The Silence Before the Kick: Vietnam Swimming's Search for Identity

Kazan taught me that speed can also dance. But in Vietnam, I learned that before dancing, one must learn to stand firm. In 2026, when I stood by the pool at the National Sports Training Center in Da Nang, I heard no cheering. I heard the sound of water breaking, the sound of gasping breaths, and a question that the entire swimming community was trying to avoid: What are we building? The context of this question is not new. Vietnam swimming has made significant strides over the past decade. From the 2026 SEA Games in the Philippines, where we won 4 gold medals, to the 2026 SEA Games in Cambodia with 7 gold medals, the progress is undeniable. But when placed on the scale with the continent, the picture becomes gloomier. At the 2026 ASIAD in Hangzhou, no Vietnamese national record was improved in the men's 100m freestyle. Meanwhile, regional rivals like Singapore and Indonesia are making leaps in tactical and physical development. The truth I've realized through years of observation is: Vietnam swimming is stuck between two schools. One is the old school, based on massive training volume, believing that fatigue is the measure of dedication. The other is the new school, learning from advanced swimming nations like China and Japan, where biotechnology and data analysis play a central role. I have witnessed talented young athletes pushed into a 20km-per-day grind, only to burn out before age 20. I have also seen talents overlooked for lack of an early detection system. In the emptiness, I hear the breath of the competition more clearly. And that breath is telling a story of wasted potential. Look at the case of Nguyen Huy Hoang, who won the 1500m freestyle gold at the 2026 SEA Games with a time of 15:20.15. That's an impressive result, but when compared to the Olympic standard (14:40.07), the gap is nearly 40 seconds. In swimming, 40 seconds in the 1500m is not just a number – it's a gap in training philosophy. It says that we are training to win regionally, not to compete on the world stage. The language of silence here is clear. Sports administrators often talk about "international integration," but their actions focus on maintaining regional standing. This creates a paradox: we invest to maintain our No. 1 position in Southeast Asia, but that very investment prevents us from reaching further. Athletes are kept in the comfort zone of regional victories, rather than pushed into more competitive environments. The quiet Italian only nodded, but the entire defense understood. In swimming, this understanding comes from accepting a hard truth: We cannot copy the model of China or the US. We need to find our own path. This means investing in sports science from the grassroots level, building a data system to track each athlete's development from age 12, and most importantly – changing how we define success. Silence is not lacking in language — it possesses its own tongue. And the voice of Vietnam swimming is telling a story of a generation of athletes caught between two worlds. They are talented enough to win regionally, but not equipped enough to reach the world. They swim in pools lacking motion analysis systems, train under training plans written a decade ago, and are evaluated by outdated standards. The pandemic season was where the truest voice was heard: the sound of the ball hitting the grass. When all competitions were canceled, I witnessed Vietnamese swimmers having to find their own ways to maintain form in small private pools. That was the moment of truth. Some used that time to learn, to study videos of world-class swimmers, to adjust their technique. Others waited, believing everything would return to normal. The difference between these two groups will shape the future of Vietnam swimming. The question I pose is not "Can we win Olympic medals?" but "Do we dare to change so we can win Olympic medals?" The difference lies in the word "dare." Dare to abandon old methods even though they have brought regional success. Dare to invest in areas never invested in before. Dare to accept that the path to the world may go through regional failures. I remember an afternoon at a pool in Guangzhou, where I witnessed a group of young Chinese swimmers training under the guidance of biology experts. Every movement was filmed, analyzed, and adjusted in real-time. No shouting, no pushing. Only precision and patience. That was the moment I realized that swimming is not just a sport of strength, but a sport of intelligence. Vietnam swimming stands at a crossroads. We can continue the current path, harvesting regional victories and being satisfied with our position. Or we can accept a harder truth: to reach the world, we must be willing to lose our regional standing. That's a trade-off that not many sports nations dare to accept. But those who have dared, like Japan in the 1990s, have reaped worthy rewards. As I left Da Nang, I looked back at the pool one more time. The afternoon sunlight reflected on the water, creating shimmering ripples. I asked myself: Among the children training there, how many will have the opportunity to develop their full potential? And more importantly, will we have the courage to create an environment for those potentials to shine? The answer lies not in numbers or achievements, but in our willingness to change. And as I learned from Kazan, sometimes speed is not about swimming faster, but about knowing when to change the rhythm.