The Old Drumbeat in the Heart of Hanoi: The Quiet Journey of Vietnamese Football

When the new media knocks loudly on the door, I still hear the old drumbeat from the stands. I come to the stadium not to score goals, but to keep the rhythm for the stories. The stadium may change its name, but the singing of the stands is never copyrighted. I have spent nearly five decades listening to the heartbeat of Asian football, from the narrow streets of Seoul to the vast pitches of Shenzhen. But there is one place I always return to, a place where football is not just a sport but the breath of an entire nation – Vietnam. Hanoi, an August afternoon, I stand on the stands of Hang Day Stadium. Not a match day, no ball rolling. Only the wind passing through the empty rows of seats and, in the distance, the drumbeat of a group of fans practicing for the weekend match. They come here not out of duty, but out of a love that cannot be named. Vietnamese football is at a turning point. The national team has created miracles that my generation did not dare to dream of. But what troubles me is not the victories, but the question: what lies behind the spotlight? I remember an evening at My Dinh Stadium, after the AFF Cup final. The empty dressing room that day still carried the smell of grass and someone's tears. A young player – I will not name him – sat in a daze, not because of victory or defeat, but because he realized that the dream of millions was resting on his shoulders. He wears a new jersey, but I still remember how he tied his shoes on the first day. The truth that few speak of is: Vietnamese football is developing on a foundation that is not yet truly solid. Academies are sprouting like mushrooms, sponsors are lining up, but are we building a sustainable ecosystem or just chasing short-lived glory? I have witnessed too many Asian football nations go through cycles of boom and bust. Japan faced the same question in the 1990s. South Korea too. The answer lies not in immediate victories, but in how they build from the roots: youth development, infrastructure, and most importantly – a genuine football culture. Vietnam has an advantage that no other nation has: a pure, unselfish love for football. I have seen children playing on the streets of Hanoi at midnight, fathers bringing their sons to training at 5 AM, fans crying when the team loses and laughing when the team wins. That is something money cannot buy. But love alone is not enough. Data analysts are invading the dressing room; their conclusions often detach from the real rhythm. I fear we are focusing too much on numbers and forgetting that football is, above all, a story of people. Look at how the Saudi Pro League turns aging European stars into tourism ambassadors. They buy fame, but they cannot buy the hearts of fans. Vietnam does not need to follow that path. Vietnam can be proud of a football built from the sweat and tears of its own people. I remember a story I once wrote about a young player from Nghe An. He started his career on empty lots, where football had no rules, only passion. Ten years later, he wore the national team jersey. But what I remember most is not the goals, but his words: "Uncle, I play football because my father never had the chance." That is the story of Vietnam. A country that went through war, that was poor, but never lost faith in the future. Football is part of that faith. The new generation of reporters chases the ball; I chase what the ball has rolled over. I am no longer fast enough to chase breaking news, but I have enough patience to listen to the stories others miss. The biggest lesson I have learned in nearly 50 years in this profession is: football is not in statistics or transfer contracts. Football is in the moments when a boy first touches a ball, in the smile of a fan when the team scores, in the tears of a player who has to leave the team he has been attached to. Vietnam is standing at the greatest opportunity in its football history. Not the opportunity to win the Asian championship or qualify for the World Cup – those may or may not come. The real opportunity is to build a football that their children will be proud of, a football that does not depend on luck or individual talent, but on a solid system. I will continue to listen to the old drumbeat from the stands, because that is where I find the truth. And I believe that if Vietnam learns to listen to itself, it will find its own path. Every transfer window is a farewell, but the heart of the team never leaves. He wears a new jersey, but I still remember how he tied his shoes on the first day. And I still believe that no matter how football changes, no matter how technology develops, the core values – love, dedication, faith – will forever be the foundation of this game. Hanoi, an August afternoon, I leave Hang Day Stadium with the drumbeat still echoing in my mind. It is not just the drumbeat of a group of fans, but the heartbeat of an entire nation yearning to rise. And I, an old rhythm keeper, will still be here, listening and telling the stories that Vietnamese football writes every day.