The Healing Loop: Vietnam's Football Journey Through Sleepless Nights

On the night of May 22, 2026, I stood outside a small coffee shop in Hanoi's Old Quarter, where Mr. Nguyen Van Sau, 74, was watching the SEA Games 32 final between Vietnam U-22 and Indonesia U-22. He didn't cheer, didn't clap, only quietly rubbed his hands together whenever a Vietnamese striker approached the opponent's goal. When the final whistle blew, he told me: "I've waited 64 years to see Vietnamese football stand at the top of Southeast Asia one more time. But what I remember most isn't the gold medal—it's the way the whole neighborhood hugged and cried in the rain in 2026, when the Republic of Vietnam team lost to Thailand in the Merdeka tournament." That sentence made me realize that Vietnamese football is not just matches—it's a chain of loops of memory, pain, and healing. The context of Vietnamese football today is a picture full of contradictions. While the national team consistently achieves success at the regional level—winning the 2026 AFF Cup, reaching the 2026 Asian Cup quarterfinals, winning SEA Games gold in 2026 and 2026—the V-League still struggles with financial mismanagement. According to VPF data, the total revenue of 14 V-League clubs for the 2026-2026 season was only about 850 billion VND, while total expenses reached 1,400 billion VND. The 550 billion VND gap is filled by club owners' personal money, resulting in wage arrears, sudden contract terminations, and young players abandoned mid-career. I remember standing at Hang Day Stadium once when a young Hanoi FC player told me: "We train like machines, but nobody teaches us how to live after football leaves us." From a tactical perspective, Vietnamese football is in an interesting transition period. Under coach Philippe Troussier, the national team shifted to a possession-based style, averaging 58% ball possession in 2026 World Cup qualifiers. But that number doesn't reflect reality. I followed 12 matches of the Vietnamese national team in 2026 and noticed a paradox: when they possessed the ball more, they created fewer dangerous chances. In the match against Iraq in the World Cup qualifiers in March 2026, Vietnam had 61% possession but only 2 shots on target, while Iraq won 2-0 with just 35% possession. InStat data shows that in the last 5 matches against teams in the FIFA top 100, Vietnam averaged only 0.6 xG per match, significantly lower than the 1.4 xG against weaker teams. This suggests Troussier's possession-based style isn't truly effective against well-organized defensive opponents. But there's a blind spot most analysts miss: the problem isn't tactics—it's the goalkeeper position. I've watched Dang Van Lam's career since he played for Hai Phong in 2026. At 31, Van Lam is still the number one goalkeeper, but his reflexes have significantly declined compared to his peak. In the match against Indonesia in the World Cup qualifiers in June 2026, he conceded a long-range shot from outside the box—a save he would certainly have made at 25. However, his market value remains high, around 1.2 million euros according to Transfermarkt. This reflects a larger issue: the goalkeeper's ball-playing ability is being over-glorified in modern football, causing clubs and national teams to pay high prices for goalkeepers with good feet but declining basic reflexes. Van Lam distributes well and is confident with the ball, but his shot-stopping ability has noticeably declined. I believe Vietnamese football needs a revolution in how this position is evaluated—not just based on footwork but also on shot-stopping reflexes, the most important attribute of a goalkeeper. On the transfer front, the Vietnamese market is witnessing a worrying trend: signing fees for free agents are becoming increasingly toxic. When a player's contract expires, clubs often have to pay large signing bonuses—sometimes up to 3-4 billion VND—to persuade them to sign new contracts. These fees fall outside the oversight of AFC's financial fair play regulations, creating an underground, non-transparent market. I once witnessed a V-League case: an average player received a 3.5 billion VND signing bonus to move from Club A to Club B, while his salary was only 40 million VND per month. This disparity shows that clubs are using signing fees as a tool to circumvent regulations, distorting the domestic transfer market. But looking deeper, I realize the core problem of Vietnamese football isn't tactics or finance—it's how we face failure. Vietnamese fans have an emotional loop: high expectations → disappointment → blame → waiting for the next expectation. After the 0-1 loss to Uzbekistan in the World Cup qualifiers in October 2026, football forums were flooded with criticism aimed at coach Troussier and the players. But I remember one comment from a fan named Minh Anh on a fanpage: "We lost because we're not good enough yet, but we also lost because we're not patient enough. Let them work." That sentence reminded me of Brazil, the country where I live. Brazil waited 64 years to win the World Cup again after the 2026 defeat, and throughout those 64 years, they constantly changed their football philosophy but never lost their identity. A counterintuitive perspective I want to offer: Vietnam doesn't need to reach the World Cup to prove its football development. In fact, the obsession with the World Cup dream is causing us to neglect more important foundations. While the national team receives tens of billions of VND in investment, youth academies in rural provinces still suffer from severe infrastructure shortages. I visited a youth football training center in Nghe An in 2026, where 60 young players shared one natural grass pitch and two balls per training session. The center's head coach told me: "We don't need the World Cup; we need a covered training pitch so we can train in the rainy season." That sentence made me realize that the sustainable development of Vietnamese football doesn't come from spectacular victories but from humble foundations like that. What I've learned from my years living in Brazil is that football isn't just a game—it's a mirror reflecting a nation's soul. In Brazil, people cry when their team loses, but they also cry when their team wins, because football is where they pour all their emotions. In Vietnam, we have that too. I remember the night Vietnam won the 2026 AFF Cup—the whole city of Hanoi flooded the streets, strangers hugged each other, old people cried like children. That wasn't just the joy of victory; it was the release of painful memories—years of war, periods of hunger, forgotten dreams. Football gave us a way to heal. But I also realize that healing doesn't always come. Some wounds can't be mended, and some loops never close. I think of the 2026 SEA Games final (held in 2026) when U-23 Vietnam lost 0-1 to U-23 Thailand in the 90th minute. I stood next to a father bringing his 8-year-old daughter to watch the match. When the final whistle blew, the girl asked her father: "Dad, why did we lose?" The father hugged his daughter, said nothing, and silently wept. That moment made me realize that football can teach us to accept failure, but it can't soothe the pain of those who have waited too long. I believe Vietnamese football is at a critical turning point. We have a talented generation of players—Nguyen Quang Hai, Nguyen Tien Linh, Doan Van Hau—but we also have unresolved structural problems. The question isn't "will we reach the World Cup?" but "will we build a sustainable football foundation, where young players receive proper training, where clubs can achieve financial independence, where fans can be proud of a football culture that values not just victories but also principles?" Tonight, as I write this article, I remember Mr. Nguyen Van Sau's words at the Hanoi coffee shop: "Football is like life—there are loops we must go through multiple times before we understand their meaning." I'm not sure where Vietnamese football will go, but I believe the loops we're experiencing—the victories, the defeats, the tears—are teaching us to become a more resilient nation. And perhaps, that's what matters most. The loop doesn't exist for us to endure—it exists for us to finally see ourselves.