Teqball, the First Bronze and a New Pulse for Vietnamese Sport at Asiad 20

There are medals that never sit at the top of the table, yet mark a beginning that an entire sporting nation might take years before daring to imagine. On the morning of 20 September, on the competition floor of Asiad 20, the pair Nguyen Hoang Minh Tan and Trinh Gia Nghi walked into the mixed doubles bronze-medal match of Teqball with nothing to lose. Their opponents were Dsouza Quimcy Joaquim and Beg Mohamed Anas Imran of India. Two sets, a 2-0 scoreline. One bronze medal. And behind that number lies an entire story about how Vietnamese sport is learning to love a game that, just a few years ago, almost no one in the country could name correctly.

I sat and recorded every rally with a strange feeling. Forty years holding a pen, I have witnessed too many moments when Vietnamese sport stood before milestones defined by gold and silver. But Teqball is different. It has no tradition to lean on, no generation of elders to measure against, no icon in the memory of fans. It only has the present. And in that present, two young athletes stood firm.

There is a sentence I have kept in my professional notebook for many years: People forget the goal, but they never forget the sigh of the whole stadium that night. Today, on the Teqball floor, there was no sigh. Only the sound of the ball bouncing on the curved table and the sound of Vietnamese people calling each other's names, very loud, very clear, so that no one in the stands would forget what they were witnessing. The first bronze medal of a new sport at Asiad 20, and it carried the name of Vietnam.

To understand why this bronze is more than a medal, one must speak of Teqball from the very way it was born. Teqball combines elements of football and table tennis. On a specially curved table, athletes use their feet, head and chest to send the ball over the net, almost never using their hands. The sport demands ball control, reflexes, individual technique and extremely precise coordination, especially in doubles. A good footballer can produce a beautiful touch, but to win a Teqball match, two people must touch the ball together, move together and read each other's minds in a fraction of a second.

What matters is that this sport was introduced to competition for the first time at Asiad 20. It has no long history, no nationwide league system, no generation of professionally trained athletes like football or table tennis. In Vietnam, Teqball is still quite unfamiliar. Many people hearing the name for the first time asked me how it differs from football, from table tennis, and why the table is curved. I did not answer with a definition. I told them to watch Minh Tan and Gia Nghi play. After watching, they would understand why this sport demands a focus close to meditation.

Minh Tan and Gia Nghi immediately made their mark on the continental stage. They were not the ones hyped by the media before the tournament. They came to Asiad 20 as people who had to prove themselves. But in the bronze-medal match, they beat the Indian pair 2-0, a result that was far from easy if one looks at how they controlled each set. Dsouza Quimcy Joaquim and Beg Mohamed Anas Imran of India were serious opponents, with international experience and a clear understanding of the rhythm of this game. But that morning, the two Vietnamese athletes played as if they had long been used to the pressure of medals.

I remember one small detail. In a rally in the second set, the ball bounced near the edge of the table and Gia Nghi had less than a second to decide. She chose to control it with her chest, pushing the ball into the left corner, forcing her opponent to leap to the opposite side. That touch was not beautiful. It was not the kind of rally that gets put online for views. But it was effective. And in Teqball, effective is everything.

What I want to stress here is this: Vietnam's first Teqball bronze is not the result of luck, but the result of a sport daring to step onto a completely new field before anyone showed the way. In a context where continental sport is changing rapidly, as new disciplines are constantly added to meet the tastes of young audiences, Vietnam being present in the very first Asiad where Teqball appeared, and immediately winning a medal, is a strategic signal rather than merely an individual achievement.

But Asiad 20 was not only joy. Only hours after the moment of Minh Tan and Gia Nghi, the Vietnamese Teqball team missed the chance to win another medal when Ba Truong Giang and Le Anh Khoa lost to the Iraqi pair in the men's doubles bronze-medal match on the morning of 20 September. It was a painful defeat, but not one that deserves tragedy. The Iraqi team came from a Teqball background with more depth, and they won with rallies that, if one watches the footage closely, reveal the difference lay in experience rather than talent.

Here, I want to raise a perspective that many may not want to face. When a new sport is introduced to a major arena, we tend to measure it by medal count. People say: a bronze is a success, no bronze is a failure. But that measure is one-sided. With Teqball, the real value of Asiad 20 does not lie in the first bronze or in another team's defeat. The value lies in the fact that Vietnam had two representatives reach the medal rounds, and that means this game has begun to take root, however thin those roots may be.

There is a truth I have learned over forty years of following sport: the quietest stadium is not the one where nobody comes. It is the one where everyone comes and no one dares to breathe. In new disciplines like Teqball, the greatest fear is not losing but being forgotten. The defeat of Ba Truong Giang and Le Anh Khoa in the bronze match did not make them forgotten. On the contrary, it forces us to remember that behind every medal, there are always people who fall very close to the finish.

And then, in the same morning, another bronze came from Karate. Athlete Bui Ngoc Nhi earned Vietnam another bronze in the women's individual Kata event. This is a completely different story in terms of material. Karate is a sport with a long tradition in Vietnam, and Ngoc Nhi is a face who has already proven herself at SEA Games 33 and Asian youth tournaments. But her journey at Asiad 20 began with a defeat.

In the opening match, Ngoc Nhi lost to host athlete Ono Maho of Japan by 0-5. A score that cannot be called light, especially when the opponent was competing at home with a packed crowd. But instead of collapsing, she went on to beat Choi Haeun of South Korea 5-0, then Leong Wai Yee Shannon of Singapore 4-1, to take the bronze. The way she came back after the opening defeat is more worth discussing than the medal itself.

I watched Ngoc Nhi's performance against South Korea very carefully. And what I noticed was not technique but rhythm. In Kata, rhythm is life. A Kata that loses its rhythm will be marked down, even if the movements are correct. After the loss to Ono Maho, an inexperienced fighter would tend to strike faster, harder, to compensate. Ngoc Nhi did not. She slowed down. She let each movement have time to breathe. And the result was 5-0.

There is a sentence I often think of when writing about athletes like Ngoc Nhi: That 19-year-old boy did not change the era. He only showed us that the era had changed. Here, I am not talking about age. Ngoc Nhi is no longer a young talent waiting to be discovered. She already has SEA Games 33, already has Asian youth tournaments. What she showed us at Asiad 20 is that a generation of Vietnamese martial artists has enough composure to stand after a 0-5 defeat and still keep a cool head. That is the shift of an entire training system, not of an individual.

At Asiad 20, Ngoc Nhi still has a chance to win another medal as she and her teammates enter the women's team Kata quarter-finals against Nepal on 22 September. This is a detail I want audiences to remember, because it shows she did not come to Asiad 20 to win one medal and go home. She came to compete, to stay as long as possible, to make every day on the floor meaningful.

Turning to the medal table, the picture of Asiad 20 after nearly half a day of competition shows the familiar stratification of continental sport. China climbed to the top with 2 golds, 4 silvers and 1 bronze. Athlete Lin Xinyu in the women's triathlon brought China its first gold at Asiad 20. Host Japan stands second with 2 golds and 3 bronzes. Macao, South Korea and Kazakhstan each won 1 gold, ranked third to fifth. Meanwhile, Vietnam sits ninth with 2 bronze medals.

That number, seen hastily, might disappoint. Ninth place, with two bronzes, while the leading teams already have gold. But seen slowly, the story is different. Those two bronzes came from two very different disciplines: one brand-new sport just added to Asiad for the first time, and one traditional sport long associated with Vietnamese sport. What does that mean? It means we are not only holding on to the old, but also touching the new. That is a healthy sign.

I want to pause on this systemic detail. In elite sport, there are two paths of development. The first is to go deep in a few spearhead disciplines and maximize medals there. The second is to spread across many disciplines, accepting defeat in some to be present in others. Vietnam has for many years leaned toward the first, because resources are limited. But Teqball appears as a suggestion that the second also has a place, especially in new sports where the gap between nations is not yet too large.

And here is the perspective I consider most important, even if it may irritate some. The fact that a new sport like Teqball brought home a bronze at the first Asiad it appeared shows that Vietnam's opportunity sometimes lies in arenas that have not yet taken shape, not in arenas already crowded with giants. In other words, we may not win where history has already been written, but we can write our name where history is still blank. Teqball, at Asiad 20, is exactly such a blank. And Minh Tan and Gia Nghi stepped into it before other delegations noticed.

Of course, I do not want to turn this into excessive praise. There is a temptation that sports writers like me easily fall into: when we see a rare bronze in a new sport, we tend to inflate it into a symbol, a turning point, the beginning of an era. But the truth is more modest. One bronze does not create an era. It only opens a door. Whether that door is crossed depends on what happens after Asiad 20: whether there is investment, whether there is a national league, whether there is a next generation.

There is a sentence I keep as a reminder: I have kept the rhythm for this team for four decades. That rhythm was never mine. When writing about Teqball or about Ngoc Nhi, I remind myself of the same thing. The pulse of Vietnamese sport does not belong to the writer. It belongs to the athletes on the floor, under pressure, deciding in every fraction of a second. My job is to record, carefully, and not to embellish.

So what is worth waiting for in the coming days of Asiad 20? With Teqball, the question is not only whether there will be more medals, but whether the sport will be maintained at future Games, and whether Vietnam will build a proper training system for it. With Karate, the question is whether Ngoc Nhi and her teammates can overcome Nepal in the women's team Kata quarter-finals on 22 September. And at a broader level, the question is whether these two bronzes are the beginning of a successful Asiad, or just two bright spots in a picture still full of gaps.

I will keep watching. For forty years, I have never stopped watching. But this time, I watch with a slightly different feeling. I find myself witnessing something that has no name yet in the memory of the nation's fans. And perhaps that very feeling is what deserves to be written down in the notebook.

The media revolution can change how we watch football. But it cannot change how we love it. Teqball may not be football, may not be table tennis, but the love the two young athletes gave it in the bronze-medal match on the morning of 20 September is the love of someone who trains every day without being sure anyone is watching. That is the love I want to name in this article. Not the love of the stands, but the love of the training hall.

As for Ngoc Nhi, her story is unfinished. She lost 0-5 to Ono Maho, then won 5-0 against Choi Haeun, then won 4-1 against Leong Wai Yee Shannon. Three matches, three scores, three different mental states. What stands out is how short the gaps between those matches were. She had no time to rest or overthink. She had to move from defeat to victory, then from victory to another victory, within a single morning. That is pressure outsiders can hardly imagine, and also the quality only fighters trained the right way possess.

In Karate, mental state matters no less than technique. A Kata performed with a chaotic mind will reveal itself immediately. Ngoc Nhi did not let that happen. She stepped into the match against South Korea with almost absolute focus, and the 5-0 score was the reward for that focus. Then in the match against Singapore, she kept her stability, winning 4-1. This is the mark of a fighter who has learned to manage emotion, not merely someone with good technique.

For me, the most memorable detail of the morning of 20 September is not the score of any match. It is the moment Ngoc Nhi walked off the floor after the 0-5 defeat. She did not bow her head. She did not slap the air. She simply walked calmly toward her seat. In sport, such moments are often overlooked because there is nothing to put in a bulletin. But that is where true character shows. And afterward, she won three consecutive matches to take bronze. That is the fullest answer.

Returning to Teqball, I want to analyze more closely why the 2-0 win by Minh Tan and Gia Nghi matters technically. Teqball is not a sport for people who only know how to play with their feet. It demands flexibility of the whole body. Players use chest, head, shoulders and thighs. In doubles, two people must coordinate as one block, because the space one leaves behind must be covered by the other. Dsouza Quimcy Joaquim and Beg Mohamed Anas Imran of India were highly rated, but they were controlled by the Vietnamese pair in the decisive rallies.

What I noticed in Minh Tan and Gia Nghi was a very clear division of roles. One guarded the area near the net, the other handled the space behind and difficult saves. This division was not random. It is the result of many hours of training, of two people understanding each other to the point of knowing where the opponent will strike in any situation. In doubles sport, what we call chemistry is not an abstract quality. It is countless hours repeating one movement until thinking is no longer needed.

And here is the counterintuitive angle I want to offer. Many will say the Teqball bronze is a surprise, a rare event, a lucky moment in a new sport. I do not think so. I believe what is surprising is not that Vietnam won bronze, but that we had the structure to win it in a sport that never existed within the system. This shows that Vietnamese sport, despite limited resources, has begun to have the ability to identify and seize opportunities in new arenas. That is a skill, not luck.

Of course, that skill has not been fully tested. One Asiad is not enough to conclude. But it is enough to open a debate. The debate is: should Vietnamese sport invest in traditional disciplines with reliable medal potential, or take more risks with new sports that offer the potential for unexpected opportunities? The answer, to me, is not to choose one, but to find a balance. But to balance, one needs data. And the first data point of that balance was just recorded at Asiad 20.

Meanwhile, the leading delegations are accelerating. China leads with an impressive record, showing the gap between the top group and the rest of the continent remains large. Japan follows as host, and sporting nations such as Macao, South Korea and Kazakhstan already have gold. Vietnam sits ninth with two bronzes. This is not a bad position, but it is not a safe anchor either. Asiad still has many competition days ahead, and the ranking can shift very quickly.

I remember once, when I was young, I wrote about an athlete who had won a medal at a major Games. When I asked how it felt, he replied that the truest feeling was not when he received the medal, but when he realized he would have no more chances. That answer has followed me for many years. It reminds me that every medal has an expiry date in terms of opportunity. And with new sports like Teqball, the window of opportunity is even narrower, because other nations will quickly recognize its value.

This means that if Vietnam wants to exploit the success of Teqball at Asiad 20, we need to act fast. We need a national league, need to bring the game into schools, train coaches, create a next generation. If we only celebrate the bronze and let everything drift, the advantage we now have in this sport will vanish within a few years, as other nations invest more heavily.

I know this may sound too serious for one bronze. But I have seen too many times an unexpected achievement not being extended. There are sports where Vietnam once won medals, then faded because there was no system behind them. I do not want Teqball to follow that path. And I think, if the people running sport read this article, they should see the bronze of 20 September as a promise, not an ending.

The story of Ba Truong Giang and Le Anh Khoa also deserves to be seen from this angle. They lost the bronze match to the Iraqi pair. That defeat cost the Vietnamese Teqball team the chance of another medal. But if we look only at the result, we forget that they reached the final match for a medal. Getting there, in a new sport, is already a journey. And sometimes, remembering the journey matters more than counting medals.

I hold a belief, perhaps a bit old-fashioned for this era, that sport is not only about winning and losing. It is about the people who spent ten years to be present on a certain autumn morning, standing before an opportunity that very few back home could imagine. When Minh Tan and Gia Nghi walked into the bronze-medal match, they represented thousands of hours of training without an audience. When Ngoc Nhi walked off the floor after the 0-5 defeat, she represented a generation of fighters who have learned to rise without anyone lifting them. Those are the images I want to keep.

And precisely because of that, I want to end this article not with a medal table but with a question. The question is: when Asiad 20 closes, what will we remember? Will we remember the number two bronzes and ninth place, or will we remember the moment a sport with no name in fans' memory suddenly had a medal bearing the name of Vietnam?

My signature is not on a contract. It is on what I choose to remember. And this time, I choose to remember the rallies that were not beautiful but effective, the Kata slowed down after a defeat, the young athletes stepping into a new arena with nothing to lean on but themselves. That is what I will carry away from Asiad 20, no matter how the medal table changes in the coming days.

Because, in the end, sport does not live on the table. It lives on the moments when a person, in a very distant place, suddenly believes they can do the same. A girl watching Ngoc Nhi perform Kata may seek out a dojo tomorrow. A boy watching Minh Tan and Gia Nghi play Teqball may build a curved table out of wood. That is how a sport begins. Not with medals, but with people who believe in it.

And perhaps, that is the most worth saying thing about the morning of 20 September at Asiad 20. Not two bronzes, but two doors just opened. One for a new sport, one for a fighter who has learned to stand up after the heaviest defeat. Both doors, if crossed in the right way, can lead to things far larger than a single morning.

I will continue to follow Asiad 20, day by day, match by match. As I have followed so many Games before. But this time, I will watch with special attention to new sports, new faces, stories not yet told. Because, in my forty years holding a pen, I have learned that the future of Vietnamese sport does not lie only where we are used to looking. Sometimes, it lies on a curved table, a plastic ball, and two young athletes no one knew before the tournament began.

They came. They competed. And they brought Vietnam a first medal in an arena the whole continent had just entered. What remains is what we will do with that moment. That is the question I leave behind, not for the athletes, but for those holding the pulse of the nation's sport. That pulse was never mine. But I have a duty to record it, exactly as it sounded.