Vietnamese Football: From World Cup Aspirations to the Challenge of Sustainable Development

On a late May evening, as the heat of the Southeast Asian summer began to envelop the streets of Hanoi, I sat in front of my screen, rewatching the match between U23 Vietnam and U23 Thailand at SEA Games 31. It wasn't a final, nor was it a match that would decide the fate of a major tournament. But there was a moment that made me rewind again and again: in the 89th minute, with the score at 1-0 for Vietnam, a young player from the opposing team collapsed to the ground due to cramps. No one surrounded him, there was no cheering, only the sound of heavy breathing and the stadium lights shining down. I saw there, not a failure, but a portrait of human limits. People remember the player's name; I remember the way he collapsed in the 89th minute.

Vietnamese football is at a special stage. After the resounding successes of U23 at Changzhou 2026, the SEA Games gold medals in 2026 and 2026, and reaching the final round of the 2026 World Cup qualifiers in Asia, fans have begun to ask bigger questions. It's no longer about beating Thailand or Malaysia, but about how Vietnamese football can compete on equal footing with Japan, South Korea, Iran, or Saudi Arabia. But I, as someone who has followed Southeast Asian football for 14 years, from the windy stands of Bangkok to the closed meeting rooms of Doha, see a different picture. Not one of victories, but one of structural gaps we haven't dared to confront.

After the national team finished their 2026 World Cup qualifying campaign in 3rd place in Group F, once again stopping before the threshold, a wave of criticism rose again. But I don't want to talk about sacking coaches or overhauling the squad. I want to talk about something deeper, something I call "the fear of being forgotten" – which dominates the way we do football. Let me tell you this story.

Hook: Cross-sport comparison moment

I remember an evening in November 2026, in Doha, during the World Cup. I stood in the Souq Waqif area, where fans from all over the world had gathered. A Dutch scout friend – who had visited Vietnam many times to watch V.League matches – said something to me I will never forget: "Vietnamese players have good technique, they have speed, but they don't know how to handle chaos. When the match enters the 70th minute and everything starts to break apart, they lose direction." At that moment, I didn't argue. I just stayed silent and began documenting what I observed over the next 4 years.

Let's compare with another sport I follow closely: athletics. In the 800 meters – one of the most demanding distances – athletes don't just run with their legs; they run with an instinct honed through thousands of hours of training to handle the chaos of the race: when to surge, when to stay close, when to take risks. We Vietnamese have runners who perform well in short distances, but in longer distances, we often lose at the end. Not because of fitness, but because of decision-making under exhaustion. Football is the same. We have outstanding individuals, but when the match enters its decisive phase – when psychological pressure weighs heavily – we often choose safety over boldness.

Context: Tournament cycle background

In the 2026 World Cup qualifiers, Vietnam was in Group F with Iraq, Indonesia, and the Philippines. Results: 2 wins, 1 draw, 3 losses, scoring 6 goals and conceding 7. Looking at these numbers, many would say we failed. But I look at another number: the team's total distance covered in 6 matches was 612 km, averaging 102 km per match. Meanwhile, Japan – the group winners in their group – averaged 118 km per match. The 16 km difference isn't huge, but it reflects a truth: we run less, but we also control the ball less. Vietnam's average possession in the qualifiers was 47.3%, lower than the 52.1% in the previous qualifying round. This shows a worrying trend: we are retreating deeper, defending more, and increasingly afraid to play the attacking football that defined our brand under coach Park Hang-seo.

But I don't want to blame any coach. I want to look at the deeper structure. The V.League – Vietnam's top division – has a tempo problem. In the 2026-2026 season, the average goals per match in the V.League was 2.3, lower than the 2.8 in the Thai League and 3.1 in the J.League. This doesn't just reflect attacking quality; it reflects a football philosophy increasingly leaning toward defense and safety. When players are accustomed to playing slow, low-risk football at club level, they bring those habits to the national team. This isn't unique to Vietnam – I've seen the same in Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia. But Vietnam is the only team in the region that has reached the final round of World Cup qualifiers, and therefore, we have a responsibility to ask bigger questions.

Core: Diverse expressions of human limits

In 6 matches at the 2026 World Cup qualifiers, I documented 47 instances where Vietnam lost the ball in the midfield zone – the area I call the "death zone" of modern football. Of those, 23 led to opposition shots. This is a very high number, especially compared to Japan (only 9 dangerous losses in 6 matches) or South Korea (11). So why do we lose the ball so much in midfield? The answer lies in our ability to handle pressure.

Let me tell you about a specific player: midfielder Nguyen Hoang Duc. In the match against Iraq at My Dinh in March 2026, Duc had 67 touches but only 34 successful passes (a 50.7% rate). This is very low by the standards of a central midfielder at the continental level. But I don't want to criticize Duc – he's one of the best players Vietnamese football has ever produced. The problem lies in the system around him. When receiving the ball in midfield, Duc usually has only 1 or 2 passing options, while Iraqi midfielders always have at least 3. This isn't coincidental. It reflects how we organize our formation, how we move without the ball, and how we create spaces.

I once had the opportunity to watch a youth team training session at the JFA training center in Tokyo. What impressed me most wasn't the players' technique, but how they moved without the ball. Each player knew exactly their position and their teammates' positions, as if connected by an invisible thread. In Vietnam, I see players often standing still when waiting for the ball, creating a static wall that opponents can easily predict. This isn't unique to Hoang Duc or any particular coach. This is a problem of our entire youth development system.

I recall a match at the 2026 National U19 Championship, when I watched U19 Hanoi against U19 Song Lam Nghe An. The match ended 1-1, but what caught my attention was the number of intelligent off-the-ball runs – runs that don't receive the ball but create space for teammates. I counted 12 such runs in the entire match. In a Japanese youth match of the same level, this number is typically 40-50. This difference isn't due to physique or technique, but how we teach football to children. We teach them how to run with the ball, but not how to run without it. We teach them how to score, but not how to create space for teammates to score.

Contrarian: Depth vs Versatility

There's a popular view that Vietnamese football needs to learn from Japan, South Korea, or other developed football nations. I don't entirely agree. I believe we need to find our own path, based on the cultural and physical characteristics of the Vietnamese people. Look at Thailand – a country that has invested heavily in learning from Japanese football, but the results still don't match expectations. They've never passed the final round of World Cup qualifiers, despite having talented generations like Chanathip Songkrasin or Teerasil Dangda.

I believe Vietnam's greatest strength isn't in imitating someone, but in the flexibility and adaptability of the Vietnamese people. Throughout history, Vietnamese people have always excelled at leveraging limited resources to achieve outstanding results. We need to apply that philosophy to football. Instead of trying to play possession football like the Spanish or pressing like the Germans, we should develop a style based on agility, intelligent movement, and quick transitions – qualities that Vietnamese people naturally possess.

I remember an evening in Bangkok, watching the match between Thailand and Vietnam in the 2026 World Cup qualifiers. Thailand played possession football, with 65% possession, but Vietnam won 2-0 through lightning-fast counter-attacks. That wasn't a coincidence. It was the result of understanding our strengths and applying an appropriate tactic. The problem is we didn't maintain that philosophy. After the success at SEA Games 31, we got swept up in praise and tried to play football that didn't suit us. We lost our identity.

Takeaway: Sport as a universal language

I've lived in Thailand for 8 years, working in international sports media, and I realize that football – like all sports – is a universal language that transcends geographical and cultural boundaries. But like any language, football needs to be learned systematically, from the most basic foundations. We can't build a solid house without a good foundation.

In 2026, when the Covid-19 pandemic halted all tournaments, I had 3 weeks of unpaid leave and spent all that time rewatching classic matches from the 80s and 90s. I rewatched the EURO 2026 final between Netherlands and Soviet Union, the 2026 World Cup semi-final between West Germany and France, and the 2026 Champions League final between Manchester United and Bayern Munich. What impressed me most was how great teams handled moments of chaos. They didn't panic, they didn't choose safety. They accepted risk, and they trusted their system.

Vietnamese football is at a crossroads. We can continue down the safe path – investing in short-term results, chasing regional titles – or we can accept risk, build a systematic youth development program, develop our own football philosophy, and patiently wait for long-term results. I don't have all the answers, but I know the easiest path is never the right one.

In 14 years in this profession, I've witnessed many generations of Vietnamese players grow and shine. I've seen tears of disappointment and smiles of glory. But what I remember most isn't the goals or the titles. What I remember most are the quiet training sessions in empty stadiums, the sleepless nights watching match footage, and the stories of silent sacrifice from players – people who dedicated their youth to the round ball. They deserve more than criticism. They deserve a better system, a better development environment, and deserved respect.

The stadium had no spectators, but I still heard my own applause in 2026. And I believe, if we dare to face the truth, dare to accept risk, and dare to build a sustainable future, Vietnamese football will not only be a source of regional pride but also a respected voice on the international stage. But first, we need to answer the question: what do we want Vietnamese football to become in the next 10 years? The answer will determine everything we do today.