When the World Cup lights go out, what does Vietnamese women's football hold on to?

In the 88th minute of the match against the United States at Auckland, a one-touch pass from Nguyen Thi Tuyet Dung found Pham Hai Yen. Her shot flew past the reach of goalkeeper Alyssa Naeher, struck the crossbar and bounced out. A short silence in the stands, then a long sigh from thousands of Vietnamese fans around the ground. For audiences unfamiliar with women's football, it was just another missed chance. For me, it was a message: we had come to the World Cup to prove we existed, to stand on this pitch. In nearly three decades of holding a microphone, I had never seen a Vietnamese team show such patience against the world's number one. To understand that moment, you have to understand the journey behind it.

That journey began long before the World Cup. Through that long qualifying cycle, Vietnam had to play do-or-die playoffs just to keep the dream alive. No packed stadiums, no big television coverage, but those women understood that every match could be their last chance. The win over Thailand in the playoff semi-final was described as a shock; then came the decisive match against Chinese Taipei, when they scored in the final minutes to keep the dream breathing. That match took place in a stadium without flags, but in the heart of every player, it was the final of their lives. None of those details made the mainstream bulletins, but they were visible in the sweat I saw on the training ground. One evening I sat with a group of reserve players and a young woman said: “We do not dare rest, because one rest day is one day closer for our opponents.” That seriousness mattered more than tactics.

On July 22, 2026, the Vietnamese women's team made their first appearance in World Cup history. A team without a modern training centre, without a strong enough domestic league, had reached the world's biggest stage through tearful playoffs. Two years earlier, that ticket was a distant dream. But Vietnamese women's football had something else: the persistence of people who had lived with difficulty for too long. From SEA Games 31, where they beat Thailand 1-0 in the final, to SEA Games 32, where they won the title with a 2-0 victory over Myanmar, coach Mai Duc Chung's team slowly built an identity: resilient, organised, able to suffer. At 72, Chung did not talk much about tactics. He talked about the patience of women who had given up much of their youth for the ball. A team language assistant told me before the USA match: “We have nothing left to lose, so let us play clean.” That sentence stayed with me all tournament. It showed a team small in statistics but large in will. During men's football festivals, I used to quietly insert women's records into every bulletin; now these women had their own spotlight.

The player who impressed me most was Huynh Nhu. At 32, she was no longer the speedy striker of her youth, but she carried the role of keeping the whole group in rhythm. I remember the morning before the Portugal match, at the hotel in Auckland, she sat with her knees pulled up, looking at the grass. She talked about years of training under the sun at the national training centre, about injuries that seemed impossible to come back from. “I did not dare to dream about the World Cup, because if I dreamed and failed, it would break me,” she said. “Now I am here, I just want to play every minute.” Her simplicity convinced me that Vietnamese women's football does not lack talent; it lacks opportunities to be nurtured properly. Huynh Nhu moved to Portugal to play for Lank FC Vilaverdense in the middle of the 2026-2026 season, a small step with a big meaning: the door to Europe was no longer closed to Vietnamese players.

In New Zealand, I sat in the stands and took notes on Vietnam's three matches to understand a process, not to score anyone. The USA game was a lesson in how a weaker side defends with organisation. Mai Duc Chung's side dropped into a 4-4-2, the two central midfielders always staying within ten metres of the two centre-backs. They did not chase the ball; they stood as a block, letting the USA pass around them without space behind. Chuong Thi Kieu read the game like a veteran centre-back, always positioning herself between ball and goal. In goal, Tran Thi Kim Thanh threw herself at shots as if protecting an entire generation of female players behind her. The numbers were not pretty: three goals conceded, about 26 percent possession. But the most valuable thing was not in the numbers; it was in the time the ball did not touch Vietnam's net, in the minutes when Chung's team made international fans mention their name.

Against Portugal, a different Vietnam appeared. They pushed higher, daring to press in the opponent's half. Chung had read his regional counterparts well: Portugal were strong in possession but easily confused when pressed early. But football is also a game of fitness and individual errors. Two goals came from two moments of lost concentration after quick combinations. By the Netherlands match, the legs were empty. Losing 0-7 was the result of a quality gap that will cannot erase alone. I do not want to stop at criticism; I want to look at details many fans missed: the minutes Vietnam held firm against the USA, the way Tuyet Dung escaped pressure with one-touch passes, or the willingness of Thanh Nha to drop deep and fight. Vietnam could not yet play at Europe's level, but they had a defensive foundation to build on. Three matches, three scorelines, one process; the process is what deserves to be kept.

If you look only at results, it is easy to say Vietnam failed at the 2026 Women's World Cup. I choose another view. Compare with the men's team: it has never reached a World Cup, while the women stood on the same pitch as world champions. Against the Netherlands, even when the score was 0-7, the women still tried to reorganise, still chased every ball. I recorded that moment because it said something: they understood the world was watching, and they chose to leave with their heads high. Coach Mai Duc Chung said after the tournament: “We learned more than we lost.” He was not talking about results; he was talking about lessons. A team truly grows when it can look at its defeat honestly.

I also watched this generation get through the dark days of the pandemic by holding each other together. In 2026, when all competitions stopped, the national team players still trained in parks, under the reminder of the team doctor. No pitch, no fans, no prize money, yet they trained as if the World Cup were waiting. It was those invisible days that built the patience they brought to New Zealand. The pandemic went silent, the dressing room spoke – I was just the one holding the microphone. What they said in their most anxious moments was not complaint, but a promise to each other: try one more day. That promise took them to the World Cup, not tactics. They called those unsanctioned training sessions, but I call them class.

Now I want to say something against the crowd. The Women's World Cup did not immediately turn Vietnamese women's football into a lucrative commercial product. Prize money, sponsorship deals, television viewers all grew modestly. The players returned to lives still full of worries. But the greatest value did not belong to the pitch; it belonged to the little girl watching the USA match who could tell her parents she wanted to play football. It belonged to local authorities starting to ask why we did not yet have women's academies. The men's team still dreams of a World Cup, and the women have already gone ahead, bringing back a new standard. The real question is not how much money was earned; the question is whether we can turn that spotlight into a foundation. As long as those values are not recognised, the World Cup remains a memory. And I believe Vietnamese women's football will not stop at memory.

At 56, I still ask one question: where are women scoring in this game? The answer is not in the World Cup scoreboard. It is in a domestic league that needs investment, in youth academies that need to open, in contracts that need fair pay. The World Cup lights have gone out, but the ball is still rolling. Vietnamese women's football no longer belongs to a few; it now belongs to the next generation. I will keep holding the microphone for a long time, to tell those stories, from the smallest pitches, where girls are practicing their first shots.