At 17, He Dribbled Past Four Defenders — and We're About to Forget His Name

In August 2026, Thanh Hoa Stadium was flooded with lights. I was seventeen, sitting in front of an old computer screen, watching Huỳnh Công Đến — a boy born in 2026, only a few months older than me — receive the ball in his own half, dribble past four players in twenty seconds, and score the decisive goal. Twelve thousand fans erupted. No major newspaper called it a historic moment. I wrote an 800-word blog post titled: Huỳnh Công Đến is the reason Vietnamese football should forget Công Phượng. The post was shared 2,300 times in three days. Eight years later, I still remember that moment. But the whole country has probably forgotten his name. That is not Huỳnh Công Đến's fault. He did everything a young player could do: he scored, he shone, he made the crowd stand up. The problem is how we — the media, the football academies, the fans — treat young talent like a disposable product. Fans hate the truth, but I am not here to be loved. The truth is that Vietnamese youth football never lacks breathtaking moments. What we lack is a system capable of turning one beautiful play into a sustainable career. I have seen this loop repeat itself. Công Phượng in 2026, Huỳnh Công Đến in 2026, then new names after every U19, U20, SEA Games campaign. Every time a boy touches the ball beautifully, the media labels him the next golden generation, the next Công Phượng. The boy is pushed onto the stage before he learns to handle the spotlight. Academies use his image to recruit students. Journalists use his story for clicks. When he gets injured, declines, or simply needs time, everyone turns away. That U19 tournament taught me one lesson: the silence of editors is a crime. I am not against building academies. I am against turning academies into marketing channels. Many carry the names of former stars, charge high tuition, yet their coaching staff is thin and weak. They bring in one foreign coach for a photo, then leave poorly trained local coaches to run the sessions. Beautiful facilities cannot replace a coach who knows how to correct a small detail in a player's first touch. Three years ago, I watched a youth team train in Japan. Not J-League, just a high school team. After the session, the coaches sat down for two hours to review video and write notes on every player. They were not discussing grand tactics. They were talking about how a tenth grader moved off the ball within ten meters. In Vietnam, meetings like that barely exist at the grassroots level because grassroots coaches are paid responsibility money rather than professional wages. They are treated as babysitters, not educators. Data is also misplaced. Clubs have started using tracking technology, but most of the collected data is used to analyze opponents — or worse, sold to third parties for betting. Meanwhile, a young player needs to know how much he runs, how he accelerates, how quickly he makes decisions. Digitalization in sport can produce betting academies, not player academies. Hard truths are hard to hear. Maybe I am being too strict. PVF, Nutifood and Hà Nội have achieved things my generation never dreamed of. Vietnam's U19 once played at the World Cup. The 2026 ASEAN Cup is fresh proof. Looking at trophies, Vietnamese football is rising. I am ready to admit that I might be wrong about the speed. But I am not wrong about the direction. The national team's success came from a generation trained ten years ago, while the next generation is still being treated like one-night stars. And when I say we forgot Huỳnh Công Đến, I do not mean he had to succeed to prove anything. I mean a good training system would produce many Huỳnh Công Đếns, and none of them would have to carry the expectations of an entire nation at seventeen. A silent stadium still echoes my voice. In 2026, when another seventeen-year-old dribbles past four defenders in a U19 final, I will not put his name in the headline. I will write the name of the coach who taught him. And if that coach does not exist, I will ask: who are we building academies for? The answer decides whether, eight years from now, we remember that boy or write another blog about another forgotten talent.