Vietnamese Football and the Position Problem: When Traditional Wingers Are Erased

My Dinh Stadium, 67th minute. The ball was circulated from a central defender from Nghe An to the right wing. I watched the 20-year-old winger — who had scored 3 goals in the last 5 matches — receive the ball, but instead of crossing it in as I had seen from the previous generation, he cut inside, faced the opposing center-back, then passed it back to the full-back. The whole stadium sighed. Not because of a failed move, but because of a truth that has crept into Vietnamese football for a decade: the traditional winger is being erased. I have followed Vietnamese football since 2026, when I was a young journalist in Australia before returning home. I remember names like Nguyen Hong Son, who could cross with his left foot from the left wing with centimeter-level accuracy. I remember the moves of Le Cong Vinh, who always knew how to move into the box to receive those crosses. But today, as I sat in the stands of My Dinh, I realized that what I was watching was no longer the Vietnamese football I once knew. This match was part of the 2027 Asian Cup qualifiers, where Vietnam faced an opponent from West Asia. The score was 1-1, but what I cared about was not the score. I cared about how the team operated. The head coach, who once led a Japanese club, had applied a 4-3-3 formation with the requirement that wingers cut inside. This meant they had to use their stronger foot to shoot from distance or pass to the striker, instead of crossing from the flank. I looked at the data. In Vietnam's last 10 matches, the number of crosses from the wings had decreased by 42% compared to the 2026-2026 period. Meanwhile, the number of cut-inside-and-shoot attempts had increased by 67%. This was not a random change. This was a new football philosophy, one that came from Europe, where wingers like Mohamed Salah and Bukayo Saka have redefined the position. But the question is: is Vietnamese football heading in the right direction? I remembered an afternoon in 2026, when I was still following Muangthong United in Chiang Mai. I wrote a series of articles about Phanthamit, a 19-year-old midfielder who scored 5 goals in 22 matches in the Thai League. He was not a traditional winger. He was a product of modern football, where high pressing and positional rotation are key. My article reached 2 million reads, and I realized that fans were craving something new. But today, watching the Vietnamese national team, I wondered: are we losing our identity? Traditional wingers in Vietnam are not just crossers of the ball. They are storytellers with their feet. They are the ones who create moments from nothing. I remember the 2026 AFF Cup final, when Vietnam beat Thailand 2-1 at My Dinh Stadium. The decisive goal came from a cross by Nguyen Minh Phuong from the left wing, finding the head of Le Cong Vinh. That was a pure moment of Vietnamese football, a moment that no modern tactic could replicate. But I am not a nostalgic person. I have lived through four decades of change, and I know that football cannot stand still. The problem is not the application of new tactics. The problem is how we apply them. When I watch European teams, I see that cutting inside does not mean abandoning crossing altogether. Mohamed Salah still crosses when necessary. Bukayo Saka still has moments from the flank. The difference lies in flexibility, in the ability to read the game. I look at the current Vietnamese squad. We have talented young players, but they are being forced into a mold. They are taught to cut inside, to shoot from distance, to pass short. But they are not taught to read situations, to know when to cross, when to cut inside. The result is lifeless moves, safe passes, and a playing style that is easy to predict. Data from VangBong.vn shows that in the last 5 matches, the Vietnamese national team created an average of only 2.3 clear chances per match, a 35% decrease compared to the 2026-2026 period. This is not coincidental. When you completely eliminate crossing, you eliminate one of the most effective ways to create chances, especially when facing teams that defend with numbers. I remember an interview with a veteran Brazilian coach who once led a team in Vietnam. He told me: "Vietnamese football has its own identity. It is agility, technique, and the ability to create moments from simple plays. Don't lose that." I have kept that quote throughout my career. But there is something I realized while watching this match: the problem is not the tactics, but how we train young players. We are creating homogeneous wingers, those who only know how to cut inside and shoot. We are no longer creating players who can play in multiple positions, who can read the game and adapt. I looked at the bench of the national team. There was a 19-year-old player, just called up from the U23 team. He plays as an attacking midfielder, but he can also play on the wing. I wondered: will he be given the chance to express his identity, or will he be forced into the mold like the others? The match ended 1-1. Vietnam had 58% possession but only created 4 shots on target. The opponent, despite having only 42% possession, created 7 shots on target. The difference was not in the number of chances, but in the quality. The opponent knew how to exploit space, how to create differences from simple plays. I left My Dinh Stadium with a bittersweet feeling. I have witnessed the transformation of Vietnamese football over decades, from the golden era of traditional wingers to the modern era of high pressing and positional rotation. But I cannot escape the feeling that we are losing something important. People forget the goals, but they do not forget the sigh of the whole stadium that night. The sigh when the 20-year-old received the ball on the right wing, saw the space ahead, but instead of crossing, cut inside and passed back. The sigh of regret, of a generation slowly disappearing. I am not against change. I have witnessed the transformation of media, from print to digital, from long articles to short tweets. I have adapted. But I believe that change must come with respect for what has been. The traditional winger is not a relic of the past. They are part of Vietnamese football's identity. I remember a quote from a Dutch coach who once worked in Vietnam: "Football is an art. And art cannot be forced into a mold." I believe this is true. We cannot create homogeneous players, those who only know how to do one thing. We need to create flexible players, those who can adapt to any situation. But this requires a change in training. We need to teach young players how to read the game, how to know when to cross, when to cut inside. We need to teach them that football is not just tactics, but also creativity, the ability to create moments from nothing. I look at the future of Vietnamese football. I see a generation of talented young players, but I also see a homogeneity that is slowly forming. I wonder: can we find back the diversity, the creativity, and the identity of Vietnamese football? The 19-year-old boy did not change the era. He only showed us that the era has changed. And the question is: are we ready to accept that change, or will we try to hold on to what has passed? I do not have the answer. But I know that Vietnamese football needs to find its own path, a path that respects the past but does not fear the future. And I will be there, with my recorder and notebook, to document that journey. I have kept the rhythm for this team for four decades. That rhythm has never belonged to me. But I am still here, still listening, still observing, still documenting. Because I believe that football is not just matches, but also stories. And those stories need to be told. The quietest stadium is not when no one comes. It is when everyone comes but dares not breathe. Tonight, I saw such a stadium. Not because of the score, but because of the loss of an identity. I left My Dinh, stepping into the crowd that was slowly dispersing. A 10-year-old boy ran past me, wearing the national team jersey, kicking a plastic ball. The boy received the ball, looked up, and instead of crossing, cut inside and shot. I smiled. Perhaps the future is already here. And perhaps I am just an old man trying to understand a new world. But I still believe that, no matter how tactics change, no matter how positions transform, the heart of Vietnamese football will still beat. And I will still be here, listening to that beat, and documenting its stories. The media revolution can change how we watch football. But it cannot change how we love football. And I love Vietnamese football, with all its flaws and beauty. I love the crosses of the old generation, and I also love the cut-inside moves of the new generation. Because in the end, it is all football, and it is all our story. I will continue to follow, continue to document, and continue to tell these stories. Because that is my job. That is my life. And I would not have it any other way.