Vietnamese Football: The National Team's Glory and the Cracks in an Entire System

On the night of December 15, 2026, in the stands of Rajamangala Stadium in Bangkok, I sat amid a forest of red-and-yellow-starred flags. When the referee blew the final whistle, thousands of Vietnamese fans rose to their feet and sang. Vietnam had just beaten Thailand to win the ASEAN Cup for the third time in their history. The atmosphere there made anyone believe Vietnamese football had reached a new height.

But while the entire stand erupted, I noticed a small detail. A substitute stood still in a corner of the pitch, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed toward the VIP stand. He was not smiling. He was not celebrating. He simply stood there, as though seeing something those around him could not see.

That detail haunted me for months afterwards. Because in nine years of following Asian football, I have learned one thing: the most brilliant victories are often the most perfect cover. And Vietnamese football, in the 2026-2026 cycle, is one of the clearest examples I have ever witnessed.

When the stands are empty, listen to the ball instead of the screaming. But in Vietnam, the stands have never been empty. And that is precisely the problem.

I am not Vietnamese. I was born in France, grew up with European football, and now make a living covering football for the Korean market. Over the past nine years I have set foot in more than twenty countries, interviewed hundreds of players, coaches and executives. But no place has confused me as much as Vietnam.

Confused, because this is a football nation that always lives in two parallel realities. The first reality is the national team: glory, victories, red-and-white festival nights that engulf the whole country. The second reality is everything else: a struggling national league, a youth-development system riddled with problems, and a financial foundation so fragile that a small storm could collapse it.

The gap between those two realities — that is the real story of Vietnamese football. And that is the story few people want to tell.

I write uncomfortable things so that comfortable people are forced to read the match again. Because if you only look at the trophies, you will never understand why a football nation can win today and collapse tomorrow.

Context: A football nation built more on faith than concrete

Vietnamese football has come a long way since the national team won its first AFF Cup in 2026. That year, the whole country took to the streets. Images of millions pouring out onto the streets of Hanoi and Saigon, waving flags and singing, became part of the collective memory of an entire generation. But ten years later, in 2026, when the team won again under Korean coach Park Hang-seo, the story was different. This time there was not only joy, but a larger expectation: that Vietnamese football had entered a new era.

That era, at least on the surface, arrived. Under Park Hang-seo (2026-2026), Vietnam finished as runners-up in the 2026 World Cup qualification campaign in Asia, reached the final qualifying round for the first time in history, and reached the quarter-finals of the 2026 Asian Cup. These were unprecedented achievements. Afterwards, Philippe Troussier took over with a grander ambition: to build a modern possession-based style, escaping the image of a team that only knew how to defend and counter-attack.

That ambition failed. It failed so badly that Troussier was sacked mid-way through 2026 World Cup qualification, after a string of humiliating defeats, including a loss to Indonesia — an opponent Vietnam had always confidently overcome. When Kim Sang-sik, a former midfielder for the South Korean national team, was appointed in mid-2026, he was given a simple but heavy task: repair what had been broken, and win back belief.

He did it. The 2026 ASEAN Cup is the clearest proof. But that very success raises a question no one wants to answer: if the national team can win Southeast Asia just months after being eliminated from World Cup qualification, where does the problem lie? In the coach? In the players? Or in something deeper, broader, that no trophy can cover?

I spent months seeking the answer. I went to Hanoi, to Nam Dinh, to Pleiku. I sat in coffee shops where people discuss V.League as if discussing politics. I talked with football people, from the oldest to young players who had just broken into the senior squad.

And what I found was not in what the national team can do. It was in what Vietnamese football cannot do.

Core point one: The national team's problem is not talent, but the system that produces talent

The current Vietnamese national team, at the time of writing, depends on a group of players who are at their peak or past it. Nguyen Quang Hai, Do Hung Dung, Nguyen Tien Linh, Nguyen Hoang Duc — these are names that have been tied to the national team for nearly a decade. They are excellent players, beyond dispute. But when a national team depends on one generation for years, that is not a sign of stability. It is a sign of a depleted pipeline.

I watched dozens of V.League matches in the 2026-2026 season. What surprised me was not the quality of the top stars — they are good enough to make the difference. What surprised me was the quality of everyone else. There is an enormous gap between the best players and the average ones. That gap does not exist in developed football nations, where a substitute at a mid-table club can still play for the national team.

Nguyen Xuan Son — also known as Rafaelson — is a particularly interesting example. The Brazilian-born striker was naturalised and became a key factor in the 2026 ASEAN Cup campaign, scoring in the final. But his arrival raises a bigger question: if Vietnam can produce good strikers, why does it have to naturalise a foreign player to fill the most important position up front?

The answer, from what I gathered, lies in the quality of the youth system. Academies such as PVF, HAGL-JMG and Viettel have done very well in producing technical players. But they have not done well in producing players who can withstand pressure at the highest level, who can make decisions in a split second and execute them accurately.

I visited one of these training centres. I watched a U-15 session. The young players trained hard, with very good individual technique. But what I did not see was variety in tactical drills. They practised passing, dribbling, shooting. But they rarely practised complex situations requiring game-reading and decision-making under pressure.

A football nation can produce technical players, but cannot produce tactical players, if its development system does not teach them how to think.

This is the core problem. And it cannot be solved by naturalising a few more foreign players, nor by hiring a few more foreign coaches.

Core point two: V.League — a league built on sand

To talk about V.League without talking about money is to talk about a body without a spine.

I spent weeks looking into the financial structure of V.League clubs. The numbers startled me. From what I gathered, the total revenue of the entire V.League 1 — fourteen clubs — is roughly equivalent to the revenue of one mid-table club in South Korea's K-League 2. That is an alarming figure considering Vietnam has a population of nearly one hundred million and football is the most popular sport.

The problem is not only in the number. It is in the structure. Most V.League club revenue comes from corporate sponsors, usually conglomerates closely tied to club owners. Revenue from broadcasting rights, ticket sales, merchandise — the most sustainable sources of a professional league — accounts for a shamefully small share.

This creates a system of dependency. Clubs do not need to operate efficiently, because they always have a patron ready to spend. But when that patron loses interest — because of economic hardship, a change in business strategy, or any other reason — a club can vanish within months.

I have seen this happen. A club that was once a V.League power, once had excellent players, once had a loyal fan base, nearly collapsed within a single season when its main sponsor withdrew. Players were unpaid for months. The team trained in poor conditions. And in the end, they were relegated.

A league whose clubs' survival depends on the goodwill of a few individuals is not a professional league. It is a semi-professional league dressed in glittering robes.

Broadcasting rights are also worth mentioning. In Europe's top leagues, broadcasting rights are the largest revenue source. In Vietnam, broadcasters pay very little for V.League rights, because they know the commercial value of the league is still low. And the commercial value is low partly because the product quality is not attractive enough — a vicious circle with no exit.

There is a cultural factor here I want to raise. Vietnamese people love the national team with fervour. But that love is not converted into love for the national league. National team matches can fill My Dinh Stadium with its forty-thousand capacity. But V.League matches often draw only a few thousand spectators. This is a paradox every Vietnamese football person knows, but few dare to state plainly.

The quieter the cheering, the easier it is to tell who is talented and who is merely making noise. And when V.League matches are played in sparse stands, people begin to hear other sounds — the coach's instructions, players calling to each other, the ball bouncing on the grass. Those sounds tell a more honest story than any financial report.

Core point three: Naturalisation and the question of identity

Nguyen Xuan Son scored in the 2026 ASEAN Cup final. It was a beautiful moment. But behind that moment is a question Vietnamese football will have to answer for years to come.

Naturalising players is not new. Many countries have done it, from France to Germany, from Japan to Korea. But there is a difference between naturalisation as part of a sustainable development strategy and naturalisation as a stopgap for holes in the development system.

In Vietnam, I fear it is the second case. Naturalising Nguyen Xuan Son — a quality striker — solves the immediate problem of a shortage of good strikers. But it does not solve the long-term problem of why Vietnam lacks good strikers. And if that problem is not solved, then in the future Vietnam will again have to naturalise another striker, then another.

I am not against naturalisation. I am against using naturalisation as a way to dodge structural problems. If Vietnam naturalises a player and simultaneously invests heavily in youth development, that is a good strategy. But if Vietnam naturalises a player and treats that as the solution, that is a mistake that will cost years of stagnation.

Core point four: Coaches and the limits of individual miracles

Kim Sang-sik did what many thought impossible: he restored belief in a national team mired in crisis. He did it by simplifying. Instead of trying to impose a complex style the players could not execute, he returned to what Vietnam does best: tight defensive organisation, quick transitions, and maximising decisive moments.

It was the right decision in the short term. But it also raises a long-term question. Because modern football is becoming ever more complex, and a team that only knows how to defend and counter will find it ever harder to compete at the highest level.

I had the chance to talk with several Vietnamese football people on this issue. They agreed the national team needs to develop a more proactive style. But they also admitted it cannot be done without the right players. And the right players can only be produced by a better development system.

This is the point I want to stress. Vietnam's problem is not the coach. Kim Sang-sik is a good coach. Park Hang-seo is a good coach. Philippe Troussier, despite failing, is a capable coach. The problem is that no coach can perform miracles without the materials to work with.

And those materials, in Vietnam, are severely lacking.

Counterintuitive angle: Perhaps the national team's success is hindering the development of Vietnamese football

This is what I want to say that many will not want to hear.

I believe the national team's successive victories — especially the 2026 ASEAN Cup title — are creating a dangerous lulling effect on Vietnamese football. They create a feeling that everything is improving, that Vietnamese football is developing in the right direction, that we merely need patience and to keep doing what we are doing.

But the truth is not so. A Southeast Asian title says nothing about the real strength of a football nation. It is a regional stage where the level of competition is still low. For comparison, look at countries like Japan, Korea, Iran, Australia — teams that have qualified for the World Cup many times in a row and have players competing in top European leagues.

Vietnam has no player regularly competing in a top European league. Nguyen Quang Hai once tried his luck in France but did not succeed. Other Vietnamese players have also tried and failed. This is an important indicator of the gap between Vietnamese football and elite world football.

And this is what I want to stress: a regional title can bring joy, but it cannot compensate for a deficit in infrastructure, development and finance.

I have seen this happen in many places. In Thailand, regional victories once created an illusion of development, while their national league struggled and their national team fell ever further behind. In Malaysia, brief moments of glory hid a weakening system. And in Indonesia, recently, the national team's rise came partly from naturalisation, but the question of a sustainable foundation remains open.

Vietnamese football does not have to follow that path. But to avoid it, it must acknowledge its problems frankly, rather than hiding them behind trophies.

Accepting being hated is the fee I pay to write the truth no one orders. I know many Vietnamese will be angry with me for this article. They have the right to be. But I believe true love is not always saying pleasant things. True love is saying what needs to be heard, even when it hurts.

Where I might be wrong

I am not Vietnamese. I did not grow up in Vietnam. I do not fully understand the cultural nuances and specific economic conditions shaping this country's football. It is possible I am underestimating the progress achieved. It is possible I am imposing a European development model on a completely different context.

I am also aware that criticism from outside can easily become arrogance. And that arrogance, in a sense, is no different from the complacency of a football nation that believes it has achieved everything.

So I leave open the possibility that I am wrong. But I do not retract what I have written about the problems I believe are real.

Progressive conclusion: What Vietnamese football needs is not more trophies, but a revolution from the roots

If there is one thing I want Vietnamese football to take from this article, it is this: do not let the trophies lull you to sleep.

A truly strong football nation is not measured by the number of regional trophies. It is measured by its ability to produce players capable of competing at world level. It is measured by the quality of its national league. It is measured by the financial sustainability of its clubs. It is measured by the ability of its youth system to create players who are not only technically good, but also tactically and psychologically good.

Vietnam has the necessary ingredients. It has passion. It has population. It has a growing economy. It has a generation of talented players. It has dedicated football people.

But passion, population, economy and talent do not automatically convert into success. They need to be guided by a vision, a strategy, and a system built on a solid foundation.

Vietnamese football has had moments of glory. That is certain. But glory is not light. Glory is merely a reflection. And to have true light, one must build a source of light, not simply wait for reflections from trophies.

A star is never bigger than the squad. And a squad is only truly strong when it is built from a system, not from isolated moments.

That is what I believe. And that is what I will say, even if it makes me hated. Because I would rather write an uncomfortable truth than a pleasant lie.

When the stands are empty, listen to the ball instead of the screaming. And in Vietnam, it is time to listen to the ball.