Van Vi and Hoang Duc absent before FIFA ASEAN Cup: Indonesian media secretly rejoice, but Vietnamese football is hiding another poem

The closed training session on November 15 at the Vietnam Youth Football Training Center ended in an unusual silence. Standing outside the fence, I looked at the bench: Van Vi's number seventeen shirt was neatly folded, as if waiting for something that would never come. Nguyen Hoang Duc did not join the half-pitch drills. Do Duy Manh only walked around the center circle with a physiotherapist. No one shouted. No one fouled. But I realized a gray space had just appeared on this pitch—not because of snow, but because three men carrying a large part of coach Kim Sang-sik’s tactical plan were standing outside the game. The next morning, Indonesian sports pages published stories about the absences of Vietnam’s “star duo.” They wrote about the left flank losing speed, about the midfield losing creativity. One outlet even ran the headline: “Injuries are doing for Indonesia what they didn’t have to do.” They counted our absentees like early Christmas gifts. But I, who have been sitting in the stands for more than half a century, know that in football the most dangerous thing is not a team’s strength on paper—it is how a team understands its own pain. Let’s revisit the match Vietnam won 3–0 against Indonesia last December. Not because of the score, but because of the passes that built it. The opening goal came from a quick counter-attack after Duy Manh won the ball, Hoang Duc transitioned play with a line-breaking pass to Van Vi sprinting down the left. He needed only two touches to turn a tight angle into an opportunity. Those who didn’t watch might call it luck. But I watched the replay three times: Van Vi’s run was not straight; it curved like an arc, letting the ball wait for him at the destination. That is the quality of a raw jewel—you need enough patience to see the light inside those unflashy strides. I am not surprised Indonesian media mention Van Vi the most. In Kim Sang-sik’s system, he is not merely a left-back. He is the starting point for build-up from the back, the only door for the national team to escape pressure when opponents press high. If you only look at crosses or long shots, you won’t understand why the Korean coach always puts his name on the starting list. The truth is in the off-ball movements—stretching the defense, creating space for Hoang Duc to receive the ball between the lines. Without Van Vi, the whole left corridor becomes a dead zone. Long passes from the center-backs will have to switch elsewhere, and the favorite counter-attacking pattern suddenly feels foreign to the remaining players. As for Nguyen Hoang Duc, no one needs an introduction to his left foot. But in that 3–0 win over Indonesia, what I remember most is not his two assists, but the eight seconds before the second goal appeared. Hoang Duc dropped deep near the center circle, broke the opponent’s first pressing line with one touch, then shifted right like a watchmaker finding the right pendulum. He doesn’t run fast, but he runs at the right time. That kind of football has many names: vision, creativity, or simply the ability to read the flow of a match. When he is absent, Vietnam’s midfield may not lack passers, but it will lack someone willing to take responsibility for a decisive pass. For Indonesia, not facing Hoang Duc’s shadow on the pitch is a psychological advantage they know how to exploit. Do Duy Manh is the most complex case. If Van Vi and Hoang Duc are described as main musicians, Duy Manh is like the frame of an instrument. You don’t always hear the sound of the wooden frame, but when it shifts, every other note vibrates off-key. With his experience and reading ability, Duy Manh often keeps the defensive rhythm alive—something invisible in pressing stats because it lives in the words shouted between center-backs. I remember once at Hoa Xuan Stadium, I heard the ball sigh when Duy Manh organized the defense with quiet calls. The stadium was so empty you could almost hear the ball telling its own story. Now listen to what Indonesia is saying: they talk about our loss as their opportunity. But based on my decades of watching Southeast Asian football, I have learned one thing: never trust a team that is happy about an opponent’s injury. They are putting themselves in a position where they must win, and when a team is pressured to win at all costs, they often forget that the opponent is not a name—it is a collective that knows how to hurt. There is a hidden corner Indonesian media do not mention: the absence of three pillars will force Kim Sang-sik to find a new order. During the training days in Hanoi, I noticed a young player running down the left with unrefined speed but with eyes always moving two steps ahead. He doesn’t need someone to teach him how to move; he needs someone who can read the hunger of ambition. When the stars are in the medical room, young players like him will get the chance to step into the light. A rough gem does not need polishing, only a patient enough gaze to love it. Whether they can surprise at the FIFA ASEAN Cup, I am not sure. But I am sure that an injured team always carries a source of quiet rebellion that those sitting high above never understand. Years ago, people mocked my poetic commentary, and I am proud of it. Because the ball is not an equation; it is a ninety-minute poem with the most unexpected rhymes. This poem of Vietnam is being rewritten with the blood and tears of wounds. Van Vi may be absent, but the spirit of a collective never appears on an injury list. They say Indonesia is quietly rejoicing. I just smile: the stands may be empty, but history still needs listeners to tell its most beautiful grief. When the referee’s whistle is blown on Indonesian soil, watch the eyes of the substitutes on the bench. They are not people waiting in line; they are blank pages waiting to be written on. Vietnamese football always has a habit of producing heroes from the ashes of collapsed expectations. I don’t know the name of the new hero. But I know, at age 67, I still believe in magic, because I have seen a gem find itself in the mud. The statistics will not say this. But if you have ever loved a team not because they win, but because they stay resilient even when their best weapons are gone, you will understand why I am not worried. Indonesians may think they have already won before the match begins. But in football, someone who thinks they have won before the ball rolls is standing at the edge of the most painful lesson. Let them keep talking. As for us, let us keep preparing for a poem no one has ever read.