Vietnamese Billiards: From Street Corner to Continental Arena - A 25-Year Journey

Saigon, a weekend afternoon in 2026. I still vividly remember the makeshift street-side billiards tables under the shade of tamarind trees, the faded green cloth, players pivoting, lowering their cues, and sending the cue ball into a tight corner. At that time, no one in the crowd watching thought this sport would one day be broadcast live, with players reaching the world top 10. Twenty-five years later, I sit before a screen, watching Tran Quyet Chien play three-cushion, and I ask myself: what has changed? This article is not a dry summary. It is a dissection based on numbers, contracts, and the quiet people behind every shot. I have followed Vietnamese billiards from its humble days, witnessing its daily transformation. And I want to tell that story in the language of those involved: the language of statistics, contracts, and decisions that never make the news. Let's start with a shot. Not the most beautiful shot, but the one that marked a turning point. In 2026, at the World Three-Cushion Carom Championship in Cairo, Tran Quyet Chien stepped into the final as the first Vietnamese to achieve this. His opponent was a legend: Dani Sanchez. No one believed a player from a country where billiards was merely entertainment could win. But then, in the 30th frame, at 39-39, Tran Quyet Chien executed a long three-cushion run, bringing the cue ball to the perfect position to finish. That shot not only brought the world title but also changed the entire perception of Vietnamese billiards. But I don't want to talk about that shot. I want to talk about what happened before and after. Because a single shot cannot build a sporting culture. There must be a system. Where does that system begin? From small clubs in Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City, where young players train 8 hours a day for a monthly salary of 3 million VND. From table mechanics who quietly adjust the playing surface, ensuring the cushion bounce meets international standards. From referees who spent their own money to study rules abroad, then returned to teach the next generation. These are the silent heroes, never appearing on television, but they are the ones who laid the foundation. Let's talk numbers. In 2026, Vietnam had only 2 players in the world top 100 in three-cushion carom. By 2026, that number was 12. The number of international tournaments hosted in Vietnam increased from 0 to 6 per year. The Vietnam Billiards Open, launched in 2026, now attracts over 100 players from 20 countries. But these numbers only reflect the surface. Beneath lies an ecosystem changing slowly but steadily. I remember in 2026, when I wrote my first article about the potential of Vietnamese billiards in a small sports magazine. That article was dismissed as unrealistic. People said: "What's interesting about billiards?" Twelve years later, those same people are lining up to buy tickets to watch Tran Quyet Chien compete. So what changed? First, the professionalization of players. The generation of Duong Quoc Hoang, Nguyen Quoc Nguyen laid the foundation through persistent training. The generation of Tran Quyet Chien, Bao Phuong Vinh, Tran Thanh Luc brought a new mindset: they don't just play billiards, they analyze it. They watch videos, study opponents, calculate probabilities for each shot. They know that at this level, a small psychological mistake is more costly than a technical one. Second, investment from sponsors. In 2026, Bia Saigon brand began sponsoring domestic tournaments with 2 billion VND per year. That amount is small compared to football, but it was enough to create a professional tournament with standard tables, international referees, and live television. The arrival of money changed player behavior: they started to have stable income, could focus entirely on training, and didn't have to worry about daily expenses. But there's something few people realize: the growth of Vietnamese billiards didn't come from big cities. It came from rural provinces. Tran Quyet Chien was born in Hai Duong, an agricultural province. Bao Phuong Vinh was born in Dong Thap, in the Mekong Delta. These players grew up without professional clubs, without coaches. They taught themselves, learned from YouTube videos, built practice tables at home. And this self-learning created a distinctive playing style: flexible, creative, unconstrained by any school. This leads me to a counter-intuitive perspective: initial scarcity was actually an advantage. Vietnamese players are not obsessed with a specific style like the Dutch or Belgians. They play by instinct, and that instinct creates shots no school teaches. Watch how Tran Quyet Chien handles a ball near the cushion: he never chooses the safe option, always seeks a difficult shot with higher winning probability. This makes him unpredictable, and also causes him to lose more in minor matches. But in big matches, that boldness becomes a weapon. I have followed Nguyen Quoc Nguyen throughout his career. He is a disciplined player, almost never making basic errors. But he also rarely creates magical moments. This keeps him in the top 20, but never on the podium. Meanwhile, Tran Quyet Chien, who is technically inferior to Nguyen in some aspects, has the ability to create game-changing shots. Where does this difference lie? I believe it's in confidence, and in how they handle pressure. Pressure is invisible, but it can be measured. Look at the success rate of shots in the final frame of championship matches. Tran Quyet Chien has a 78% rate, while Nguyen Quoc Nguyen has only 62%. This is not random. It reflects how each handles emotions. I asked a sports psychologist about this, and he said: "Tran Quyet Chien is not afraid of failure. He sees failure as part of the game. Nguyen Quoc Nguyen fears failure, and that fear makes him play overly safe." This is a subtle difference, but it decides both their careers. Now, let's talk about the tournament system. Vietnam currently has 3 main domestic tournaments: the National Championship, the National Cup, and the Strong Clubs Tournament. But this system still has many problems. First, the schedule is not announced early, making it hard for players to plan training. Second, prize money is uneven: the National Championship has a total prize of 500 million VND, but the Cup only has 200 million. This disparity makes players focus on one tournament, neglecting others. Third, there's a lack of youth tournaments. Currently only 1 national youth tournament per year, with about 50 participants. That's too few to create a successor generation. But the biggest problem is the lack of connection between clubs. Each club operates as a separate oasis, with no cooperation, no sharing of experience, no common training system. This leads to uneven development: some provinces have strong players, but many have none. If we want to build a sustainable billiards culture, we need a connected system where small clubs can send young players to train at major centers. I remember once, I visited a club in Can Tho. The owner was a 50-year-old man, a former amateur player. He spent 300 million VND to buy 4 high-quality carom tables, but didn't have enough players to maintain them. He told me: "I want to train youth, but I don't know where to start. No curriculum, no coaches, no money." That's the story of many small clubs across the country. In contrast, look at the Netherlands. They have a well-designed youth training system, from club level to national level. They have standard curriculum, formally trained coaches, and state budget. That's why the Netherlands always has at least 3 players in the world top 10. Vietnam has talent, but we don't have the system to nurture it. But I'm not pessimistic. I see positive signals. First, media attention has increased significantly. In 2026, only 2 TV channels broadcast billiards. In 2026, that number is 6. Tran Quyet Chien's matches attract an average of 1.5 million views on YouTube. Second, the emergence of new sponsors. Besides beer, brands like KIA, Yamaha, and even some tech companies have started sponsoring tournaments. Third, the rejuvenation of players. The average age of the top 20 Vietnamese players is now 26, compared to 32 a decade ago. That means the young generation is rising. One young player I particularly follow is Tran Thanh Luc, 21, from Binh Thuan. He started playing billiards at age 12, after watching a Tran Quyet Chien video on YouTube. He practiced alone for 3 years, no coach, no opponents. In 2026, he first entered the National Championship and reached the quarterfinals. In 2026, he won the Asian Youth Championship. When I interviewed him, he said: "I have nothing but passion. I watch the seniors' videos and analyze them myself. I know I need to improve my ball control technique, but I think psychology is the most important." That statement reminded me of myself 25 years ago, when I first started following this sport. But there's a problem I want to emphasize, a problem few talk about: the lack of transparency in sponsorship contracts and prize money distribution. I once witnessed a case where a top-10 national player received only 30% of the prize money he deserved, the rest being "skimmed" by the club and manager. His contract had a vague clause about "management fees," and no one clearly explained it. This is a common problem in Vietnamese sports, not just billiards. But it's especially severe in a young sport where players often don't have their own lawyers. Let me tell a story. In 2026, a young player named Nguyen Van Hung (name changed) signed a contract with a club in Hanoi. The contract stipulated he would receive 70% of tournament prize money, with the club keeping 30% for "training costs." But when he won an international tournament with a prize of 500 million VND, the club only gave him 200 million. When he asked, the club said the "management fee" clause allowed them to keep an additional 20%. The contract was written in complex legal language, and the young player didn't understand. He couldn't afford a lawyer, and he feared losing his position in the club if he complained. In the end, he accepted. That's why I always advise young players: learn to read contracts. Find a trusted advisor. Never sign a contract you don't fully understand. Invisible contracts only appear when we count every number instead of listening to promises. My three numbers broke a deal that was just budding. The empty arena, the money still flowing, and the lack of transparency turned out to be an umbrella for the stubborn. The words in a contract are the only evidence of football's infidelity, and also of billiards. I don't hunt news. I hunt the silence between two interview answers. Now, let's talk about the future. I believe Vietnamese billiards has the potential to become one of the strongest sports in Asia. We have talent, passion, and a growing audience. But we need three things. First, we need a systematic youth training program. This cannot be left to clubs to develop spontaneously. We need a national program with state budget or sponsorship from large corporations. We need training centers in three regions, with standard curriculum, formally trained coaches, and regular youth tournaments. Second, we need transparency in management. Contracts must be standardized, clauses must be clear, and there must be an independent oversight body to protect players' rights. I propose establishing a professional players' association, like the snooker players' association in England. Third, we need investment in facilities. Currently, only about 20 clubs nationwide have international-standard tables. That number needs to increase to at least 100. This requires significant investment from both state and private sectors. But I don't want to end with a list of demands. I want to end with a story. In 2026, I attended a small tournament in a central province. The tournament had only 20 players, with a prize of just 20 million VND. But I saw a boy about 10 years old, sitting in the corner, intently watching the players. The boy said nothing, just watched. After the tournament ended, the boy approached the table, picked up a cue, and attempted a shot. The shot was inaccurate, but I saw a spark in the boy's eyes. That spark was passion. I don't know if that boy will become a professional player. But I know that if we build a good system, he will have the opportunity. And if he succeeds, it will be the success of an entire sporting culture. Vietnamese billiards has come a long way, from street tables to the continental arena. But the road ahead is longer. And I believe that with passion, proper investment, and transparency, we can take Vietnamese billiards to new heights. Look forward, but don't forget those who laid the foundation. They are the silent heroes. And their story deserves to be told.