From Rostov to Hanoi: The Journey of Litter Picking and Dignity in Vietnamese Football

When the media is buzzing, true talent still walks quietly on the pitch. I witnessed this at the 2026 World Cup in Russia, when Japan lost 2-3 to Belgium after leading 2-0. But what I remember most is not the 90+4 minute goal, but the image of Japanese fans quietly staying behind to pick up litter in the stands while the players lay sobbing. The defeat will pass, but the image of fans bending down to pick up litter remains. Now, sitting at Hang Day training ground on an August afternoon, I see the same thing happening in Vietnamese football. Not in the stands, but right on the pitch – where young U23 Vietnam players are doing transition runs under 35-degree heat. They are not picking up litter, but they are picking up every piece of expectation that fans have placed down, carrying a dream bigger than themselves. My context here is not a specific match, but a turbulent summer transfer window in Vietnamese football. The 2026-2026 V.League season ended with Thép Xanh Nam Định winning the championship – a team from Nam Định province, known as the "land of Vo" (martial arts) of Vietnamese football. They broke the dominance of wealthy clubs like Hà Nội FC and Công An Hà Nội (CAHN) with a completely different philosophy: not buying stars, but building from youth academies. But the story I want to tell is not about the champions. I want to talk about teams that are saving themselves amid this noisy transfer window. The training ground is empty, but I can still hear the heartbeat of a club saving itself. That is Bình Định FC – a team that won the V.League twice in 2026 and 2026, now struggling with financial problems after their main sponsor withdrew. I was at Quy Nhơn training ground last week, invited by a friend who is an assistant coach. Training started at 6 AM, before the sun rose. Players did 15 minutes of warm-up, then split into 7vs7 scrimmage. There was no cheering from hundreds of fans, no television cameras. Only the sound of studs on grass, the coach's instructions on every pass, and the heavy breathing of young men fighting for their own future. What caught my attention was how they handled set pieces. In the corner kick defensive drill, the coach repeatedly reminded defenders about marking positions. "You must read the opponent's intention before the ball is crossed," he said. "Don't wait for the ball to arrive before reacting." This is the difference between an organized team and one that relies on individual inspiration. I remember the 2026-2026 season, when Bình Định almost got relegated. They lost 12 matches, won only 6, and had a goal difference of -8. But what impressed me was not the numbers, but how they stood up. In the decisive play-off match against Huế FC, main striker Rafaelson (now Nguyễn Xuân Son, who has been naturalized as Vietnamese) scored a brace in the final 20 minutes to save the team. After the match, I saw him hugging each teammate, not in a victory celebration style, but in a post-storm consolation style. That was the moment I understood that Vietnamese football is not just about stars celebrated by the media, but also about silent heroes. Before becoming a genius, he was just a child learning to endure scrutinizing gazes. I say this when mentioning Nguyễn Đình Bắc – the 20-year-old striker of CAHN, who scored against U23 Iraq at the 2026 AFC U23 Asian Cup. The media called him "Vietnam's Messi" after he scored 3 goals in 4 matches at that tournament. But I remember him at a different moment: at the 32nd SEA Games in Cambodia, when U22 Vietnam lost to U22 Indonesia in the semifinal. Bắc sat alone in the corner of the pitch, not crying, not talking, just staring into the distance. I approached him, and he said: "I didn't do what the fans expected." That was when I realized the pressure weighing on young Vietnamese players. They don't just play for themselves, but for an entire community craving national pride. When the national team wins, the whole country celebrates. When they lose, they carry the disappointment of millions. This is a burden no European player has to bear. But I also see growth. In the 2026 World Cup qualifiers in Asia, Vietnam was in Group F with Iraq, Philippines, and Indonesia. After the first two matches, they had only 1 point – losing 0-1 to Iraq and drawing 1-1 with Philippines. The media began criticizing coach Kim Sang-sik, who succeeded Philippe Troussier. But I watched the national team's training at the Vietnam Youth Football Training Center in Hanoi, and I saw something different: the players had not lost faith. In the tactical training session, coach Kim repeatedly demanded high pressing from midfielders. "We cannot keep defending deep," he said through an interpreter. "We must push up, apply pressure right from the opponent's half." This is a completely different philosophy from Troussier, who preferred ball possession. Kim accepts giving up possession, but in return, he demands intensity in every challenge. I remember the friendly match against India last October, when Vietnam won 3-0. What impressed me was not the score, but how they pressed. Striker Nguyễn Tiến Linh ran over 11 km in that match, higher than the V.League average. He didn't just score; he was the first to challenge when the opponent played the ball up. That was a signal that the team was absorbing the new coach's philosophy. But there is a contrarian view I want to offer: Vietnam's football success does not come from tactics, but from infrastructure. While the media buzzes about coach Kim changing tactical formations, I look at different numbers: the number of standard 11-a-side football pitches in Vietnam. According to VFF statistics, the country has only about 120 international-standard pitches, while Thailand has over 300. This is a gap that cannot be closed by tactics alone. I visited the PVF youth academy in Hưng Yên. This is where the most young talents in Vietnam are trained, with 8 training pitches, a modern gym, and a well-trained coaching staff. But PVF is just one of the few standard academies. Most V.League clubs still rely on local youth training systems, which lack both facilities and certified coaches. The pandemic showed that a club is not just the team on the pitch, but the people outside. I remember 2026, when Vietnamese football was paralyzed by COVID-19. Many clubs had to cut salaries, even facing dissolution. But I witnessed something miraculous: the fan community stood up. In Nam Định, people donated bags of rice and boxes of instant noodles to support the team. In Bình Định, fans organized fundraising livestreams, raising over 2 billion VND in one month. During that pandemic season, every donated coin was a heartbeat of a community refusing to let go. This makes me believe that Vietnamese football has a strength not reflected in the rankings. That is community cohesion. When U23 Vietnam reached the 2026 AFC U23 Championship final in Changzhou, millions flooded the streets to celebrate. Not because they understood tactics, but because they felt national pride. Football in Vietnam is not just a sport; it is part of cultural identity. But this also creates enormous pressure. When the team loses, the disappointment is not just about elimination, but also the feeling of "losing face" before international friends. I have witnessed many players crying after defeats, not because they lost, but because they felt they had let down the fans. This is a psychological burden that European players do not face. In this summer 2026 transfer window, I see a new trend: Vietnamese clubs are starting to spend smarter. Instead of buying past-their-prime foreign players, they are looking for young players from Africa and South America at lower prices but with greater development potential. CAHN signed 22-year-old Brazilian striker Geovane Magno for 1.2 million euros – a record fee for V.League. But what's interesting is they also invested 500,000 euros in upgrading their youth academy. I had a conversation with CAHN's technical director, Fabio Stoffel from Brazil. He told me: "Vietnamese football doesn't lack talent, it lacks system. We are building a system for talent to develop properly." This is the mindset I believe is the future of Vietnamese football. But I also want to offer a contrarian view: naturalizing foreign players could be a double-edged sword. When Rafaelson became Nguyễn Xuân Son and scored 5 goals in 4 matches at the 2026 AFF Cup, many celebrated. But I ask myself: are we hiding the weakness of our youth development system by naturalizing players? Can a Vietnamese overseas player or naturalized foreigner replace the natural development of a domestic player? I am not against naturalization. I just want to ask: are we building sustainable Vietnamese football or just seeking immediate success? The answer will determine the future of Vietnamese football in the next 10 years. Looking back at the journey from Rostov to Hanoi, I realize that the dignity of a football nation lies not in the number of trophies, but in how they face defeat. Japanese fans picked up litter after losing to Belgium not because they lost, but because they wanted to leave a beautiful image for their country. Vietnamese players cried after defeats not because they were weak, but because they love their colors. When I left Quy Nhơn training ground, I saw a boy about 10 years old practicing shooting into an empty goal. That boy doesn't know who I am, doesn't know how many historic matches I have witnessed. He only knows he loves football. And I believe that boys like him will be the future of Vietnamese football – not the stars celebrated by the media, but children learning to endure scrutinizing gazes, learning to stand up after every fall. The training ground is sunny today, no one scored, but I see everything. I see a football nation maturing, not through victories, but through how they face defeat. And that, to me, is the greatest dignity of Vietnamese football.