Vietnamese Football: A Journey from the Pitch to the Hearts of Fans

On a rainy afternoon in Saigon, sitting in my familiar coffee shop with a notebook full of numbers and player names, I recalled a moment from over three decades ago. It was my first time setting foot in Vietnam, a country I never imagined would become my second home. I arrived as a young sports journalist, full of enthusiasm and curiosity about a football nation in its formative stage. Today, looking back on 39 years of observing and accompanying Vietnamese football, I realize that what keeps me bound to this place is not just the thrilling matches or beautiful goals. It is the stories behind every player, every match, and every moment that the scoreboard can never fully reflect. When people mention Vietnamese football, they often think of historic victories at the SEA Games or AFF Cup. But for me, Vietnamese football is also about the people who have dedicated their lives to the round ball. From Mr. Sau – the gatekeeper of Long An Stadium whom I spent three days conversing with after the team's elimination from the AFC Cup in 2026 – to the mothers in Da Nang who still keep their son's scarf years after their loss. Throughout those years, I have witnessed the remarkable development of Vietnamese football. From old, inadequate stadiums to modern youth training centers like PVF or the Nutifood JMG Academy. From having only a few players abroad to many Vietnamese players now competing in European leagues, such as Quang Hai at Pau FC or Cong Phuong who once played for Sint-Truiden. However, what concerns me most is not professional development, but how we treat the silent heroes of football. I still remember the story of a former Long An player – who dedicated his entire career to the team, but after retiring, he had to sell lottery tickets to make a living. This reminds me of my own saying: "Contracts eventually expire, but promises to the elderly at the training ground are infinite." Vietnamese football is standing at the threshold of a new era. With strong investments from major corporations like Vingroup, THACO, or Hung Thinh, clubs now have better conditions to develop. However, I notice a paradox: the more money we invest, the easier it is to forget football's core values – community bonding, fighting spirit, and pure passion. In a transfer market analysis, I once wrote: "The youth price bubble is bursting – 100 million euros for a player who hasn't played 50 top-level matches is naked gambling." And this applies to Vietnamese football as well. We are witnessing exorbitant transfer fees for young players, but do they truly deserve that money? Are we creating a genuinely talented new generation, or just ephemeral stars? I still remember the 2026 season, when the COVID-19 pandemic forced all stadiums to close. During that time, I started the podcast "Breathing in the Empty Stadium" – recording the wind, the closing dressing room doors, and calls to stadium staff. A mother in Da Nang called and cried for 15 minutes, telling me about the scarf her son – a SHB Da Nang supporter – left behind before passing away in a traffic accident. That moment reminded me that football is not just about matches, but about memories, emotions, and hopes of millions of people. Looking at the future of Vietnamese football, I cannot help but worry whether we are on the right path. Are we building a sustainable football foundation, or just chasing temporary achievements? Are we taking good care of those who have dedicated their lives to football, or will we continue to forget them? I believe the answer lies in how we perceive and treat football. If we only see football as an entertainment industry, we will continue creating bubbles and disappointments. But if we view football as part of our culture, community, and people's hearts, we will build a truly sustainable football foundation. Over these 39 years, I have learned that football never owes us a result; it only owes us a story. And the story of Vietnamese football is still being written every day. From the grueling training sessions of young players to the emotional matches on the pitch, from the smiles of supporters to the tears of mothers in the stands. I don't keep the rhythm for the team; I keep the rhythm for those who have kept the rhythm for the team. And I hope that with what I have recorded over the years, I can help future generations understand football's true value – not the numbers on the scoreboard, but the stories behind every match. The emptiest stadium still has a breath, but you must listen with your heart. And that is what I want to convey to all who love Vietnamese football: listen, observe, and cherish those moments that the scoreboard can never measure.