No Longer a Small Court: The Quiet Journey of Vietnamese Basketball

Around fifteen years ago, as a young sports reporter, I stopped by a basketball court in an alley in Ho Chi Minh City. The concrete floor was worn and cracked; there were no nets, no regulation markings. A group of teenagers were still playing under the blazing sun. Amid the thumping sound of the ball, I saw raw energy: pure passion. The skinniest boy in the group kept repeating an awkward three-point shot. He missed, picked up the ball, shot again. Missed again, shot again. No coach stood by to instruct him; nobody clapped or encouraged him. He was alone with the ball and the stubbornness of a twelve-year-old. That boy did not know that, at that same moment, the entire Vietnamese basketball scene was in a similar state: taking shots that would not fall because it lacked systems, lacked courts, lacked professional leagues. Nearly two decades later, I returned to Ho Chi Minh City for a filming assignment about the professional basketball league. People told me to visit a newly opened youth basketball center on the outskirts. I reluctantly agreed. When I stepped onto the court, I froze. The facilities were not luxurious, but they were adequate: glossy wooden flooring, tempered glass backboards, a small grandstand seating about two hundred. On the court, a young coach was blowing a whistle, guiding his students through a defense drill, footwork by footwork. His face radiated seriousness and patience. I recognized him immediately: the skinny boy from all those years ago. A friendly match between two youth teams began. The children moved in organized patterns, passed the ball quickly, and knew how to choose their positions. There were still plenty of mistakes; they could not yet match the youth levels of the Philippines or Thailand. But compared to the image of spontaneous basketball in the little alley that day, it was a revolution. I thought about what I had witnessed over years covering Vietnamese sport. Football has had decades to build its league system, youth training centers, football academies. Basketball never had any of that until recently. The Vietnamese professional basketball league was established in 2026, much later than many regional peers, but its birth opened a new chapter. For the first time, local players had a regular competitive arena, playing under proper professional rules, with referees, paying spectators, and a real league structure. That arena changed the definition of Vietnamese basketball: from a street sport to an entertainment industry slowly taking shape. But looking deeper, the greatest value was not commercialization; it was that the league created a standard for young talents to strive toward. The first generation of Vietnamese professional basketball players learned from YouTube and informal semi-pro tournaments. They lacked technical fundamentals and tactical mentoring. The second generation grew up alongside the league and received more systematic training. And the third generation — children training in private basketball academies increasingly springing up in major cities — represents the real hope of Vietnamese basketball. They start at nine or ten, drilling fundamental movements according to a curriculum, being corrected step by step in defensive footwork, the way youth academies in Spain, Serbia, or the United States do. This cannot be seen in short-term results, but it will determine everything in the next ten years. The growth of youth basketball also stems from an unexpected source: the overseas Vietnamese community. Many Viet Kieu players carry Vietnamese blood, raised in the United States, Canada, Australia — countries with developed basketball cultures. They returned to compete, bringing modern technique, new tactical thinking, and most importantly, a professional outlook on practice, nutrition, and recovery. They act as bridges between two basketball cultures. However, this also poses a difficult dilemma. Vietnamese basketball once witnessed debates over the roles of naturalized players and Viet Kieu players in the national team. On one hand, these players immediately raise the team's competitiveness. On the other hand, over-reliance on imported talent might inadvertently take away opportunities from homegrown talents. This is not a problem unique to Vietnam — many Southeast Asian nations face the same choice. The Philippines solved(ed) it historically by broadening the concept of nationality. Indonesia pours money into naturalization. But I believe the most sustainable answer lies not in buying imported success, but in building foundations at home. The young coach from years ago — the skinny boy in the alley — now has students of his own. He told me that he never had what his students now have: a teacher from the very first step. Yet he felt no jealousy; he considered himself lucky to be a pathfinder. He opened this center with his savings from years of professional play, plus family loans. He told me: "I do not want any other kid to have to stumble in the dark the way I did." What impresses me most about Vietnamese basketball today is not its achievements on the international stage, which remain modest compared to football. What matters is the quiet patience of people like that young coach. While football often sways between excessive expectations and crushing disappointments, basketball walks a different path: more humble, more realistic, but more enduring. Nobody is promising overnight glory. Only repeated drills, friendly matches among youth academies, weekend basketball classes for elementary students. The biggest changes usually arrive through the smallest actions performed in darkness, before the stage lights are switched on. Late one afternoon, after the friendly match ended, I sat back on the grandstand. The fading sunlight streamed through the glass windows, casting light across the wooden floor. The young coach packed up his lesson plan while a few students stayed behind to take extra shots. Among them was a boy of about twelve, whose silhouette resembled the boy I met all those years ago in the alley: skinny, focused, repeating a free-throw movement over and over. This time, an adult stood beside him, gently adjusting the angle of his elbow. I realized then why I kept returning to this place after so many years. Between the empty rows of seats and the sound of a bouncing ball on a nearly deserted afternoon, I could see the skeleton of a dream slowly taking shape. Vietnamese basketball does not need to rush its way to becoming a regional powerhouse overnight. On the contrary, its slowness, its patience, and the quietly dedicated people working behind the scenes — like that young coach from years past — form the surest foundation on which to build the future. At 52, I understand that every great story begins with a small court, a dreamer kid, and a teacher willing to stay when everyone else has gone.