V.League and the Purge of the Fake Number 10s

In the last three rounds of V.League 1, I rewatched footage that most viewers would call boring. An attacking midfielder touched the ball more than eighty times per match, mostly sideways and backward safe passes, and the post-match stat sheet still painted his name green. Only when the opponent pressed high did those numbers collapse. Sitting in Barcelona, nearly ten thousand kilometres from that stand, I recalled my own 2026 piece on Luka Modric — the one that led the Madridista community to brand me a vandal. Back then I asked whether an idolised midfielder could truly withstand pressure. Now I ask whether Vietnamese football is raising an entire generation of “fake number 10s”. To answer, we must look back at the road travelled. In 2026, under Park Hang-seo, the national team won the AFF Cup after a decade of waiting, while the U23 side produced a miracle in Changzhou. But that success was built on discipline, a deep defensive block and the ability to switch states, not on a pretty possession game. The heroes of those days were not dribblers, but the quiet names who worked off the ball — men whose value lay beyond goals. The silent hero does not need goals to be remembered. Then the cycle turned. Philippe Troussier arrived promising possession football, and failed. Kim Sang-sik took over and restored balance. But deeper down — in the V.League — the problem remains intact. Academies still prioritise picking technical, skilful players capable of producing moments, while neglecting the tireless runners. Beautiful moments sell tickets; running volume does not. This is where data turns cruel. Across more than twenty years of watching matches, I have learned that possession share is the most deceptive metric this sport produces. A team can rack up sixty percent of the ball with meaningless sideways passes between two centre-backs, then lull itself into a sense of dominance. But possession does not score; it only prolongs an illusion. The metric truly worth watching is PPDA — the passes a rival is allowed before each defensive action — and the number of ball recoveries in the opponent's half. Those are numbers that tell a story about will, not about appearance. Picture two player types in the same match. One is the classic “number 10”: heavy on touches, fond of receiving in space, brilliant against weak opponents, yet invisible when tightly marked. The other is the shuttle midfielder: fewer touches, but each one drives the team forward, and when the ball is lost he is the first to sprint back. The traditional stat sheet will praise the first. The footage, watched in slow motion, will show you that the latter is the one keeping the whole machine in rhythm. Vietnamese football has these second-type players. Nguyen Hoang Duc is one example — a central midfielder able to escape pressure, switch play with long passes and win duels. Do Hung Dung, before his injury, was a genuinely quiet worker. Yet the development system and the media system alike pour attention onto flashier names. The number 10 shirt is sometimes just a curtain hiding emptiness. At club level, economic logic reinforces the habit. With tight budgets, V.League sides tend to spend on a scoring foreign attacker rather than invest in a domestic central midfielder who can read the game. A goal is counted by the media; an interception is not. The result is a lopsided squad: a star-studded attack and a midfield short of a metronome. And when the midfield cannot keep rhythm, the attacking star goes hungry for the ball too. The problem is not that the V.League has too many technical players, but that the league has yet to build a system that turns technique into efficiency. A “number 10” is only valuable when those around him run, stretch and cover. Place him in a side without a pressing structure or a transition plan, and he is forced into safe options — and turns into an empty shell. Here the fault lies with the system before it lies with the individual. That is why I never judge a player in a vacuum. How academies select is also worth noting. A twelve-year-old who dribbles past three players is celebrated; a twelve-year-old who runs endlessly and times his interceptions is seen as not technical enough. That bias, repeated for a decade, produces a generation of players who shine in highlight reels but fade in real matches. The V.League, under commercial pressure and the need to sell tickets, unwittingly feeds the loop. Interestingly, Vietnamese women's football is moving the opposite way. The women's national team, with a place at the 2026 World Cup, impressed through discipline, collective spirit and endurance, not through flashy individuals. They play the football of silent heroes, where every player knows her defensive job. If the men's game learned from the neighbour inside its own house, it might lean less on the illusion of possession. There is a telling detail. When Vietnamese football faces stronger opponents in Asia, what helps it hold firm has never been possession. It is endurance, lightning counter-attacks and a refusal to give up. Those qualities belong to the silent player type, not the flashy star. When the national team won the 2026 AFF Cup, that triumph was once again built on balance and discipline. Glory is never free; we merely owe for it without knowing. Vietnamese media is partly to blame in this story too. Post-match reports tend to revolve around the scorer or the assist provider, and rarely spare a line for the player who won the ball back in midfield. When the reward of fame flows only toward glittering moments, young players learn very quickly that the shortest road to recognition is not running more. That is a false lesson, repeated until it becomes the norm. But this is where I must challenge myself. I could be wrong. Perhaps Vietnamese football does not have a surplus of “fake number 10s” but a severe shortage of them. Look to Japan or South Korea: they did not abandon creative players; they taught creative players to defend. Takefusa Kubo still dribbles, but he also presses. The issue may not be the player type, but the threshold of demand set for him. If the V.League raises its fitness and tactical-discipline standards, those very “number 10s” will become weapons rather than burdens. It must also be said plainly: not every failure is the system's fault. Some players are simply not good enough, not hungry enough, and no system can save them. I once wrote that football has its own law: the humble hold the key, the loud hold the ticket. But tickets still need buyers, and if fans keep paying for empty glamour, the market will keep producing it. What I am certain of is this: in the next three to five years, whichever V.League club invests in fitness data, a pressing structure and the development of shuttle midfielders will rise. Not because it buys stars, but because it understands that modern football rewards a smoothly operating collective, not solitary glittering individuals. The silent hero does not need goals to be remembered — but a football nation needs to remember them in order to grow. A question left for those who run Vietnamese football: if the next generation is still taught that pretty dribbling matters more than tireless running, when will the V.League escape the swamp of beautiful numbers that lead nowhere?