People often say Vietnamese football grows from rain showers and bursting cheers. But I, someone who left the homeland nearly two decades ago, see football here carrying a different sorrow – a sorrow of people searching for themselves amid the currents of modern tactics.

I remember the 2026 AFF Cup final, when Anh Duc's goal in the 110th minute made the whole nation erupt. But few noticed that, in the silent moment before the referee's whistle for extra time, there was a very faint smile on Coach Park Hang-seo's lips. That was not a smile of victory, but a smile of a craftsman who had completed the painting he had nurtured. That painting was not just tactics, but an entire story of patience and identity.

But today, when Vietnamese football stands at a new threshold with promising young generations, I suddenly worry. Are we losing something? Is modern tactics eroding the poetic essence inherent in Vietnamese football?

The first rain and manual passes

In the last three matches of the Vietnamese national team in the 2026 World Cup qualifiers, a figure startled me: the average number of lateral passes increased by 23% compared to the 2026-2026 period. That sounds positive – better ball control, more modern philosophy. But look closer. Where do those passes come from? From our own half, from safe positions, where there is no pressure. I call them soulless passes.

We Vietnamese have a saying: "Beat the drum but abandon the stick." Those lateral passes are nothing but drumbeats that ring loudly but no one truly charges into battle. Meanwhile, looking back at the golden generation of 2026 – those vertical passes, Quế Ngọc Hải's long balls, Quang Hải's one-touch combinations – they carried a different breath. They were the breaths of a running body, not of a machine waiting for orders.

I have a friend, a young Korean coach working at a training academy in Hanoi. He told me: "Vietnamese players have good individual technique, but they are being taught to think alike. They fear making mistakes more than daring to try." That statement reminded me of an afternoon in 2026, when I watched a U19 Vietnam match at the International U19 Tournament. A boy named Đức Chinh had a solo run, beating two defenders, then shot just wide of the post. The crowd sighed. But I saw a spark. That boy dared to try. That boy was playing with his heart, not with a textbook.

Now, when I watch the national team's matches, I rarely see such moments. I see safe passes, textbook executions. Yes, we control the ball better, but we are controlling it in a very... irresponsible way toward our own identity.

The tragedy of expectation and the weight of the jersey

There is something few people talk about regarding Vietnamese football: we are carrying too much expectation. Since the 2026 AFF Cup, the entire football nation has been placed on a high pedestal. Every match, even friendlies, is treated like a final. And when expectations are too high, people become afraid.

I remember interviewing a young player, only 19, just called up to the national team. I asked how he felt wearing the national jersey. He was silent for a long time, then said: "I'm scared. I'm scared I'll disappoint everyone." I didn't ask further. I understand that feeling. When you wear the jersey of a nation, every wrong pass becomes a knife cutting into the pride of millions.

This leads to a paradox: the more we want to win, the safer we play; the safer we play, the more we lose our distinctiveness. And when we lose our distinctiveness, we are no longer ourselves. We become a pale copy of other football nations.

Look at Thailand. They went through a similar phase after their AFF Cup successes. But they found a way to keep their identity – a technical, fast brand of football built on physical foundation and the confidence of young players. They didn't try to become someone else. They simply became a better version of themselves.

Tactics will age, only stories remain with us

There is a saying I deeply believe: "Tactics will age, only stories remain with us." I believe that. Because tactics are just tools, but stories are what connect people to people, what make the identity of a football nation.

Remember Vietnam vs Iraq in the 2026 World Cup qualifiers. We lost 0-1, but I don't remember the score. I remember a moment in the 78th minute, when a young Vietnamese player – named Văn Trường – dribbled from midfield, past three Iraqi players, before being fouled at the edge of the box. That move didn't create a goal, but it created an emotion. It reminded me of the old days, when Vietnamese football was seen as brave tin soldiers, unafraid to face giants.

But after that move, I saw Văn Trường being substituted. Perhaps for tactics. Perhaps because he was too risky. But I ask myself: if we don't allow young players to dare, to take risks, how can we find poetic moments in football?

I don't deny the importance of tactics. Tactics are the foundation, the backbone of a team. But tactics only truly matter when they are breathed into life by people who dare to think differently, who dare to play differently. And in Vietnam, we have many such players. They are just being held back by fear and stereotypes.

Contrarian view: Romanticizing the solitude of gamers

On a trip back home, I had a chance to meet a group of young Vietnamese esports players at a net café in Ho Chi Minh City. They played League of Legends, and they were very good. But what caught my attention wasn't their skill, but how they talked about the game. They talked about mechanics, about meta, about tactics, but they rarely talked about emotions. They seemed to be trying to become perfect machines, not humans who dream.

I ask myself: are we romanticizing the solitude of esports players? Are we painting their silence in rosy colors, while in reality they are suffering tremendous pressure from family expectations, community, and themselves?

I remember a young Vietnamese player, named Minh, who once shared with me that he cried a lot after every loss. He didn't cry because of losing, but because he felt he had let down those who believed in him. He said: "I don't dare go home. I'm afraid of seeing my parents' eyes." Hearing him, I remembered myself when I left Vietnam for Korea to pursue my esports dream. I also feared, was also lonely, also wondered if I was doing the right thing.

But I realized: solitude is not something to romanticize. It is a challenge, a storm that each person must overcome alone. And the most important thing is not to avoid that storm, but to learn to stand firm in the rain.

Identity and the puzzle of the new generation

At 37, I have witnessed many generations of Vietnamese players grow and leave. I saw young talents shine then fade, teams that seemed destined for greatness but sank into oblivion. And I realized: what remains is not trophies, but stories.

The current generation of Vietnamese players, those born in 2026-2026, stands at an important crossroads. They can choose the safe path – playing by what they were taught, following modern tactical patterns, and perhaps achieving certain successes. Or they can choose the harder path – daring to try, daring to take risks, daring to express their identity, and perhaps failing, but also perhaps creating miracles.

I don't have the answer for them. I can only tell them a story.

In 2026, I had the chance to follow the Vietnamese women's team at the SEA Games. They weren't expected to do much, but they played with incredible spirit. I remember the semifinal against Thailand, when their captain – a girl named Huỳnh Như – scored from a long-range shot in stoppage time. No one thought she would shoot. Even I thought she would pass. But she shot. And the ball went in.

After the match, I asked Huỳnh Như why she chose to shoot. She smiled and said: "Because I wanted to do something for people to remember me." That is identity. That is what I want to say. Football is not just tactics, not just results. Football is those moments that make people remember you, remember your team, remember your country.

Conclusion: An open question

I don't write this article to criticize anyone, nor to defend any philosophy. I write because I love Vietnamese football, and I want future generations to see a brand of football that carries their own breath, not a copy of other football nations.

There is a question I always ask myself: "If Vietnamese football cannot express its identity, does victory still have meaning?" I don't have the answer. But I believe that when we find the answer, we will not only have a strong team, but also a football culture that is truly Vietnamese.

And perhaps, that is more important than any trophy.

The article reflects the personal views of the author, a Vietnamese child who has been away for nearly two decades, but has never stopped following every step of the nation's football.