The 24-22 Game at the Asiad and What the Scoreboard Never Told Me About Vietnamese Singles Badminton

The score 24-22 appeared on the electronic board. No noise. Just a number lying there, quiet as a pebble at the bottom of a stream. But I sat for a long time in front of the screen, thousands of kilometers from the court, asking myself why a lost game stayed with me longer than many victories. When the scoreboard falls silent, my heart begins to listen. That is what I learned after many years holding a microphone, and it remains intact on this night. Nguyen Thuy Linh stepped onto the court as Vietnam's number one player. Across from her was Chen Yu Fei, recorded as world number four at the time of the event. On paper, this was a meeting no one dared to dream would produce an upset. But sport does not live on paper. It lives on extended games, on rallies that seem finished yet bounce back, on breath that shortens at the end of the court. The first game passed quickly. 10-21. A gap that anyone who has followed badminton understands. It was not just eleven points. It was a gap in tempo, in consistency, in the ability to turn a neutral rally into a point. Chen Yu Fei played like a machine already programmed, placing each shuttle exactly where the opponent least wanted it. Viewers might have thought the match would end within thirty minutes. Then came the second game. 24-22. I do not know what Thuy Linh was thinking on the court in that moment. I only know that on this side, I sat up straight in my chair, and something in my chest changed. Not because of a beautiful score. But because of how she refused to be swept along by the current of the first game. Against an opponent at a higher level, against shuttles placed like blades, she still found a way to keep herself in the game. That is something the scoreboard can print but cannot explain. And then the third game. 12-21. The match closed. Vietnam had no winning game that day to enter into the summary. Only a 24-22 loss and a 12-21 loss. Two numbers lying side by side, and between them the whole story of the limits of Vietnamese singles badminton. On the same day, on another court, Nguyen Hai Dang also began his journey. Earlier, he had beaten Odilzhon Abdurakhmanov 21-6, 21-6. A clean victory, without hesitation. But against Kunlavut Vitidsarn, one of the elite players of Thai and Asian badminton, Hai Dang stopped at 16-21, 14-21. Two results. Four games. And countless questions that no statistic can fully answer. I sit here writing these lines not to conclude. I write to ask questions. Because after more than twenty years observing sport, I have learned that the most dangerous thing is not losing. The most dangerous thing is losing without understanding why you lost, or winning without understanding why you won. The Asian Games is a special stage. It is not like a Super 1000 or Super 750 event of the Badminton World Federation. It is a multi-sport games where each medal carries the weight of an entire national delegation. Badminton is only one of many paths to glory, but for a Southeast Asian country like Vietnam, it is often one of the most watched paths. The Games took place on September 26, according to what the documents leave behind. The specific year and the quality of the source are not clearly confirmed, and I will speak about that later, because in my work, humility before what I do not know matters no less than confidence before what I know. But whatever the year, the context does not change. This is a single-elimination arena. One bad game can end an entire campaign. And when you reach the third round, you are already very close to the top players of the continent. In the women's singles, Thuy Linh passed Thalita Ramadhani Wiryawan to reach the third round, then met Chen Yu Fei. In the men's singles, Hai Dang overcame Abdurakhmanov then met Kunlavut. Both stopped at the same round, against the same class of opponent. This coincidence is not random. It is a signal. A signal that Vietnamese singles badminton can reach the third round of a continental games. But also a signal that, in the third round, Vietnamese players meet a wall they have not yet found a way to climb. That wall has a name. In the women's event, it is Chen Yu Fei, world number four. In the men's event, it is Kunlavut Vitidsarn, one of the peaks of Thai badminton. I want to talk about that wall. Not to compare who is better, but to understand what it is built from. Starting with Thuy Linh. A player who went three games with a top-four opponent and won one game 24-22. This is a fact. But if I stopped at the fact, I would betray my own strength. What I need to do is ask: why did the second game go to 24-22, and why did the third game end at 12-21? There is something I learned from my own mistake. In 2026, I predicted Incheon United would beat Busan IPark with a 72 percent probability based on an xG model I built myself. The result was Incheon losing 0-1 to an own goal in the 89th minute. That night I stayed in the edit room until two in the morning, watching the play over and over, feeling that my numbers had betrayed the emotions of tens of thousands of fans in the stadium. The Incheon shock taught me that there are goals outside every prediction model, just as there are pains outside every chart. So when I look at Thuy Linh's 24-22, I do not rush to say she was "almost winning." I also do not rush to say she "rose above herself." I only say that, in a game extended to the twenty-fourth point, she did something many Vietnamese players before her did not: she kept herself in a game against a higher-class opponent, at a moment when the match could already have ended. But the third game answers a different question. 12-21. That is the gap of rupture. If the first game was overwhelm, and the second was holding on, then the third was exhaustion. Exhaustion of stamina, of focus, of the ability to control error. When a top-class player forces a match into a third game, they usually have the advantage of physical foundation and consistency. And in this case, Chen Yu Fei showed why she is among the four strongest in the world. Here I must question myself. Am I rushing to conclude that the third game is a stamina issue? The documents provide no data on heart rate, smash speed, or rally length. I do not have enough data to say for sure whether it was stamina, psychology, or tactics. What I can say is: in the third game, a gap appeared more clearly than in the first two. And that gap, whatever its cause, needs to be tracked over many more matches, not just one. This is why I never condemn a player, especially a young player, based on one match. One match is too small a sample. I once apologized on live broadcast, but it took many years before I apologized to myself. That lesson taught me that every hasty conclusion about a person leaves a scratch, and that scratch does not disappear with time. Now, to Hai Dang. 21-6, 21-6 against Abdurakhmanov. A victory viewers might skip without remembering. But I remember. Because beating a weaker opponent is not only about winning. It is about not making mistakes. It is about staying focused in a match you are expected to win. And in sport, staying focused when you are expected to win is sometimes harder than fighting when you are the underdog. Hai Dang did that. He gave Abdurakhmanov no chance to hold on. That is basic professionalism, but basic professionalism is the foundation of everything that follows. Then Kunlavut arrived. 16-21, 14-21. A straight defeat. No game extended to a balanced score. This is a qualitatively different result from Thuy Linh's match. Thuy Linh took a game from the world number four. Hai Dang took no game from Kunlavut. That does not mean Hai Dang is worse than Thuy Linh. Different opponents, different events, and the level of competition in Asian men's singles is very harsh. But it shows one thing: the gap between Hai Dang and the elite level of current Asian men's singles is a fairly clear gap. Kunlavut is known for his defense and patience in long rallies. He does not need to play overly risky shots. He only needs to keep the shuttle in court, wait for the opponent to err, then turn that error into a point. Against such a player, the only way to win is to be more patient than him, or to have an attack strong enough to break the pattern. And in this match, Hai Dang had not yet found the answer. Here again I must be careful. I have no data on rally length, on how many times Hai Dang made unforced errors, on how he changed tactics between games. I only have scores. And scores, as I said, are a support, not a verdict. So what do these two matches tell me? They tell me that Vietnamese singles badminton is in a special position. Strong enough to pass opponents outside the elite. Bold enough to reach the third round of a continental games. But not yet enough to face the strongest in the world on equal terms. And most importantly: not yet enough data to assert anything certain about the future. This is where I need to speak about a temptation I see very clearly in how media reports on sport, and in myself as well. It is the temptation to turn a won game into a story of maturity. Thuy Linh won the second game 24-22. Immediately, one could write: "Vietnam's golden girl of badminton touches history." But that is a wrong reading, or at least a hasty one. A won game against Chen Yu Fei is an achievement. But it is not a turning point. A turning point needs to be confirmed by many matches, by repeatability. If Thuy Linh keeps winning such games across many tournaments, that is a trend. If only once, that is a moment. Both have value, but they are not the same. I write this not to diminish the achievement. I write this to protect Thuy Linh from an inflated expectation, because inflated expectation is a burden no athlete deserves to carry. Young people need someone standing beside them, not above them. And I, as a writer, need to stand beside them, not to praise excessively or criticize excessively, but to describe honestly what is happening. So what is really happening? I think there are three layers. The first layer is the result layer. Here, the truth is simple: two Vietnamese players reached the third round, both lost. This is the layer everyone sees, and also the layer where media usually stops. The second layer is the process layer. Here, there are details that do not appear on the scoreboard. A 24-22 game does not say Thuy Linh won, but says she fought. A 21-6, 21-6 win by Hai Dang does not say he will be champion, but says he made no mistakes against a lower-ranked opponent. The third layer is the system layer. This is the layer I care about most, and also the layer where the documents about this event do not provide enough information. In this layer, the question is not "Did Thuy Linh win?" but "Why could Thuy Linh win one game but not the whole match?" And the answer is not in her as an individual. It is in the system behind her. I want to speak plainly about this, even knowing I am stepping into territory where I lack enough data. At the elite level, the difference between a top 20 player and a top 4 player is usually not in basic technique. Both know how to play. The difference lies in the training environment, in the quality of practice partners, in the ability to compete regularly against top opponents, in the physical support and technical analysis system. A Chinese or Thai player at the elite level usually trains in an environment where top opponents stand across from them every day. They live in high-intensity competition every day. That creates a kind of reflex that cannot be bought, nor learned in a single training session. It is created by thousands of hours of head-to-head play. I am not saying Vietnam lacks that. I am saying the documents I have do not tell me. And in the case of missing information, the most honest way is to say I do not know, rather than fill the gap with speculation. But there is one thing I can say with moderate confidence. It is this: the gap between Thuy Linh and Chen Yu Fei, or between Hai Dang and Kunlavut, is not a gap of talent. It is a gap of consistency. And consistency, unlike talent, is built with time and with a system. Talent helps you win a 24-22 game. Consistency helps you win the whole match. And to have consistency, you need more than one good training session. You need a long competition cycle, a competitive environment, and a support system that knows how to keep you at the top for years. This is where I want to stop and question myself. Am I focusing too much on the system, and forgetting the individual? Am I turning a loss into a structural problem, when in reality it is just a loss? Perhaps. And I accept that possibility. But I believe that, in this case, both layers are true. The loss is a loss, and it is also a signal about the system. There is no contradiction between the two. Now, let us speak about the broader context. Asian badminton is one of the most fiercely competitive regions of the sport. China, Indonesia, Japan, South Korea, Malaysia, Thailand, India, Chinese Taipei, and many others all have world-class players. At a continental games, that means from the third round, you can meet a top 4 player in the world. No round is easy. In that context, a Vietnamese player reaching the third round is a noteworthy achievement. But it is also a reminder that, at this level, every step forward must be paid for with a harder match. In the women's singles, the current world picture can be divided into tiers. The highest tier is players like Chen Yu Fei, who have proven their consistency over years. The second tier is players like Thuy Linh, who can create surprises in one game but are not yet consistent enough to sustain it across a match. The third tier is players like Thalita Ramadhani Wiryawan, who can cause difficulty but usually are not strong enough to go deep. In the men's singles, the picture is even harsher. Kunlavut is in the elite group of Asia, and facing him in the third round is a very great challenge. Hai Dang is in the second tier, able to pass opponents outside the elite but struggling against top players. This is not a pessimistic assessment. This is an honest assessment. And honesty is the starting point of all progress. I recall a midnight call from Busan. In 2026, when the K-League returned in stadiums without spectators because of the pandemic, I lost my live commentary work and sank into a darkness I do not want to remember. On the night of May 22, an old scout in Busan, whom I had known since 2026, called me. He said: "Do you know, I have watched forty matches of a sixteen-year-old this year, he passes the ball as if he sees the fourth dimension." That call pulled me out of the darkness. The stadium was achingly empty, but the midnight call from Busan still echoes in me. I tell that story here for a reason. It reminds me that behind every score there are people. Behind every 12-21 lost game there is a girl who has trained thousands of hours. Behind every 16-21, 14-21 loss there is a young man who has bet his youth on a small shuttle. And when I write about them, I have a responsibility not to turn them into numbers. This is why I do not write about "the failure of Vietnamese badminton." I write about two specific people, in two specific matches, at a specific games. And I try to describe them with the respect they deserve. But respect does not mean glossing over. If I only said pleasant things, I would have betrayed my work. So I must speak about hard things. The first hard thing: Vietnamese singles badminton currently depends on a few individuals. When Thuy Linh and Hai Dang stop, not many other names appear to continue the journey. This is a risk of squad depth. The second hard thing: at the elite level, the difference is not in one match, but in the ability to repeat. A 24-22 game is a moment. To turn it into a trend, many similar moments are needed. The third hard thing: the documents about this event are not detailed enough for me to analyze deeply in technical terms. I have no data on smash speed, serve rate, rally length, or how players adjusted tactics. This limits my analytical ability, and I must state that limit rather than pretend I have enough information. But within that limit, I can still say one thing. It is this: both Thuy Linh and Hai Dang showed a solid basic foundation. They were not overwhelmed by the big stage. They did not collapse from the start. They fought to the last points of each game. That is the quality of athletes who have been trained correctly. And sometimes, in sport, that quality matters more than a victory. Because victories come and go, but quality stays. I want to stop here and speak about something I rarely speak about. Over many years in this profession, I have witnessed many young athletes crushed by expectation. Not by opponents, but by those supposedly supporting them. A loss is called a "disaster." A win is called a "miracle." And between those two extremes, the athlete is trapped in a space with no room for the ordinary. But sport does not live on extremes. It lives in the in-between. Because most things in sport happen in the in-between: training sessions, flights, recovery days, matches no one remembers. It is precisely those in-between moments that make an athlete. So when I look at the results of Thuy Linh and Hai Dang at this games, I see neither disaster nor miracle. I see two athletes walking on their path. A long path, with slopes, with flat stretches, and with stretches they must cross alone. What I can do, as a writer, is not make that path harder. And I think that is already a contribution. Now, let us speak about the future. There are three scenarios. The first scenario: Thuy Linh and Hai Dang continue to improve, and within one to two years, they can face top 10 players on equal terms. For this to happen, they need to compete more against high-class opponents, and need a support system that can help them maintain form across many tournaments. The second scenario: they stay at their current position, able to beat opponents outside the elite but usually stopping before top players. This is not a bad scenario, but it means Vietnamese badminton will remain in the position of "challenger" rather than "contender." The third scenario: they suffer injury or lose form, and Vietnamese singles badminton falls behind. This is the worst scenario, and it depends on many factors beyond their control. I do not know which scenario will happen. And I think, rather than trying to guess, I should say I do not know. Because in sport, as in life, the only thing we can be certain of is that we cannot be certain of anything. But there is one thing I can say with confidence. It is this: whatever scenario happens, both Thuy Linh and Hai Dang have done something many people have not. They have stood on the court of a continental games, faced the top players in the world, and fought. That does not need a medal to have value. I write these lines on a quiet evening, far from the court. No roar of spectators, no sound of racket on shuttle, no flickering scoreboard. Only me and my thoughts. And in that quiet, I remember something I always remind myself. It is this: sport is not a statistic. It is a story about people, about limits, and about the unceasing effort to overcome those limits. And when I write about it, I have a responsibility to tell that story honestly. Honesty does not mean pessimism. Honesty means looking straight at the truth, whatever that truth is. And the truth, in this case, is: Vietnamese singles badminton has come a considerable distance, but there is a long distance ahead. That road is not easy, but it is also not impossible. I think of the 24-22 game once more. It was a game Thuy Linh won. But more important is how she fought to that score. She did not give up when trailing. She did not let the first game shape the match's fate. She found a way to pull the match back. That is a quality, not just a result. And quality, in the long run, matters more than results. There is something I learned from Euro 2026, when I sat at Wembley and predicted the final wrong. I had asserted to listeners that England would win, because of their seasoned defense and home crowd support. The result was Italy winning on penalties. That night, I did not return to the hotel. I walked around Wembley until three in the morning, asking myself why the intuition of an INFJ like me was so wrong. I called the scout in Busan, and he said: "You idealized the story of the national hero. Football does not write scripts like that." That lesson has followed me ever since. After Euro 2026, I gave up the habit of making direct predictions in my writing. Instead, I write in the form of open scenarios. This makes my writing more neutral, but also deeper, because I am forced to place myself in both directions of thought. So when I write about Thuy Linh and Hai Dang, I make no prediction. I only describe what I see, and what I think it might mean. The rest, I leave to time to answer. There is a question I want to leave here, for those who read to this line. What matters more: a medal at a continental games, or a generation of athletes built sustainably over many years? I have no certain answer to that question. But I believe that, in the long run, the second matters more. Because a medal can be the result of a lucky moment, but a generation of athletes is the result of many years of correct work. And if I had to choose between a moment and a generation, I would choose the generation. Because sport is not a match. It is a long journey, and that journey only has meaning if it is built on solid foundations. Vietnamese singles badminton currently has the first bricks of that foundation. But it still needs many more bricks. And I, as a writer, will continue to follow that journey. Not to seek brilliant moments, but to record quiet steps. Because it is precisely the quiet steps that make a road. Before ending, I want to return to a detail I mentioned but have not fully analyzed. It is the contrast between the two matches of Thuy Linh and Hai Dang. Thuy Linh lost 10-21, won 24-22, lost 12-21. Hai Dang lost 16-21, 14-21. If one looks only at the final results, both lost. But if one looks at how they lost, there is a difference. Thuy Linh had a won game. Hai Dang had no won game. This might make people think Thuy Linh is closer to Chen Yu Fei's level than Hai Dang is to Kunlavut's. But that may be a hasty conclusion. Because women's singles and men's singles are two different worlds. The level of competition in current Asian men's singles is very high, with many world-class players. A won game in women's singles does not mean a won game in men's singles would be easier. Moreover, one match is not enough to assess a gap. There are players who can win one game against a stronger opponent on a good day, but cannot repeat it on other days. And there are players who can lose straight but improve faster afterward. So what I can say with certainty is: both matches are facts, not conclusions. They tell me what happened on a specific day. They do not tell me what will happen in the future. And that is why I do not write about "failure" or "success." I write about what I see, and leave open what I cannot yet know. I think of something I always remind myself when writing about young athletes. It is this: they do not need a writer to praise them, nor a writer to criticize them. They need a writer to describe them honestly. And honesty, in this case, means acknowledging both what they do well and what they still lack. Thuy Linh did well in fighting in the second game. She still lacks in maintaining consistency in the third. Hai Dang did well in not making mistakes against a lower-ranked opponent. He still lacks in finding a way to face a patient defensive player like Kunlavut. Those are observations, not judgments. And I try to keep them as observations. There is something I want to say to those reading this who might feel disappointed by the event's results. It is this: disappointment is a reasonable emotion. But do not let it turn into judgment. Because the people on the court have done more than most of us do. They placed themselves in a position where failure is a foreseeable possibility, and they chose to step in. That deserves respect. Not through empty praise, but through recognition that they are doing a hard thing. And when we recognize that, we can begin to speak about what needs improving without turning it into an attack. So what needs improving? I think there are three things. The first is the ability to maintain consistency in deciding games. This is something both Thuy Linh and Hai Dang need, though to different degrees. To achieve this, they need to train with high-class opponents under high pressure. The second is squad depth. A sustainable badminton foundation cannot rely on one or two individuals. It needs a generation of athletes, a training system, and an internal competitive environment. This is a long-term issue that cannot be solved in one tournament. The third is international presence. Vietnamese players need to compete more in international tournaments, not only to accumulate ranking points but also to accumulate experience facing top opponents. These three things are not quick solutions. They are long-term investments. And long-term investments, in sport as in life, usually do not yield immediate results. But they are the right investments. And I believe that, if carried out patiently, they will yield results. I think of another story I want to tell. In 2026, I hosted broadcasts of many major tournaments, including a world table tennis event and a mixed team badminton event. Those were the years when I was young, still thinking I could understand everything. I remember being very confident in analysis, very certain in judgment. I did not yet know that certainty, in many cases, is a form of naivety. Many years later, when I look back at those recordings, I see a different person. A more confident but also shallower person. A person who spoke more but understood less. And I realized that maturity in the writing profession, as in sport, is not knowing more. It is knowing that you do not know as much as you thought. That is why I write this article with more questions than answers. Not because I am lazy, but because I have learned that certain answers about sport are usually wrong answers. Sport is a field of uncertainty. A shuttle can touch the line or not. A game can extend by ten minutes or end in three. A player can shine one day and fade the next. That uncertainty is the nature of sport, not a defect of it. And if I tried to remove that uncertainty with certain conclusions, I would have betrayed the very sport I love. So I end this article not with a conclusion, but with a thought. That thought is: perhaps, in the future, when I look back at these lines, I will find that I was wrong in a few places. Perhaps Thuy Linh will go further than I think. Perhaps Hai Dang will achieve things I dare not dream. Or perhaps both will take other paths, paths I cannot imagine. But whatever happens, I hope these lines will be read as a recognition. A recognition that, on some September day, two Vietnamese players stepped onto the court of a continental games, faced the top opponents in the world, and fought. They did not win. But they were there. And sometimes, being there is already part of the story. I think of the words the scout in Busan said to me years ago. He said that, in sport, what matters is not how many matches you win, but what you learn from the matches you lose. And if you learn something, that loss is not in vain. I hope Thuy Linh and Hai Dang will learn something from these matches. Not a lesson about failure, but a lesson about what to do next. Because every loss, if read correctly, is a map that points the way. And I, as a writer, will continue to follow those maps. Not to seek sensational stories, but to record quiet steps. Because it is precisely the quiet steps that make a journey. When the scoreboard falls silent, my heart begins to listen. And in the silence of numbers, I hear the sound of racket on shuttle, the sigh in the interval, and the footsteps of young people walking on their path. That is the sound I want to record. That is the sound I believe will, one day, become part of history. For now, I can only say: Vietnamese singles badminton has come a distance. The remaining distance is longer, harder, but not impossible. And most importantly, on that distance, there are young people walking. As long as they keep walking, there is hope. I close my notes. Outside the window, the city of Incheon sinks into the night. I think of the court at the continental games, which by now may be empty. The stadium is achingly empty, but the midnight call from Busan still echoes in me. And I know that, whatever the results of these matches, the story is not over. It has only begun. There is something I want to repeat one last time, before closing this article. In sport, and especially in badminton, where every point is decided by the smallest margins, the difference between winning and losing is often very fragile. A shuttle touches the line or not. A smash lands in or out. A referee's decision is right or wrong. Those moments can shape an entire match, even an entire career. So when I look at the scores of Thuy Linh and Hai Dang, I do not see large gaps. I see small gaps, made of small details, in small moments. And it is precisely those small gaps that need to be narrowed, bit by bit, match by match. That is not an easy task. It needs time, patience, and a correct support system. But it is not an impossible task. And in sport, as in life, the things that are not impossible are usually the things worth pursuing. I end here, not because I have said everything, but because I believe the rest should be left for time and the next matches to answer. Where will Vietnamese singles badminton go? I do not know. But I will continue to follow, with the humility of a person who understands he cannot predict the future, and with the respect of a person who understands that the young people on the court deserve to be seen fairly. And perhaps, that is already enough for an article. See you at the next matches, where the numbers fall silent again, and the heart begins to listen again.