Those Who Stay: Vietnam Badminton's Generational Question Beyond the Spotlight

Fourteen years ago, I first went to a badminton court in a small province - not to write a story, but because a friend invited me to play a casual weekend match. That afternoon, I saw an old man around sixty, in a yellowed T-shirt, sitting on a low plastic chair in the corner of the court watching a group of children practice. His hands rested on his knees, his eyes fixed on the footwork of a twelve-year-old boy doing shadow drills. I asked my friend: "Who is that?" My friend smiled: "He's a coach. He was once called up to the youth national team but couldn't go because his family was poor. He's stayed here teaching ever since." That story has lingered in my mind for fourteen years - until I began writing about Vietnamese badminton in earnest. Today, looking back at the picture of this sport, I finally understand why that image of the old coach still haunts me: the 2026 World Cup taught me that stars are not born in the stands, but in the trenches - and the story of Vietnamese badminton is not in the finals, but in grandpas and grandmas like him. In early 2026, when Nguyen Tien Minh announced he would compete at the Paris 2026 Olympic Games - likely the last of his career - the Vietnamese badminton community unconsciously held its breath. Minh was born in 2026, turning 41 in the year of the Olympics. Few athletes in the world maintain peak form at an age when most have retired. But Minh is still there - a solitary monument between his own generation, the last figure in a Vietnamese badminton lineage that once included Nguyen Thi Thu Huyen, Pham Thanh Huy, Nguyen Van Lam. When he retires, a historical void will appear - a void that no one dares guarantee will be filled. Behind Minh, in the women's singles, Nguyen Thuy Linh has been carrying the Vietnamese badminton flag for four years - with impressive achievements at the Vietnam Open, at BWF World Tour Super events, and a position in the world top 20. But Linh was born in 2026, and she cannot carry this alone forever. After her, who? Vu Thi Trang has retired. Nguyen Thuy Ngoc Linh, Tran Thi Phuong Thuy - names with real ability but unable to break through yet. In men's singles, alongside Tien Minh, Nguyen Hai Dang and Le Duc Phat have made progress, but still haven't reached the level to share a court with Kento Momota or Shi Yu Qi. The question is not "is Vietnamese badminton in crisis" - but rather: where are we building the next generation, and how? It took me three years of traveling across the northern provinces to understand why the answer lies in badminton courts that the media rarely visits. Bac Giang. The provincial badminton training center sits in a small alley right behind Bo Market, with no signage, no entrance gate - just a hand-painted sign propped up against a cement court. Coach Dang Quoc Bao, 51, has been there since 2026 - twenty-two years, since he first graduated. I met Bao on a Saturday afternoon while he was teaching a group of eight children cross-step drills. No standard wooden floor, no cameras, no notable infrastructure. Just a cement court, two iron net posts, and Bao. "I didn't choose journalism, journalism chose me on the running track in 2026" - a phrase I often use when people ask about my career. But with Bao, the story is even simpler: he didn't choose to stay in Bac Giang, he simply never left. "There was a time I planned to go to Hanoi to open a club," Bao said quietly. "But my younger brother called: 'Brother, come back, the kids here need you.' I planned to go, but stayed." Twenty-two years of staying, Bao has trained seventeen national team members, including three who have worn the national jersey at SEA Games. None became major stars - but those quiet numbers are the hinge of the entire system. Binh Duong. I live here, so following Coach Nguyen Van Hung - who has been with provincial badminton for fourteen years - is easier. Hung has a strange habit: whenever his students lose, he doesn't yell, doesn't punish, just asks the child to sit down and write three lines of diary about the match. "I want them to look at themselves before looking at the opponent," he says. The method seems simple, but it is precisely what gives his students the ability to self-adjust - a skill many young Vietnamese badminton talents lack, based on what I observed at national youth tournaments. Can Tho. On the badminton court of the National Sports Training Center for the Southern region, I met a seventeen-year-old girl named Nguyen Thi My Linh - not her real name - who had just turned down a training opportunity at a club in Ho Chi Minh City to stay with Coach Ho Van Tam back home. "I stayed because Coach Tam understands me," she said, eyes slightly red. "I'm afraid of being alone up there." The innocent words contain a big question: how do we keep young talents within the local system when better opportunities wait in the central cities? My Linh chose to stay. Two years later, she made the top 8 at the national youth championship. Over eight years in Can Tho, Coach Ho Van Tam has trained five national team members - a modest number compared to Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh City, but for the scale of a Mekong Delta province, it is a quiet miracle. Three stories, three provinces, one common denominator: people who stayed. And I realized something anyone who has followed Vietnamese athletics would also admit: this challenge is not badminton's alone. In 2026, when athletes were absent, I discovered I could still run on imagination - a joke I still tell when speaking about the pandemic period. But behind the joke is a bitter truth: every elite sports system depends on invisible people. In athletics, after Nguyen Thi Oanh reached her peak, the biggest question is not "who will replace Oanh" but "who will replace the person who discovered Oanh." That is a question coaches in Mo Lao village or Bac Giang can all ask themselves. In badminton, after Tien Minh retires, a similar question will be asked about an entire generation of coaches. "But Vietnamese badminton is in a personnel crisis!" - there has been no shortage of articles in the past year publishing such assessments. I have read them, and I disagree. Not because everything is fine - but because the framing is skewed. Look at Thailand, where badminton develops with royal patronage and corporate backing. Look at Indonesia, where youth systems are run by professional clubs with budgets dozens of times larger than a Vietnamese provincial center. Compared to those countries, our system clearly lags. But if we only look at "lagging," we will miss a reality: Vietnam has a dense network of local coaches, sustained across decades. Three years ago, I wrote an analysis piece on Vu Thi Trang at her peak, arguing that her success came not from the national team but from the cradle of the Binh Duong club where she grew up. That article was controversial. Looking back now, I believe I was right - even if at the time many thought I was overstating the role of the local system. Between the football pitch and the running track, I find a common pulse - and that pulse is quietness. Vietnamese badminton doesn't lack quiet people - what we lack is proper recognition for them. I don't know whether the girl in Bac Giang that day - the fifteen-year-old doing her 47th footwork drill - will become anyone in the next five years. I don't know whether Nguyen Thi My Linh in Can Tho will cross the national threshold. I don't know whether Dang Quoc Bao will still be standing on that cement court in another ten years. But I know one thing: Vietnamese badminton is being built by people the whole country cannot see, and our problem is not finding a new star - but keeping the fire alive for an entire quiet network to continue living. Perhaps, as the old man fourteen years ago taught me with a single glance following a boy practicing footwork, a real star doesn't need to shine - a star just needs to stay.