The V.League and the Identity Question: Vietnamese Football Between Two Parallel Worlds

In the 87th minute of a match at My Dinh Stadium, with the score already settled, my eyes drifted to a young player standing quietly by the touchline. He was not sent on. He simply stood there, his hand resting on the crest over his chest, his gaze following the ball rolling toward the opposite goal. The crowd behind him roared, yet his face remained strangely still. After years in the studio and on the terraces, I have learned that Vietnamese football lives in two parallel worlds: one of broadcasting rights, sponsorship deals and million-dollar transfers; and another, quieter one, where children in academies still grow up dreaming of wearing the national shirt. The distance between those two worlds is the real story of Vietnamese football today. The pitch never lies — only the storyteller knows how to hide his loneliness behind every goal. Vietnamese football has travelled a long road over the past two decades. From the days when the national team was known as the "Golden Star Warriors" through the AFF Cup campaigns, to the generation dubbed the "golden generation" with Nguyen Quang Hai, Nguyen Cong Phuong and Doan Van Hau, the game in this country has transformed powerfully. In 2026, under coach Park Hang-seo, Vietnam's U23 side reached the final of the AFC U23 Championship and finished runners-up, then won the AFF Cup. Those were the milestones that convinced fans a small football nation in Southeast Asia could reach out to the continent. But behind that glow sits a system under pressure. V.League 1, Vietnam's top division, still struggles with its finances, deteriorating stadiums and dwindling crowds. Major clubs such as Hoang Anh Gia Lai, Hanoi FC and Song Lam Nghe An fight every year to balance their budgets. Meanwhile, youth academies such as the Hoang Anh Gia Lai - Arsenal JMG Academy and the PVF centre have contributed significantly to shaping the current crop of players. What stands out is that Vietnamese football has arrived at a fork in the road. On one side, the wave of commercialisation brings money and the attention of international media. On the other, it raises a question of identity: can a football nation with limited resources keep its soul when it is swept into the current of the market? This is where I want to pause longer. There are talents that never appear in any ranking — they hide in the eyes of those who believe in what has not yet happened. Analysing the V.League, the first thing I notice is its excessive dependence on a small group of players. Vietnam's golden generation carried almost the entire expectation of a football nation on its shoulders for years. This is what I call the "one-generation syndrome": when success arrives, people praise the individual; when failure comes, they blame the individual too. The system behind — youth development, infrastructure, a long-term strategy — is rarely placed on the scales with any seriousness. Look at how V.League clubs operate. Most depend on a handful of major sponsors, usually tied to economic conglomerates. When such a group changes strategy, the club immediately falls into crisis. This is the "owner-dependent football" model that has existed in Vietnam for decades, and it produces structural instability. A club can win the title one season and dissolve the next. That instability does not only affect results on the pitch; it destroys the faith of fans and players alike. Tactically, Vietnamese football is also undergoing a worrying homogenisation. Foreign coaches, most of them from South Korea and Japan, bring modern tactical models. That is positive in one respect. But when every club tries to apply the same formula — high pressing, quick transitions, wingers drifting inside — each club's own identity gradually fades. Traditional wingers, the ones who can dribble past a man and create surprise, are being pushed to the margins. They are replaced by more inward, safer players who are also less creative. I once watched a V.League match in which both teams built up play in such an identical pattern that they were hard to tell apart. The ball was circulated from one flank to the other, yet not a single moment of individual breakthrough appeared. The crowd sat in silence, and I understood why. When football loses surprise, it loses most of its appeal. Tactics are prose, moments are poetry — and a match is where the two devour each other. When only prose remains, the page becomes even but soulless. Another factor to consider is the role of foreign players. The V.League allows clubs to register a certain number of overseas players. These players often play a key role at smaller clubs with limited budgets. But sometimes the purchase of a foreign player is driven by marketing rather than sporting reasons. Some clubs bring in names past their peak, not to raise the quality of the squad, but to sell tickets and attract media attention. This phenomenon reminds me of how certain Gulf leagues turn ageing European stars into tourism ambassadors rather than genuine footballers. The game is turned into a product, and the fans into customers. The same is true of how some leagues use women's football as a badge of social responsibility. Women's competitions in Southeast Asia, Vietnam included, are often praised by the media as a step forward for gender equality. But look at the actual investment, the prize money, the facilities provided for women players, and a wide gap opens between words and deeds. Vietnam's women's national team once reached the Women's World Cup, a historic achievement. Yet behind that achievement are players training in scarce conditions, on incomes that are not enough to live on. Commercialising women's football, if it stops at slogans, is not respect — it is exploitation. Meanwhile, the story of youth academies is a rare bright spot. The Hoang Anh Gia Lai - Arsenal JMG Academy was once held up as a model after producing an entire generation of players. But that model also revealed its limits: when an academy closes or changes direction, the flow of talent is interrupted. Vietnamese youth football lacks a continuous, stable system capable of producing talent across many generations rather than just one cohort. Here I want to offer a view that may provoke argument. Sending Vietnamese players abroad is usually treated as progress, a measure of maturity. Nguyen Quang Hai once moved to Pau FC in France; Nguyen Cong Phuong played in Japan and South Korea. Each time, the domestic media praised it as a victory for Vietnamese football. But seen from another angle, it is a loss. When the best players leave, the V.League loses the people capable of creating moments. The domestic competition grows duller, and fans lose a reason to come to the stadium. Moreover, player exports are often carried out hastily, without strategy. Many players go abroad, sit on the bench, and return disappointed. This is not development; it is a form of "professional tourism". If Vietnamese football truly wants to grow, it must build a V.League strong enough to keep its talents and attractive enough to draw quality foreign players. Export is not the destination; it is only the consequence of a healthy domestic game. Looking back at the whole picture, I believe Vietnamese football stands at a decisive moment. The question is not how to get more money, but how to keep its soul while money flows in. When the stands fall silent, we hear the heart of this sport beating with the longing of millions. And in Vietnam, that heart is still beating. The task is not to let it stop for the sake of short-term calculations.