Call-Shot at Phu Tho Arena: Duong Quoc Hoang's Real Test at the 10-Ball World Championship

Inside a table at Phu Tho Arena, the 10-ball rolled cleanly into the corner pocket with a crisp cut, and the applause began before the referee could react. Then he shook his head. The shot was technically beautiful but legally void: the player had not called the ball and had not called the pocket before the cue left his hand. At the WPA Men's 10-Ball World Championship, a ball dropping into a pocket does not equal a point scored. It sounds like a small detail in the rulebook. In reality, it is the spine of the entire event. Based on my experience tracking and logging international pool events, the thing that separates 10-ball from 9-ball is precisely this call-shot rule — a requirement that a player name the ball and name the pocket before every shot. In 9-ball, a ball that drops by luck still counts. In call-shot 10-ball, that no longer exists. The luck factor is almost entirely removed, and the reward shifts toward the player who controls the cue ball, chooses the right shot, and keeps the discipline of safety play. That is also why I always tell newcomers to pool: forget the pretty shot for a moment, and watch where the cue ball ends up after every contact. The WPA Men's 10-Ball World Championship is being held in Ho Chi Minh City with a field of nearly 200 players from 40 countries and territories. It is the second consecutive year Vietnam has hosted this world championship, following the first staging a year ago. The venue is Phu Tho Arena. Co-organizers include the World Pool-Billiard Association (WPA), the municipal Department of Culture and Sports, the Vietnam Billiards & Snooker Federation (VBSF), and the Ho Chi Minh City Billiards & Snooker Federation (HBSF). Hosting a world championship in the same city two years running is a signal of organizational capacity, sponsor confidence, and the scale of the domestic pool market. It shows the event has a real foothold in the international calendar, rather than being a one-off exhibition. The men's total prize fund is 500,000 USD, with the champion taking 80,000 USD — roughly 2 billion VND. That figure quickly became the highlight across domestic media. Looking at the payout structure, the champion's share accounts for about 16 percent of the total fund, a relatively flat distribution compared with major snooker events, where the winner's share is usually far higher. The event also features two side tournaments. The Poison Saigon Women's 9-Ball Open, scheduled for September 21 to 25 with a 90,000 USD prize fund. And a mixed-doubles event called Box Billiards, from September 19 to 23, with a 111,000 USD prize fund. Combined, the three events offer about 701,000 USD in prize money. Bundling a men's championship with a women's event and a team event is a familiar festival model in modern pool: it broadens the audience base, pulls the women's and doubles segments into the same media space, and extends sponsor exposure. Notably, both side events carry equipment brand names — a direct commercial channel from manufacturer to consumer. On the host side, alongside Duong Quoc Hoang, the Vietnamese contingent includes Luong Duc Thien, Pham Phuong Nam, Nguyen Anh Tuan, and Chu Viet Hoang. A world championship held at home with five host players competing shows Vietnam now has a domestic pool cohort deep enough to genuinely contend, not merely to make up the numbers. Tactically, call-shot 10-ball produces a direct consequence: it rewards technical completeness and punishes carelessness. A player can win several racks in a row on good feel, but feel does not hold up across a long run against nearly 200 opponents. What holds up is the ability to read the table, control the cue ball's path, and choose a safety option when no clear attacking shot exists. In 9-ball, racks are typically short and fast, balls 1 through 9 are struck in numerical order, and a single miss can be punished immediately by a player in form. In 10-ball, the 1-through-10 order combined with the call-shot rule turns every visit to the table into a multi-step calculation. The player must strike the lowest-numbered ball, plan the cue ball's position for the next shot, and call the pocket precisely. Miss one step, and the entire visit can collapse. The break shot still matters. In pool, break quality heavily influences first-mover advantage: if the rack opens well and the cue ball settles in a favorable spot, a player can clear every remaining ball in a single visit. But because every shot must call both ball and pocket, clearing the table in 10-ball demands far greater precision than in 9-ball. I often compare it to walking a narrow corridor: every step must land in exactly the right place, and there is no room for randomness. One point needs to be separated clearly on the governance side: the WPA — the governing body for pool — is a different organization from snooker's WPBSA/WST. Two rule systems, two ranking systems, two sets of codes of conduct. Mixing snooker precedents into a pool event is a professional error, and in this event, the source records no compliance issues whatsoever. So where does Duong Quoc Hoang stand in this picture? The most valuable data point I noted is his progression through this very event. Across three appearances, his results trace a clear upward line: an early exit first time, then a round-of-32 finish, and most recently a round-of-16 finish. In a sport where the call-shot rule rewards repeat experience and adaptation to the competitive structure, such a steady upward trajectory is a structural signal, not a random burst. What makes the signal more reliable is that the home-soil variable is held constant. Last year's round-of-16 also came at home, and this year the event is again staged in Ho Chi Minh City. With the home factor unchanged, the round-of-16 can be treated as a relatively stable baseline for measuring the next step, rather than a coincidental figure. Technically, Hoang going deeper each time in a call-shot 10-ball event shows he has grown accustomed to the format's specific demands: cue-ball control, handling locked-up safety positions, and keeping a cool head in deciding racks. These are skills that cannot be learned in one or two seasons. Each time he advances one round further, he accumulates more experience handling the pressure of a crowded world championship. Historically, the traditional power centers of pool are the United States, the Philippines, Chinese Taipei, and parts of Europe. Vietnam sits in the rising group, not yet among the dominant ones. That places Hoang's progress in a broader frame: he is the leading player of a young, maturing pool market, on a stage that gathers the world's top players. There is one point I have to state plainly, even if it softens some of the expectation building back home. Domestic coverage describes Hoang as a heavyweight contender for the title. The Vietnam No. 1 label is grounded, but it is a national ranking. The source I read does not provide his world ranking, nor does it name any specific international rivals. Lacking both a world ranking and a rival list, the contender claim is more opinion than fact. A round-of-16 finish in a field of nearly 200 players is an elite-level result, not a small thing. But between reaching the round of 16 and winning the title lies a very large gap, and merging the two is the kind of expectation that easily breeds disappointment. Home-crowd pressure is a two-way variable. A home crowd can lift a player, and it can also weigh heavily on his shoulders in deciding racks. With nearly 200 players and a format that may be single-elimination, the possibility of an upset is real. The call-shot rule reduces the luck factor, but it does not eliminate risk. Drop into a tough bracket and meet a player in peak form, and even a strong competitor can exit early. I also noticed a small detail in how the media framed the story: most headlines centered on the 2 billion VND prize. That is an editorial choice aimed at maximizing general-reader attention, and it inadvertently pushes technical analysis to the background. The gap between expectation and reality is usually filled with emotion, not data. For a player in a competitive prime, the most dangerous thing is sometimes not the opponent, but the weight of expectation rising from his own home stands. So what is a reasonable benchmark for this event? First, matching last year's round-of-16 finish — that is the foundation. Then, advancing one more round. If he does that on home soil, Duong Quoc Hoang needs no statement to prove his progress. On a broader scale, the greatest value of this event for Vietnamese pool may come from somewhere else: a world championship staged two years running in Ho Chi Minh City, alongside a five-player host contingent, is a sign that the sport is shifting from a spectator market to a competitive one. Such shifts are not measured by a single title, but by the number of consecutive years the name Vietnam appears on the official draw. And in a sport where one misplayed cue-ball position can ruin an entire visit, I still believe in the smallest thing: the winner is the one who places the cue ball exactly where he wants it, again and again, until the match closes.