What Indonesia Doesn't Know Yet: Vietnam Loses Three Pillars, But Not the Instinct for Freedom

My Dinh Stadium on an early autumn afternoon, I sit in my familiar stand. There is no match, only the sound of wind passing through empty rows of seats. At 67, I have learned to listen to the pitch even when it is silent. And that day, I heard something — not a sigh, but the whisper of absences. Van Vi will not be here. Hoang Duc will not be here. Duy Manh neither. Indonesian media have read the list of absentees and smiled. They think they understand our loss. But they only see the names, while I see the positions — and positions can be filled by the hearts of boys no one has yet named. The context of this story begins on an August evening, when news of Van Vi's injury began spreading across Vietnamese football forums. Initially, it was just a small line: the national team's left winger was unlikely to recover in time for the FIFA ASEAN Cup. Then came Hoang Duc — who delivered two assists in the 3–0 win over Indonesia in the first leg — also confirmed absent. Finally, Duy Manh, the defensive pillar described as an irreplaceable mainstay, also joined the list of those unable to participate. Three names, three different positions. A team losing its three most important puzzle pieces within just weeks. But let me tell you what the Indonesian articles are missing. They are analyzing our loss the way a mathematician analyzes an equation — missing one variable, the result changes. But Vietnamese football has never been an equation. It is a poem, and a poem is never written with fixed words. Look at Van Vi's role through a tactical lens. In the national team's last three matches under coach Kim Sang Sik, the left flank was the team's breathing corridor. I tracked every meter of his runs in the matches against the Philippines and Iraq — and I realized that Van Vi is not just a full-back. He is a bridge between defense and midfield, an emergency escape route when the team is pressed. In defensive transitions, when the ball is won back in the home half, Van Vi is the first receiver. Not because he is best in the final 30 meters, but because he knows how to hold the ball and make a decision within two seconds. His absence means Vietnam loses an escape route down the left — and when a team has only one corridor to develop play, opponents will overload that side. And Hoang Duc? He is not the most prolific scorer. But he is the one who puts the ball in the right place for others to score. In the 3–0 win over Indonesia, Hoang Duc shone not through solo runs but through patience. He waited for the moment when Indonesia's defense lost concentration — usually around the 70th minute, when fatigue began to set in — then delivered decisive passes. Those who only look at statistics will say a creative player can be replaced by another creative player. They do not understand that Hoang Duc reads the match in his own way, like a person reading poetry who does not need punctuation to know when to pause. Duy Manh is the hardest case to assess. The media only describes him as a mainstay. But I have watched him play for years, and I know his value lies not in tackle counts but in his ability to organize the defense. He is the most vocal player on the pitch — not through words, but through hand signals and body positioning. For young defenders lacking experience, Duy Manh is a GPS: they do not need to think about their positions because he does it for them. His absence makes the defense quieter — and in football, silence is sometimes more dangerous than mistakes. Now we arrive at the part I believe is the blind spot of the Indonesian media. They view Vietnamese football as a machine: lose three gears, the machine breaks. But I want to ask them a question: Have you ever wondered why a team without many superstar names managed to qualify for the third round of World Cup 2026 qualifying? It is not because they had a perfect squad. It is because they have a system that can withstand the disappearance of any individual. In Vietnam, we have a saying: "When one horse is sick, the whole convoy stops eating." But in this case, the convoy is still eating — and that confuses the opponent. The injuries to three pillars could be the opportunity for new players to assert themselves. I think of some young boy training at the PVF youth academy, or a young player at Song Lam Nghe An, who has been waiting for this chance his entire life. In football, the departure of a hero is replaced by the opportunity of a new star. Based on my personal match-watching experience over 51 years in football, a team only becomes truly dangerous when they learn to live without their most important players. The Vietnamese national team under coach Kim Sang Sik is not a team of the three individuals above. It is a collective organized around a philosophy that values agility and team spirit over individual talent. Look at what happened at the 2026 National U19 Championship, when I first discovered the boy drawing the letter S on the pitch — Dang Van Toi was then just an unknown player promoted from the youth team. I sat in the wrong stand, my heart racing at a touch filled with inspiration. I wrote about him the way someone writes about an unpublished poem. My article caught the eye of the U19 head coach, and the rest is history. I tell this story because it says something: in Vietnam, talent is never scarce. What is scarcest is opportunity. And the injuries to Van Vi, Hoang Duc, and Duy Manh — however sad for them personally and for fans — are the biggest opportunity for the young players waiting in the tunnel of My Dinh Stadium. But we should not avoid an uncomfortable truth: losing three important players at once will present real challenges for the team's cohesion. Losing Van Vi means the midfield must learn to find new spaces. Losing Hoang Duc requires strikers to create chances for themselves instead of waiting for a perfect pass. Duy Manh's absence means the defense must communicate through mutual understanding rather than listening to one commander. Indonesia could exploit this period when Vietnam is reconnecting. But I also know this process — painful as it may be — will make Vietnam stronger. Because when a team cannot rely on three individuals, they must find strength in every individual on the pitch. And that is when the ball becomes poetry, when each player must write their own verse with their own body, not by imitating others. The Indonesians smile when they see Vietnam's absentees list. But I want them to remember: In world football history, the greatest teams were not the ones with the most stars. They were the ones who believed in each other most. And if there is one thing 51 years of watching football has taught me across every pitch, from Hoa Xuan to Belgrade, from the World Cup in Russia to the quiet fields of rural Vietnam, it is the word "belief" — and belief often appears strongest in times of greatest loss. Being mocked for writing poems on television is something I am proud of. The football itself is poetry. And this time, the poem is being written by those not in the original plan — but perhaps, those chosen by fate. A rough gem does not need polishing, only a patient gaze to love it. And I believe that right now, coach Kim Sang Sik — his gaze — is looking at those young players at the PVF Center and at V-League clubs, with the patience of someone who has witnessed miracles. Hoa Xuan Stadium was once so quiet that I could hear the ball sigh. Now, My Dinh Stadium may be without its old heroes, but I believe somewhere, a young boy is training, dreaming, and preparing for his historic moment. At 67, I still believe in magic, because I have seen a gem find itself in the mud — and I know that when one door closes, the pitch often opens another. They criticize me for poetry? Thank you. Goals are also poetry. But what delights me most in this story is that football — perceived as a sport of numbers, tactics, and data — always knows how to tell its own version. The story of the upcoming FIFA ASEAN Cup will not only be about what Vietnam has lost. It will be about what Vietnam will find. And Indonesia, with their confidence, may have to face a reality they did not anticipate: a Vietnam without Van Vi, without Hoang Duc, without Duy Manh — but with a burning desire stronger than ever. The My Dinh stands may not be full in the first match, but history still needs spectators to tell its most beautiful sorrow. And I — an old poet who still gets lost in the stands, still writes poetic commentary, still believes in rough gems and football verses — will be there, listening to what is coming.