Invisible Fences: When Vietnamese Football Lacks Its Steel Barriers

In the last three V.League matches, the average PPDA of top-tier teams dropped by 4.2 units — a signal that high pressing is fading from tactical identity. But as I sat in front of my screen at 2 AM Sydney time, watching a match through a flickering stream, what troubled me was not those numbers. It was the image of steel fences erected in front of stadiums, and the feeling that we are building physical shields while losing the invisible ones — the ones that once held Vietnamese football upright.

In recent history, each time a major event approaches, the organizers' first reflex is to erect fences. Steel fences in front of stands. Plastic fences around technical areas. Administrative fences in press conferences. I witnessed this at the 2026 World Cup, when I was sent to Russia on assignment. At Mordovia Arena, where Iran faced Portugal, I mispronounced Sardar Azmoun's name three times in the first half. An Iranian journalist sitting next to me gently corrected me. I blushed through halftime. After the match, I spent a month reviewing footage of every game, not just to fix pronunciation, but to learn how to listen to the rhythm of the crowd — how they shouted players' names in the melody of their homeland. The match ended 1-1, but the moment I wrote a person's name wrong made me realize I had only seen the scoreboard, not the story.

Returning to V.League, I recognized a paradox. Vietnamese stadiums have been upgraded in infrastructure over the years. Better pitches. Standard lighting. Repainted stands. But the invisible fences — the ones that keep players mentally safe, keep referees confident enough to blow the whistle, keep fans trusting enough to return — are rotting. I call it the disintegration of invisible shields: when the protection system lies not in steel fences but in processes, in organizational culture, in transparency — and those very things are being neglected.

I have spent 20 minutes before every article researching the origin of players' names. That is my ritual. But I suddenly realized that V.League organizers also need a similar ritual: to re-examine every loophole in the security system, every gap in the organizational process, before deciding to erect another steel fence. Because steel fences only stop bodies, not fear. And fear is what drives fans away from stadiums.

Based on my experience covering matches, major sporting events in Vietnam tend to react rather than act proactively. When a brawl occurs in the stands, they install more cameras. When a referee is attacked, they increase security personnel. But no one asks: Why did that brawl happen? Why was that referee attacked? Those questions require another invisible shield — the ability to self-reflect.

In 2026, when Liverpool won the Premier League for the first time in 30 years amid an empty Anfield, I was in Sydney, 29 years old, assigned to write a reflection piece. No crowd, no chanting, just the image of Virgil van Dijk lifting the trophy in front of empty seats, which left me emotionally exhausted to the point of turning off my phone for three days. I lay in my apartment, wondering what football meant without community. But when I read Liverpool fans' comments on forums, writing about watching sessions with deceased fathers, I suddenly understood that an empty stadium is still full of memories. This led me to the idea of treating football as a collective ritual, where even absence tells a story.

I tell this story not to compare. I tell it to point out that even in utter emptiness, people still find connection. Meanwhile in V.League, when the stands are still packed, I feel a different emptiness — the absence of trust. Trust is the greatest invisible shield, and it cannot be erected with steel.

On June 12, 2026, I was 30, waking at 5 AM in Sydney to watch Denmark vs Finland. When Christian Eriksen collapsed at Parken, I froze. A suffocating feeling spread through my small apartment. My whole body trembled, and I couldn't write the planned article. Instead, I wrote a short essay on sports medicine, on an athlete's heart, as if writing for my own fragility. It was published at 3 AM Sydney time, and the newsroom received hundreds of responses from readers saying they had cried.

From that night on, I never begin an article with a scoreline. I open with a feeling — the shiver before the ball rolls, the pressure of two hours — and let the story of medicine, tactics, and people flow from there. And I also realized that Vietnamese football is missing exactly that moment: the moment to pause and ask what truly matters.

I found my shame in Azmoun's bowed head. And I also found Vietnamese football's shame in every steel fence erected instead of an improved process.

An empty stadium doesn't make a match lighter, it makes every breath heavier. Neither do steel fences. They don't make fans feel safer — they make them feel separated. And in football, the distance between stands and pitch is a deadly distance.

What's more concerning is how we tell the story of safety. Press releases often talk about the number of cameras, security personnel, fences installed. No one talks about the number of processes improved, staff trained, dialogue channels opened. We measure safety by tangible things, while real safety lies in intangible ones.

I no longer write absolute praise of football. I no longer believe a great match can erase systemic problems. V.League may have better matches, more beautiful goals, more talented players — but if invisible shields continue to rot, it's all just a party on cracked foundations.

There is a detail I keep in my notebook: whenever I take notes on a match, I always leave a blank page at the end. That page is for what I don't know — what I haven't asked, what people haven't had time to say. I write in my notebook not the score, but what people didn't get to say. And on that blank page, I often write a single question: What kept this place safe?

The answer is never a fence.

The answer is always people — organizers with enough dedication, security staff professional enough, fans trusting enough to control themselves, and a system transparent enough that no one needs to be afraid. Those are invisible shields. And we are letting them crack every day, while erecting steel fences that no one wants to see.

I have covered 8 Olympics, 8 World Cups, and many editions of the Giro d'Italia and Tour de France. Through each event, I learned one thing: the biggest events in the world are not protected by the tallest fences. They are protected by organizational culture. By mutual respect. By the belief that fans are part of the match, not a threat. The Tour de France has millions of people standing close to the route, and they don't need steel fences. They have an invisible shield: community awareness.

In Vietnam, we have that community awareness. I believe it. I have seen it on nights when the whole country stayed up to watch the national team play. I have seen it in crowds celebrating victory, without a single brawl. So why don't we trust it enough to invest in it, instead of investing in steel?

Every match is an unfinished poem, and I am its slowest reader. I read every gap between words, every silence between breaths. And in the silence of Vietnamese football today, I hear a signal: we are protecting the wrong thing.

Next time you go to a stadium and see a new steel fence erected, ask yourself: what is it protecting, and what is it separating? The answer might make you see V.League differently. And perhaps, just perhaps, it will make you realize that the invisible shield we need most — trust — lies in each of our hands, not in the hands of fence-builders.

A transfer deal doesn't end at the contract, it begins at longing. And safety doesn't end at the fence, it begins at trust. That trust cannot be installed. It can only be nurtured — or starved to death.

The question is not how many fences we need. The question is how much time we need to realize that a fence is never the answer.