe that only when we see the problem can we solve it. Behind every player who steps onto the pitch, there is a mother who never steps onto the pitch. I have met many such mothers throughout my career. They do not understand tactics, they do not know about xG or PPDA. But they understand sacrifice. They understand that their son is pursuing a dream that no one guarantees will come true. And that is why I am still here, after 39 years, still sitting in the corners of pitches, still listening to the breaths that no one else hears. Because I believe that between two whistles, there is a world that the scoreboard cannot measure. And that world – with all its people, its stories, its sacrifices – deserves to be told. The season is still long. There will be many matches, many goals, many defeats and many victories. But what I care about most is not who will be champion. What I care about most is whether we can create an environment where young players – those who will be the future of Vietnamese football – can develop and shine. Whether we can look beyond the scoreboard and see what is really happening on the pitch. I will continue to watch. And I will continue to listen. Because the breath in the empty stadium is still there, and I want to hear it tell its story.