Vietnam Lose Both Pham Gia Hung and Xuan Son Up Front: When a Personnel Crisis Forces the Tactics to Be Rewritten from Scratch

Pham Gia Hung's number 9 shirt was folded and placed in the corner of the dressing room, right next to the bag that the coaching staff had arranged to be taken away days earlier. When the whistle blew for the match against Thailand, I stood in the commentary area, microphone still in hand, the roar of the two sets of fans echoing through my headphones, but my eyes kept returning to that empty space. An attack once considered the most formidable in Southeast Asia was now reduced to familiar names, none of whom were born to play as a genuine centre-forward. After more than thirty years holding a microphone, I have learned this: sport is not only about the scoreline. Sometimes, the real story of a match lies in the fact that there is no one left to send onto the pitch. On a festival day for men's football, I quietly slipped women's records into every bulletin, and this time was no different. For amid the headlines about two absent strikers lies a truth that Vietnamese football has lived with for decades: our system has always been built around a few outstanding individuals, rather than a foundation deep enough that anyone who steps in can carry the load. When the two most important links in the attack disappear at once, the shirt still lies there, folded, waiting for someone who will not come. To understand why this story matters so much, it must be placed in the proper context of the ASEAN Cup and the current standing of the Vietnam national team. Coach Kim Sang Sik's side entered the tournament as one of the traditional title contenders, but after the first two matches, they had collected only three points, with one win and one loss. The defeat to Thailand did not just take away the chance to finish top of the group; it exposed a vulnerability that had existed for a long time but had never been so glaringly revealed: the ability to withstand the absence of key pillars. Pham Gia Hung left the team for family reasons. In the final hours before his departure, he was still present with his teammates, and it was the head coach himself who directly agreed to let him go. The Vietnam Football Federation issued a statement of condolence, a proper and humane act that showed the leadership understood that football must sometimes take a back seat to things greater than itself. Xuan Son, the man expected to be the main spearhead of the attack, left the team due to injury. Two losses came almost simultaneously, and suddenly, the national team had no genuine centre-forward left. This is where tactical analysis becomes more interesting than any emotional commentary. Modern football operates on the relationships between its lines, and when a line loses two key figures, the entire structure must shift. Vietnam lost its two most important aerial threats and its two direct finishers capable of scoring inside the box. In other words, the team lost its ability to play long, direct balls, lost its option of crossing from the flanks into the box, and lost the man who could turn a half-chance into a goal. In football, attacking strength is often measured by the expected goals metric, or xG. This metric indicates the quality of the chances a team creates, based on position, angle of the shot, and the situation leading to the attempt. When Vietnam takes the field against Pakistan without a genuine centre-forward, their xG output will almost certainly decline, because shots from outside the box by midfielders have a far lower probability of becoming goals than finishes inside the box by a true striker. This is not an emotional judgment. This is the mathematics of football. Coach Kim Sang Sik, known for his composure and organisational ability, now faces a difficult decision. He can keep the system intact and place his trust in wingers such as Nguyen Tien Linh, forcing them to drift inside and play the role of a false nine. He can also shift to a more possession-based style, using central midfielders as the pivot and seeking gaps through small combinations, rather than long balls over the top. Each choice carries its own cost. If he chooses the false nine option, Vietnam will lose its ability to contest aerial balls in the box, a weapon that Southeast Asian football still regularly uses to break down packed defences. If he chooses the possession option, the team will depend on the passing accuracy and patience of the midfield, while accepting that the speed of attacking transitions will be slower, giving opponents time to drop back and organise their defence. At 56, I still ask one question: where are women scoring in this game? That question is not at all out of place. For when discussing the fragility of a squad, Vietnam's women's football is the clearest example of a systemic problem. Our women's national team relied for many years on a few exceptional individuals, and every time they were absent through injury or personal reasons, the whole system wobbled. Dependence on stars is not a privilege of men's football. It is the common disease of a football nation that has not invested enough in depth. Based on my experience watching matches across many seasons, I have observed a sad pattern: Southeast Asian teams tend to build their playing style around two or three key players, and when those players are gone, they have no matching contingency plan. Vietnam is no exception to that rule. The simultaneous absence of both Pham Gia Hung and Xuan Son is merely the catalyst that turned a long-simmering problem into a crisis. When the old wave recedes, I step onto a new platform, and the voice remains my own. In this case, the old wave is the habit of leaning on stars who have become too familiar, while the new platform is the need to find solutions never before tried. Sometimes, a personnel crisis is an opportunity for a team to discover people who, under normal conditions, would never have been given a chance. Look at the midfield. When the attack loses its sharpest points, the responsibility for scoring is shared among the midfielders. This is the moment when players like Nguyen Quang Hai or Nguyen Hoang Duc must prove that they are not merely creators, but can also be finishers. In modern football, the boundary between midfielder and forward is increasingly blurred, and the most successful teams are often those with many players capable of scoring from any position. But this is also the moment to look honestly at the other side of the story. Having to improvise with an empty attack is not just a temporary tactical issue. It is a sign of a long-running failure in youth development. A football nation considered developed must be able to produce enough quality strikers that when one is absent, another can step in without significantly weakening the team. Vietnam has not achieved that. I have spent many years listening to players, and what I have learned is that dressing-room stories often reflect reality more faithfully than any statistical table. When a key player leaves for family reasons, the first thing I think about is not the loss on the pitch, but the invisible pressure placed on those who remain. The remaining players must play not only for themselves, but also for the teammate who is at home. That is a powerful form of motivation, but also no small mental burden. The coaching staff handled this situation in a way that deserves recognition. Allowing Pham Gia Hung to leave immediately, without strings, without conditions, showed a leadership style that places people above results. In professional football, where performance is often put first, such a decision is not a given. It shows that the coaching staff understands that a player whose mind is unsettled cannot give his all, and that keeping him back purely for short-term benefit would cause long-term damage to the relationship between the team and the player. As for Xuan Son, his injury raises a different, more long-term question. A player in his prime, expected to be a pillar of the national team for years to come, suffered a serious injury at the most important moment of the tournament. This reminds us of the fragility of a player's career, and of the responsibility of clubs and federations to manage playing time and care for players' physical and mental health. Now, let us look ahead. The match against Pakistan is the decisive game for second place in the group. Vietnam only needs to avoid defeat to advance, a task that sounds simple but is full of pitfalls when the team no longer has a genuine striker. Pakistan, though rated lower, has the psychological advantage of a team with nothing to lose. If they defend deep and wait for counter-attacking opportunities, Vietnam could fall into a prolonged stalemate, controlling possession but failing to create genuinely dangerous chances. I have witnessed more than a few matches in which a theoretically stronger team collapsed because it could not find a goal. That is the scenario any coach fears, because as time passes and the score remains 0-0, anxiety gradually turns into a loss of composure, and the final chances are often squandered in despair. With an empty attack, the psychological resilience of the Vietnam national team will be put to its most severe test. More worrying are the alternatives. There are not many names of sufficient calibre to take on the centre-forward role. The young players called up as reinforcements are mostly those who have never played at the highest international level, and placing pressure on their shoulders in a decisive match is a gamble the coaching staff must weigh carefully. Experience shows that throwing a young player into a big match without proper preparation usually leads to negative outcomes for both the team and the player's career. From a commercial perspective, this story also opens up interesting reflections. Vietnamese football has made remarkable strides in marketing and brand value in recent years. Star players are courted, sponsors pour money in, and matches attract millions of viewers. But when those stars are absent, people realise that the commercial value of a football nation should not be built on the shoulders of a few individuals, but on an attractive competitive system and a sufficiently deep player base. This is where Vietnamese women's football can teach men's football a lesson. Our women's national team, despite facing enormous difficulties in facilities and resources, has regularly shown the ability to sustain collective strength across generations. When key players retire, the women's team can still find new faces to carry on, thanks to a youth development system maintained with perseverance, despite many shortcomings. That endurance is, at times, more admirable than any trophy. I will never forget the story of a goalkeeper from the women's national team who once faced a cut in her salary and mounting hardships during the pandemic. When I handed her the microphone, what I learned was that perseverance does not come from money or fame, but from a love of the game and a bond with teammates. That is a lesson that men's football, with all its greater resources, sometimes forgets. Back to the men's team and the upcoming match. What matters now is not only the result, but how the team responds to adversity. A victory over Pakistan will not erase the systemic problems, but it will prove that the team has enough character to overcome unexpected challenges. A defeat, by contrast, will open a crisis of confidence, and the criticism will no longer be aimed at any individual, but at an entire system. I once wrote that transfer rumours buzz all season, but what remains are the lives behind the contracts. In this case, what remains will not be the statistical numbers, but the story of a team learning to live without its most important people. That is the story of Vietnamese football, and it will be written on the pitch, by the feet of those who remain. Tactically, I believe Kim Sang Sik will choose a compromise solution. He will not entirely abandon the direct style that has become embedded in the team's identity, but he will adjust it to suit the available personnel. The team may play with a false striker, combined with late runs from the second line, and make the most of corners and set pieces. In football, when there is no centre-forward, set pieces often become the most important route to goal, because they depend on organisation and focus rather than peak individual skill. The key lies in the players' ability to adapt. Players like Nguyen Tien Linh, used to playing alongside a centre-forward, will have to learn to become the centre of the attack. This is a major change in role, requiring not only skill but also tactical understanding and the ability to read the game. Not every player can adapt immediately, and the coaching staff will need patience. There is a psychological dimension that few discuss. When the two leading strikers are absent, the remaining players may fall into a state of self-doubt, believing the team no longer has enough strength to win. Conversely, they may be inspired by the will to prove that the team does not depend on any individual. How the coaching staff manages the team's psychology in the days before the match will be decisive, sometimes more important than any tactical training session. I believe the sympathy for Pham Gia Hung will be a positive source of motivation. When a team goes through a loss together, they often become more united. The players will play with the awareness that they are representing a teammate who cannot be present. This is the kind of motivation that cannot be measured by data, yet holds great power in decisive moments. In the long term, this story is a reminder that Vietnamese football must invest more seriously in developing strikers. For many years, we have produced many quality midfielders and defenders, but the number of genuine strikers capable of playing at international level can be counted on one hand. This is an imbalance in youth development, and it will continue to cause similar problems in the future if it is not addressed at the root. Youth football academies need to be encouraged to train more strikers, and there need to be dedicated talent-spotting programmes for this position. Modern football demands that strikers not only score, but also participate in pressing, linking play, and supporting the defence. Training a complete striker is far harder than training a player in another position, and that explains why quality strikers are always scarce. The pandemic fell silent, the dressing room spoke up, and I was merely the one holding the microphone. What I have learned from listening to players in their hardest moments is that they do not need pity, but understanding. Pham Gia Hung does not need anyone to pity him for his circumstances. He needs a team and a football nation strong enough that he can rest assured in resolving the most important things in his life, without worrying that the national team will collapse because of his absence. That is the standard Vietnamese football should aim for. A mature football nation is one in which no individual is irreplaceable. When the national team can play well even without its brightest stars, that is the sign of sustainable development. The match against Pakistan will be a small but important test on that long road. The result will tell us whether the team is ready to face adversity, and whether the lessons from this personnel crisis will be remembered or forgotten once the stars return. For in football, as in life, what matters is not what happens to you, but how you respond to it. There is one thing I have always believed after more than thirty years of reporting on sport: the most beautiful moments do not come from easy victories, but from the times a team has to find itself in adversity. The Vietnam national team is in such a moment. They have lost their most important people, and now they must prove that the identity of the team lies not in any individual, but in collective spirit and the desire to rise. I will watch that match with particular attention, not because I am curious about the result, but because I want to see how a team confronts its own emptiness. For sometimes, it is precisely in those gaps that people find the most precious things. And perhaps, after all, Vietnamese football will learn a lesson it has postponed for too long: building depth is not an option, but a prerequisite for surviving at the highest level. When the final whistle blows in the match against Pakistan, whatever the result, I hope the team walks off the pitch with the bearing of those who have fought to the end. For in football, as in life, there are matches people win even without scoring a goal. And there are gaps that, however painful, open the door to something newer and better. The Vietnam national team stands before such a door, and what they do next will shape not only the fate of one tournament, but the future of an entire football nation.