Vietnamese Football And The Lesson From The Void: When Certificates Are No Longer The Only Measure

On a late afternoon at Thong Nhat training ground, I watched a young player take his seventh consecutive long-range shot. The ball hit the crossbar, bounced out, and he stood there staring at the empty space behind the goal. No one shouted, no one clapped. But in that moment, I saw the whole meaning of the game. That shot didn't score, but it told a story about persistence that no league table could record. This year, Vietnamese football stands at a major crossroads. Not about tactics or personnel, but about how we define a player's value. As clubs race to sign foreign stars, as academies rush to issue coaching certificates, I suddenly remember a lesson from a completely different field. That is the story of the CFEI financial certificate, about an educational model where people sell certificates as if selling a promise. I cannot help but see the similarity between two seemingly unrelated worlds. In football, we have coaching certificates, international qualifications, short-term courses advertised as universal keys to success. But the question few ask is: what is the real value of these certificates on the pitch? This leads me to a counter-intuitive perspective. While the whole country is buzzing about the national team needing a foreign strategist, I remember the unknown players in the First Division, those without any certificates but who run 12 km per match and make 90% accurate tackles. They don't have diplomas, but they have what no classroom can teach: love for the ball. That is the void I am talking about. The gap between what we are taught and what the match truly demands. When I wrote about the match between Vietnam and Thailand last September, I realized something interesting. Our team didn't win because they had more systematically trained players. They won because in the decisive moment, a young player dared to shoot from outside the box, another dared to stand up after a fall, and another dared to look into the opponent's eyes without fear. These things are not in any curriculum. But we continue to build academies, continue to buy qualifications, continue to believe that a piece of paper will change everything. Meanwhile, in another corner of the world, a similar model is operating. BizUni, an education company in Vietnam, signed a 10-year exclusive contract with NFEC to deploy the CFEI certificate. They sell this certificate as a tool for financial professionals to enhance their status. But the question I always ask is: does this certificate help a financial advisor make the right decision when a client walks into the office with anxious eyes? Or does it only help them feel more confident when facing themselves? Football is the same. A coaching diploma cannot teach a person how to read a match, how to feel the tempo, how to know when to push the line higher and when to retreat. These things only come from experience, from long nights reviewing footage, from painful defeats that no certificate can comfort. In the summer of 2026, when stadiums closed due to the pandemic, I remembered how Memphis Depay almost moved to Barcelona before falling through at the last minute. The entire transfer market then only had 15% of deals completed. But what I remember most is not the number, but how absence became a weighty entity. The pitch had no spectators, but the ball still rolled. Players still ran. And I learned that sometimes, what doesn't happen is what matters most. In Vietnamese football, we are witnessing a similar phenomenon. Clubs race to sign foreign players, but many of them cannot adapt. They come with certificates from major leagues, but on Vietnamese pitches, they show nothing. This shows me that a certificate is only a starting point, not a destination. When I look back at Vietnamese football history, I remember the 2000s, when we had no systematically trained players. But the national team still played, still fought, still created moments that fans never forget. Now, when we have more academies, more certificates, more training programs, why do we still face the same old questions? Perhaps because we are confusing having qualifications with understanding the game. This leads me to another perspective on the transfer market. While big European clubs spend hundreds of millions on players with certificates from prestigious academies, in Vietnam we are still searching for players with real ability. But the problem is, how do you measure real ability? A player may have good technique, but lack fighting spirit. Another may run fast, but lack the ability to read the game. Certificates cannot measure these things. They only measure what can be verified, what fits within the framework of a test. But football, like life, always exists outside the framework. When I wrote about the match between Vietnam and Indonesia last November, I remembered a small detail. In the 78th minute, a young player received the ball in midfield, saw the space ahead, and decided to push forward. He had no certificates, but he had a tactical vision that no classroom could teach. In that moment, I realized that a player's true value lies not in what he was taught, but in what he discovered himself. This contradicts what we usually believe. We believe that systematic training creates better players. But the truth is, training only creates players with better skills. To become a good player, you need more than that. You need curiosity, courage, and the ability to see what others overlook. In Vietnamese football, we are lacking such people. We have many systematically trained players, but few who can make a difference. This makes me wonder: are we going the wrong way? Are we too focused on building academies, training programs, while forgetting that football is a game of freedom? When I recall the match between Morocco and Portugal at the 2026 World Cup, I remember a moment no one mentions. In the 42nd minute, En-Nesyri scored, but what I remember most is how the Moroccan players defended. They had no certificates, no diplomas, but they had something no classroom could teach: unity. They fought for each other, ran for each other, and sacrificed for each other. That is something no diploma can create. Vietnamese football needs that. We need players who are not only skilled but also able to connect with teammates, with fans, and with the game itself. We need those who know that sometimes, the void on the pitch matters more than what is in the league table. In the transfer market, we are witnessing a similar phenomenon. Clubs race to spend money on players with certificates from prestigious academies, but overlook unknown players with real ability. This creates a paradox: we pay for what is certified, but not for what truly makes a difference. When I look back at my career as a sports journalist, I realize that my most important articles were not about victories, but about forgotten moments. The article about young player Huang Yuhao, who scored from a 35-meter shot in the 88th minute, was not mentioned by any newspaper. But that article changed my life. It taught me that true value lies in what others overlook. Vietnamese football needs such people. Those who don't just look at the league table, but also see the voids on the pitch. Those who don't just count goals, but also feel the heartbeat of the match. Those who know that sometimes, a shot hitting the crossbar matters more than an easy goal. When I stood at Thong Nhat training ground that late afternoon, watching the young player take his seventh shot, I realized that he didn't need certificates, didn't need diplomas. He just needed to keep shooting, keep trying, keep believing that one day, the ball would go into the net. And when that happens, no diploma can explain that feeling. That is the moment when football becomes truly great. The moment when certificates are no longer the only measure. The moment when the void on the pitch becomes an unspoken promise.