Asiad 20 Third Round: Nguyen Thuy Linh Touches the Ceiling Against World No.4, Nguyen Hai Dang Falls to Kunlavut Vitidsarn

The second game ended at 24-22, and I stood up from my chair before I understood why I had stood up. Around me, the stands were still full of Vietnamese fans, the applause burst out and then faded quickly, as if everyone knew that this joy was only allowed to last a few dozen seconds. Nguyen Thuy Linh stood in the middle of the court, wiped her face, bent down to pick up the shuttle. She had just won the second game against Chen Yu Fei, the player recorded as world No.4. A Vietnamese player winning a game against the fourth-ranked player in the world, in the third round of an Asian Games. That was something that, if someone had told me ten years ago, I would probably have laughed at. But I did not laugh. I sat down, opened my notebook, and wrote a scrawled line: "24-22 then 12-21. This is our real story."

At 53, I understand that some defeats are worth more than a hollow victory. But that sentence, I also understand, easily becomes a cheap consolation if the writer does not place the real damage on the scales. A won game is a signal. A lost game at 12-21 is also a signal. Both sit inside the same match, and both belong to the same person.

I have hosted major sports events for more than twenty years, but badminton is the sport I am closest to. On September 26, in the third round of the men's and women's singles at Asiad 20, Vietnamese badminton had two representatives stepping onto the knockout court. Nguyen Thuy Linh, introduced as Vietnam's No.1 women's singles player, after beating Thalita Ramadhani Wiryawan, met Chen Yu Fei. Nguyen Hai Dang, after beating Odilzhon Abdurakhmanov 21-6, 21-6, met Kunlavut Vitidsarn. Two matches, two different fates, and one shared question I carried with me for days afterward: where exactly does the gap between us and Asia's elite lie — in technique, in stamina, in nerve, or in something outside the court?

This piece is not meant to romanticize a won game, nor to pour cold water on it. I want to reread those two matches through the eyes of someone who has stood at the edge of badminton courts for decades, to find what is real, what is illusion, and what we need to face directly.

Context: a round where luck and nerve are placed side by side

Badminton at an Asian Games is a very particular arena. It is a continental multi-sport games, where each medal carries national prestige and domestic media attention. But at the same time, it does not fully overlap with the World Badminton Federation's tour system. Super 1000 and Super 750 events are where standard ranking points are earned, while the Asian Games largely carries spiritual and honorific value. This means a player can perform very well at the Asian Games without earning many points, and conversely, a player can conserve energy at the Asian Games to focus on point-scoring events. This is a detail I believe many Vietnamese fans do not fully grasp, and it directly affects how we read the results.

The singles format is single elimination. One loss, and the tournament is over. No chance to correct mistakes, no return leg, no group stage to accumulate points. Because of this, the draw becomes extremely important. Meeting a mid-tier opponent in the third round and meeting the world No.4 in the third round are two entirely different fates. Both Thuy Linh and Hai Dang fell into the hard side of the draw: they had to face two of the strongest players in the event as early as the third round, when the tournament was not yet half over.

The current scoring system is 21 points per game, best of three, every rally counts, and if the score reaches 20-20, a player must win by two points, capped at 30. It is precisely this two-point margin rule that creates tense games like 24-22 — a scoreline where a single shift of a rally changes the whole story. An ordinary viewer looks at the score and sees dry numbers. A professional looks at it and sees heartbeats, sees trembling legs, sees split-second decisions.

The third round is the round before the quarterfinals. It is the hinge. Pass it, and the player enters the last eight, where anything can happen. Stop there, and the player returns home with a very different baggage: either the confidence of having touched the door, or the doubt that the door is farther away than believed.

Nguyen Thuy Linh and three games telling three different stories

The recorded result: Thuy Linh lost 10-21, won 24-22, lost 12-21. Three games, three moods, and read closely, three entirely different stories about the same person.

The first game, 10-21. This is the kind of score professionals call "being swept." Chen Yu Fei, with the status of world No.4, entered the first game with almost total control. She dictated the tempo, pulled Thuy Linh into long rallies, then finished with shots into the corners that the Vietnamese player could not turn to in time. Ten points in a 21-point game is a large gap, not the gap of a player who nearly upset, but the gap of someone enduring. What matters here is not the loss, but how the loss happened. A 10-21 game usually leaves a heavy psychological aftershock, because it gives the player no sense of having ever been in the match.

And yet in the second game, Thuy Linh won 24-22. I consider this the most valuable data point of the entire day for Vietnamese badminton. Winning a 24-22 game against world No.4 is not mere luck. At the 20-20 threshold, every rally is a psychological battle. A player with weak nerve will lose themselves at that exact moment. Thuy Linh did not lose herself. She changed her approach, dared to play the shots she had previously avoided, and kept a cool head through four consecutive decisive points. This is evidence that the Vietnamese player has a technical foundation sufficient to stand level with the elite for short stretches.

Then the third game, 12-21. This is where the story becomes hardest to tell. After just enduring a game that drained both body and mind, Thuy Linh entered the deciding game and was quickly pulled apart by her opponent. Chen Yu Fei, with the class of the world's fourth-ranked player, did what every great player does after a scare: she tightened, accelerated, and gave her opponent no chance to hold on. The 12-21 gap in the deciding game says something very concrete about stamina and the ability to sustain intensity at the highest level — which I will analyze in detail later.

Reading all three games together, I see a very clear pattern: Thuy Linh can play level for a short stretch, but cannot yet sustain that level across three games. The gap is not in a single shot, but in the ability to keep shot quality from declining between the first point and the last.

Nguyen Hai Dang: two matches, two different worlds

If Thuy Linh left behind a story about a boundary, Hai Dang left behind a story about a gap. The recorded results: he beat Odilzhon Abdurakhmanov 21-6, 21-6; he lost to Kunlavut Vitidsarn 16-21, 14-21.

The 21-6, 21-6 win was a match in which the Vietnamese player was in complete control. Conceding only six points in a game is a rare level of dominance in an official Asian Games round. It shows Hai Dang has enough professional foundation to handle lower-ranked opponents cleanly, and more importantly, enough focus not to throw himself away against a weaker opponent — a psychological trap many young players fall into.

But the match against Kunlavut Vitidsarn was an entirely different world. Losing 16-21, 14-21 in two games is the kind of loss professionals call "losing within the opponent's control." Hai Dang was not blown away, but he also never truly threatened the result. Kunlavut, one of Asia's top men's singles players, is known for his durable defense and patience in long rallies. That kind of opponent forces the attacker to create points through his own effort, and every time Hai Dang tried to accelerate, errors appeared.

The distance from 21-6 to 16-21, 14-21 is a large one. It does not lie in Hai Dang playing worse, but in the fact that when the opponent raised the match to a different level, the Vietnamese player no longer had enough tools to respond. In elite badminton, what decides matches is often not the best shot, but the most stable shot under pressure. And at that level, we are lacking.

What the data cannot yet say

I must be honest with readers about the limits of what we hold. What is recorded from these two matches is only the game scores. There is no data on shuttle speed, average rally length, error counts in decisive phases, point-winning rate on serve, or net-area efficiency. This means any deep technical conclusion must be placed in quotation marks of caution.

Based on my experience following badminton matches, I can say that a 12-21 game loss after a 24-22 win is rarely random. It usually reflects three possibilities: first, declining stamina lowering shot quality; second, the opponent adjusting tactics and finding a weakness; third, psychology affected by having just won a tense game. Among these three, I lean toward a combination of all three, with the greatest weight given to stamina and the ability to sustain intensity.

For Hai Dang, the 16-21 and 14-21 scores across two games show a different kind of defeat: not collapse, but being held at a safe distance. Kunlavut likely used his defensive ability and patience to force the opponent to take risks, and Hai Dang, when forced to attack more, exposed gaps.

I write these lines with a certain self-reflection. I was once criticized for romanticizing too much before a big match. In 2026, in the match where Vietnam lost 0-2 to Iraq in qualifying, I had to publicly apologize to viewers for making them disillusioned with my beautiful dreams. Since then, I set a principle for myself: every article must contain both the ideal scenario and the harshest scenario. The ideal scenario here? Both Vietnamese players reaching the third round, playing level with top opponents at certain moments, and showing that the technical foundation is being raised. The harshest scenario? We still cannot win a complete match against the elite, and those positive signals may be mere flashes rather than a sustainable step forward.

The contrarian angle: the trap of a won game

This is the part I want to spend the most time on, because it touches a deeply ingrained habit in Vietnamese sports media.

The court never lies; only our belief stays silent. And our belief, after a won game against world No.4, tends to instantly turn a signal into a declaration. A won game is read as "we have approached world class." A narrow loss is read as "we were only missing a bit of luck." That is a dangerous reading, because it obscures a harder truth: we can touch the door, but we are not yet strong enough to step through and close it behind us.

I want to state the concrete damage clearly before drawing any lesson. Thuy Linh lost her chance at the quarterfinals. She went home with a symbolic won game but no ticket. Hai Dang stopped without winning a single game against an elite opponent. And at the delegation level, according to what is recorded, Vietnamese badminton won no team medals at this Games. These are real losses, not losses that can be wrapped up in an aphorism about growth.

There is another trap, more subtle. When the media focuses on one individual shining, people easily forget that badminton is a system. Behind one singles player walking onto a knockout court is a whole chain: selection, youth development, coaching staff, fitness specialists, high-quality sparring partners, technical analysis rooms, recovery regimens. Data about that support system barely appears in the story we have. This means we are reading the result of a match without seeing the foundation that produced it.

I believe this is the biggest blind spot. We often ask why a Vietnamese player cannot beat the world No.4, but rarely ask why a Vietnamese player has to face the world No.4 in the third round. The answer lies in ranking and seeding. When your ranking is low, you have no right to choose your draw. You are pushed into hard sections, where big opponents appear early. And each time this happens, you pay with your own dream.

Another point I want readers to consider: the ranking value of the Asian Games. If this edition does not bring many standard ranking points, then top world players competing at peak form is not something that always happens. Here, both Chen Yu Fei and Kunlavut Vitidsarn are recorded as opponents at the highest level. This means the Vietnamese players truly faced the strongest — and that is both an opportunity and a warning. An opportunity, because playing the best is the fastest way to learn. A warning, because if we only meet them in early rounds and always lose, the gap will not close on its own.

There is something I learned from my own career: humility before the younger generation does not mean silence. In the young commentator search program in the 2026 World Cup season, I stayed silent when a young contestant held a view opposite to mine, and the result was that contestant was unfairly eliminated for lack of my timely defense. I had to write a long letter admitting my weakness. That lesson applies here: the older generation must be the one standing at the fence, listening to the younger generation but also speaking the truth, even when the truth is hard to hear. And the truth is: a won game is not a turning point. It is a spark that needs to be fed by a system, by time, and by many more defeats.

I also want to speak about dependence on singles. Vietnamese badminton appears on the continental map largely thanks to singles players. This means when a singles player loses, almost our entire Games closes. A healthy badminton nation needs singles, doubles, mixed doubles, and a squad depth sufficient to spread risk. The absence of signals about other events is a structural sign we should not ignore.

Stamina, focus, and the price of a deciding game

Back to Thuy Linh's third game. 12-21. In badminton, the deciding game is where the truth shows itself. The first two games can hide many things: a player can explode in one game, can get lucky on a few rallies, can surprise an opponent. But by the third game, when both understand each other, when legs are tired and minds are stretched, real quality is exposed.

A 12-21 game loss is not a narrow loss. It is a game in which the opponent controlled almost completely. Placed beside the 24-22 win, we see a paradox: the very player who had just proven she could win at the top level was the one who collapsed fastest in the following game. This usually happens for two reasons. One is stamina: a 24-22 game consumes tremendous energy, and entering the third game, the winner of the second is often the more tired. Two is psychology: after a breathless won game, there is an unconscious relaxation, a moment when body and mind together think "I did something." And at this level, relax for a single moment, and the opponent will punish immediately.

This is why I believe Thuy Linh's problem is not technique. Her technique is enough to win a game against world No.4. The problem lies in the ability to sustain intensity across three games, and in the ability to re-establish focus after an emotional peak. These are qualities that can be trained, but they require a special training environment: sparring sessions with people of equal or higher level, continuous three-game matches under pressure, and a fitness team closely monitoring.

At 53, I look at these things through the eyes of someone who has witnessed many cycles. I remember the Vietnam 0-2 Iraq match I hosted live, the three sleepless nights, the feeling of blaming myself for romanticizing too much. I learned that defeat does not need to be embellished, nor hidden. It needs to be understood correctly. In badminton, a third-round loss to a top world opponent is a precise data point about our current position. It says we have a foundation, we have potential, but we do not yet have consistency. And in elite sport, consistency is everything.

I also think of the story of Doan Van Hau, whom I once sat listening to cry for four hours when an injury made him doubt himself. I wrote about the pain of muscles not allowed to tire. In badminton, the story is similar. Singles players endure an enormous volume of movement in silence, and when they collapse in the third game, behind that are weeks of unseen training. When we criticize them, we should remember we are talking about flesh-and-blood people, not machines.

The question of system and sustainable development

One thing I always wonder about when looking at Vietnamese sports achievements is the gap between an outstanding individual and a strong sports nation. We have individuals who can flash, but we lack a continuous stream. In badminton, this is even clearer. A strong badminton nation is not measured by one singles player reaching the third round, but by the number of players regularly appearing in international quarterfinals, by the depth of doubles events, and by a youth development system that can produce talent steadily.

I do not have enough data on the coaching staff, the fitness program, or the level of technology adoption in analysis for the Vietnamese delegation at this Games. That is an information gap I do not want to fill with speculation. But I can say one certain thing: if we want wins like 24-22 to become everyday rather than rare, we must invest in the foundation. That foundation includes creating opportunities for young players to spar with top opponents from a young age, so they get used to the pace of the elite before entering decisive matches.

I think of the image of "miracles are sown." Miracles do not grow on their own. They are sown. And the sower is not only a coach or a federation. The sower is an entire system: from grassroots courts, to youth tournaments, to overseas training camps, to responsible media people who do not inflate achievements. Every link matters.

I also want to mention a simple reality: in Asia, badminton is a sport with terrifying competitive density. China, Indonesia, Malaysia, Japan, Thailand, South Korea, India — all have deep and broad badminton bases. To break into the elite group, a Vietnamese player must overcome not just one opponent, but an entire system of powerful badminton nations. This is something we need to remember whenever comparing our achievements with others. The competitive context here is far harsher than in some other sports.

What I believe is true after these two matches

After all the analysis above, I want to offer a few conclusions I believe are grounded.

First, Nguyen Thuy Linh has proven a ceiling that can be touched. She can win a game against the world No.4 in an official Asian Games round. This is a valuable data point, and it should be recorded as a milestone, not dismissed. But at the same time, the 12-21 loss shows that this ceiling is not yet enough to hold across three games. The remaining gap lies in stamina, consistency, and the ability to re-establish focus after emotional peaks.

Second, Nguyen Hai Dang shows professionalism in handling lower-ranked opponents, but also shows a clear gap when meeting the elite tier. The 16-21, 14-21 loss to Kunlavut Vitidsarn is a kind of defeat professionals call "losing within the opponent's control." This shows the problem is not nerve, but the technical toolkit and the ability to create points against opponents with good defense.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, both results point to a structural issue: dependence on singles players and lack of squad depth. When the singles players stop, there is not much left to hold on to. This needs to be faced directly, because it affects the long-term path of Vietnamese badminton.

I reflect on how I read these results. There is a part of me that wants to say a won game is a big step forward. But another part, the part burned by many disillusionments, reminds me that a won game is only a signal. And a signal is only valuable if it is continued. If in the next twelve months Thuy Linh and Hai Dang appear again in similar rounds and again lose at decisive moments, this signal will become a stop rather than a turning point.

Looking forward

I left the court that day with mixed feelings. Sad, because we had no ticket to the quarterfinals. But also with something warm, because I had seen a Vietnamese player stand in the middle of the court and not bow before the one called world No.4.

In the World Cup 2026 studio, I was lost among voices; only when I stopped blending in did I become myself. I mention this because it relates to this story. Vietnamese badminton is the same. For too long we have blended into easy praise or baseless criticism. We need to find our own voice: one that is both proud of what has been achieved and sober about what is missing. A voice that dares to say a won game against world No.4 is cause for joy, but not enough to change our ranking on the Asian badminton map.

Vietnamese young players deserve more than that. They deserve to be trained in an environment that allows them to practice with top opponents, to be tracked with data, to be cared for physically and psychologically with seriousness. They deserve long training camps, frequent international tournaments, and a coaching staff that teaches not only technique but also how to endure pressure at decisive points.

I believe Vietnamese badminton is at a crossroads. On one side, we have players who can touch continental class in individual moments. On the other, we lack the foundation to turn those moments into results. That crossroads is not decided by one match, but by choices over many years.

I write this not to praise a won game, nor to lament a loss. I write to record exactly what happened, and to tell the young people holding rackets out there one thing: you are not walking alone. Our generation went before, made mistakes, learned, and now only wishes to be the ones standing at the fence, quietly watching you take the next step.

The court never lies; only our belief stays silent. And that belief, if built on truth rather than illusion, will be the only thing that carries us far.

So the question I leave for myself, and for all who love Vietnamese badminton: in the next twelve months, what will we do to make that 24-22 won game not a beautiful memory but a beginning?