Vietnam Lose Both Gia Hung and Xuan Son: The Empty Forward Line and the Puzzle Kim Sang Sik Has Not Solved

The moment I remember most from that afternoon training session was not a shot on goal. It was the image of Pham Gia Hung standing still at the edge of the touchline, his phone pressed tightly to his ear, the face of a man who had just received terrible news. He did not say a word. He simply stood there for a long time, then turned and walked into the dressing room. In that silent moment, the entire Vietnam attack at the ASEAN Cup seemed to collapse with every step he took.

More than thirty years holding a microphone have taught me this: sport is not only about the scoreline. But precisely because of that, I understand that some moments on a football pitch cannot be measured in goals — they must be measured by what remains afterward. For Vietnam right now, what remains is an empty forward line, a faith being tested, and a tactical puzzle that coach Kim Sang Sik has never had to face at this tournament.

In football, people often talk about missed goals. Few talk about the strikers left behind. Pham Gia Hung left the squad for family reasons. Nguyen Xuan Son left the squad due to injury. Two names, two circumstances, but the same consequence: Vietnam enters the final group match without a single genuine spearhead.

To understand why this is a shock, we need to look back at the team's path in this ASEAN Cup. Vietnam entered the tournament as a title contender. In the region, no team wanted to be drawn into the same group as Kim Sang Sik's side. But football does not live on the past. After two matches, the team has collected three points, including a defeat to Thailand — the opponent we still habitually call our "regional brother." That loss did not just take away points; it also took away the right to control our own destiny in the race to the final.

From being the team that held the initiative, Vietnam has been pushed down to fighting for the second-place spot. The door to the final closed earlier than expected. Now, the most realistic goal is to secure second place in the group, and that depends on a single match against Pakistan — a team rated far below in terms of personnel.

On the surface, it sounds simple: avoiding defeat is enough. But that very phrase — "just avoid defeat" — is the most dangerous kind of trap in football. Because to avoid defeat, a team must know how to score. And scoring is exactly what Vietnam is desperately lacking at the most crucial moment.

The story of Pham Gia Hung is one no coach wants to live through. Before leaving the squad, he had not played in the last two matches. At first, no one explained why. Only when information about the family tragedy was confirmed did everything become clear: he no longer had the mind to play, and the coaching staff let him go home.

What is worth noting is how the team handled this situation. There was no statement implying blame. There was no comment from within the squad suggesting his departure was a burden. The coaching staff put family before football, and the Vietnam Football Federation sent him its condolences. That is the correct way to behave, and it protected the dressing room from unnecessary fractures.

From a human perspective, this is the point I always want to emphasize when writing about sport: behind every shirt is a person with private pain. We can debate tactics, form, and who deserves to start. But there are matters beyond the pitch, and we must respect them. Pham Gia Hung is not at fault. He is the victim of a circumstance no one chooses.

At the same time, Nguyen Xuan Son also left the squad due to injury. If Pham Gia Hung represents mental pain, Xuan Son represents physical pain — and combined, they create a massive void at the front line. This is the point I want to stress most in this analysis: the simultaneous departure of both strikers turns an attack that was already dependent on individuals into a gap that is almost impossible to fill.

Look at how Vietnam has played in recent matches. Kim Sang Sik's team still maintains its structure, still builds play from the back, but every final ball leads to the same dead end: no one with enough physical presence to finish. With Pham Gia Hung or Xuan Son on the pitch, crosses and central combinations have a destination. Without them, those balls become meaningless passes.

This is where comparison with regional rivals becomes necessary. Thailand entered the tournament with a full and diverse attack. They can rotate without losing their cutting edge. Vietnam cannot. Our attacking resources are so thin that the absence of just two names collapses the entire attacking system. That is the difference between a team with depth and a team that lives off a few stars.

So what can Kim Sang Sik do? This is the tactical section I consider most important. With both center-forwards missing, the team is forced to shift to a different system. There are three viable directions.

The first is to push wingers inside. Names like Nguyen Tien Linh could be pulled from the flank into the central channel to exploit finishing ability. This is the least disruptive solution, but it requires wingers to change their playing habits within days. Not easy.

The second is to use attacking midfielders as box invaders. Without a center-forward, central midfielders must push higher and become the drilling spearhead. This creates a more flexible system but exposes gaps in midfield if the team loses the ball.

The third is to play a high press and exploit the opponent's errors. Against Pakistan, a lower-rated side, Vietnam can apply pressure high up the pitch, force mistakes, and capitalize on quick counter-attacks. This suits a team lacking a center-forward, because it does not require a target man who can hold up play — only speed and aggression.

I have followed Vietnam's matches at this tournament with particular attention, and what I have noticed is that Kim Sang Sik's team is in a painful transition. They can no longer play their familiar direct football, but they have not yet built a ball-control system smooth enough to replace it. The result is a team playing in limbo — not direct enough to create breakthroughs, not controlling enough to impose its game.

In terms of data, this is predictable: Vietnam's expected goals in the Pakistan match will likely drop compared to matches with a full forward line. Not because the team plays worse, but because finishing quality at the center-forward position falls sharply. A team can create ten chances, but if the player standing at the final position is not a specialist finisher, the actual goal count will be far lower than the potential.

This leads me to a paradox I want to call the "illusion of squad depth." For years, Vietnamese football has prided itself on a young squad and well-trained successor generations. But when two leading strikers are absent at once, we realize that depth lies mainly in midfield and defense, not in the most important position: the scorer.

Looking at Vietnam's women's football, we see a thought-provoking picture. The women's national team has repeatedly scored heavy wins in qualifying matches, and notably their goals are spread across many players, not dependent on one individual. When one women's striker is absent, someone else steps up. That is a lesson in building an attacking system that does not depend on a few stars. On the men's football feast day, I quietly slip women's records into every bulletin, because I believe those lessons have value for men's football too.

Back to the men's national team story. Vietnam's problem is not merely losing two strikers in one tournament. The deeper problem is the structural development of strikers in the national game. While other countries continuously produce new center-forwards, Vietnam seems to struggle with a small pool of attacking players. When they are absent, there is no adequate backup.

This is the point I believe the media and fans need to face directly. It is easy to blame the coach when the team does not win. But Kim Sang Sik cannot create strikers out of thin air. He can only work with what he has. And what he has, at this moment, is an attack in crisis.

There is a counterintuitive angle I want to raise here. We often judge a team by its stars — the most-mentioned names, the highest-paid, the most sought-after. But in elite football, the true value of a team lies in the less-noticed players: those who can step in and fulfill their role when a star is absent. Vietnam is missing precisely those people.

What is interesting is that in transfer negotiations and in how the media builds images, a player's value is often measured by goals and television appearances. But the real value of a collective is measured by its ability to endure when it loses important individuals. A team is only strong when it does not collapse because of one person's absence.

At 56, I still ask one question: where are women scoring in this game? That question is not only for women's football. It is a question about how we recognize value. In the Vietnam national team story, the silent heroes are not the strikers who score, but the players ready to carry the load when the team needs them. We need to learn to see them.

As for the Pakistan match, I believe psychological pressure will be the decisive factor. Vietnam enters this match as the favorite, but also with the fear of failure. Avoiding defeat is enough, and that very thought can make the team play cautiously, indecisively. In football, when you play not to lose, you often lose. That is one of the bitterest paradoxes of this sport.

If Vietnam beats Pakistan, the story will be told as "overcoming adversity." If the team loses or draws, the story will shift to "crisis." Vietnamese media, with its instinct, will not miss the chance to exploit the emotional angle. The image of Pham Gia Hung with his mother, the image of the team playing for a teammate — all will be put on air. That is understandable, and in a way, it is how sport connects with people.

But I want to warn about the trap of the emotional story. When we turn a match into a stage for personal pain, we inadvertently add pressure to those who must carry the load. Young players entering the pitch with the mindset "we must win for our teammate" may play out of fear rather than confidence. And fear, as I have said, often leads to defeat.

So what does Vietnam truly need now? Not inspirational speeches, but a clear tactical plan suited to the available personnel. Kim Sang Sik needs to define who will score, who will create, and who will hold the rhythm. He needs to accept that the team will not play the beautiful football it plays with a full squad, and that is fine. The goal is the result, not perfection.

From a long-term perspective, this can be an opportunity. When the stars are absent, other players are forced to grow. A winger must learn to finish. A midfielder must learn to invade the box. A full-back must learn to cross more accurately. These lessons, if received correctly, will make the team stronger in the future.

Vietnam's football history has seen similar periods before. In the past, the national team went through moments of personnel crisis, and each time, it had to find new solutions. Sometimes adversity itself is the catalyst for renewal. What matters is whether we dare to face the problem directly, instead of just looking for someone to blame.

As for Nguyen Xuan Son, his injury raises a longer-term question. A key striker with a serious injury will need time to recover, and during that period, the team must find alternatives. Monitoring his recovery, as well as building a sufficiently deep attack, is an urgent task for the coaching staff in the coming months.

There is one thing I have always believed after many years in this profession: football is never just about one match. It is the story of cycles, of generations, of decisions made in silence. The departures of Pham Gia Hung and Nguyen Xuan Son are just one chapter in a longer story about how Vietnamese football builds and runs its system.

Looking more broadly at the region, Southeast Asian football is changing rapidly. Other countries invest heavily in youth development, data analysis, and building modern playing systems. If Vietnam does not keep up, the gap will grow. And gaps like the current forward line are only symptoms of a deeper problem.

What I want readers to remember is not a prediction about the match result. Results come and go. What I want remembered is how we face difficulty. A team loses two leading strikers, yet must still walk onto the pitch. A coach must find solutions in adversity. And a football nation must learn to grow from its failures.

When I was young, working at a small newspaper office, I was taught that news is not what is loudest, but what remains after the noise passes. The departures of Pham Gia Hung and Nguyen Xuan Son will pass. The match against Pakistan will pass. But the question of how Vietnamese football builds its attack will remain for a long time.

In the dressing room, there is one thing I have always believed is more important than any tactic: mutual trust. When the coaching staff let Pham Gia Hung go home, they sent a message that people matter more than results. That message may not help the team score, but it helps the team keep its unity. And in football, unity is the foundation of all success.

As for the Pakistan match, I predict it will be harder than it looks. Pakistan, though rated lower, will play with the relaxed mindset of a team with nothing to lose. They will defend in numbers, wait for Vietnam's mistakes, and capitalize on counter-attacks. Against such a team, the lack of a center-forward is a major disadvantage, because the team will struggle to break down a packed defense.

To solve this puzzle, Vietnam needs patience and precision. Passes must be faster, movements smarter, and shots more decisive. There is no room for hesitation. In matches like these, one moment of carelessness can be everything.

There is a lesson from women's football I want to recall. Vietnam's women's national team, in difficult matches, often shows impressive attacking organization. They do not have expensive stars, but they have a system. Men's football can learn from that: real strength does not come from individuals, but from how a collective operates together.

I do not want to end this article with a prophecy about the result. I want to end with a thought about the meaning of a challenge. Vietnam is at a difficult moment, but difficulty is not the end. It is an opportunity for the team to prove it does not depend on a few individuals. It is an opportunity for unknown players to step up and make their mark.

And perhaps that is the most worthwhile thing to wait for. Not whether the team gets past Pakistan, but what the team learns from this adversity. Because football, after all, is not only about winning and losing. It is about how we face ourselves when things do not go according to plan. And for Vietnam, this is the moment to answer that question.