Vietnam's First Teqball Bronze at Asiad 20 and a Karate Bronze to Follow: Marking the Morning of September 20

On the curved surface of the Teqball table at Asiad 20, the moment the ball left the foot of the Indian player and rolled off the sideline was the moment the referee confirmed the scoreline of 2-0. Nguyen Hoang Minh Tan and Trinh Gia Nghi stood at mid-table, two people, one mixed pair, and the first bronze medal for the Vietnamese delegation in a sport most domestic viewers had never watched in full. I stayed behind after the whistle, recording the time, the score of each set, and even the touches the crowd did not applaud. Numbers do not lie; they simply wait for us to read them correctly. And that morning, two numbers deserved careful reading: the 2-0 result of the Minh Tan - Gia Nghi pair against Dsouza Quimcy Joaquim and Beg Mohamed Anas Imran, and the run of a female karate athlete named Bui Ngoc Nhi, who lost her opening match and then won two straight to earn a bronze. To understand why these two bronze medals should be viewed differently, they must be placed in the proper context of a Games where Teqball appeared on the competitive programme for the very first time. Teqball combines elements of football and table tennis, but its rules resemble no other sport on the continental stage. Players stand around a curved table and may use any body part except the arms and hands to send the ball back over the table into the opponent's half. The ball cannot touch the same body part twice in succession, and cannot be returned directly before passing over the table. Anyone who has played football will immediately recognise the familiarity: the feel of the ball, the stance of receiving, the ability to turn in tight spaces. But anyone who has played table tennis will also recognise the strangeness: the tempo, the distances, and the way a pair must divide responsibility across a surface only a few hand-spans wide. In the doubles category, especially mixed doubles, coordination becomes the decisive factor. A player with excellent individual technique can still lose if their partner does not know where to stand, when to turn, and how to leave the ball. Across the matches I observed, what made the Minh Tan - Gia Nghi pairing different was not the beautiful touches, but the rhythm of the switch. They rotated one beat earlier than their opponents, and in a sport where the ball travels faster than the eye can react, one beat early is an entire gap. I spent much of my time away from the court recounting each play once the footage was assembled. Not because I doubted the result, but because the result of a Teqball match only tells half the story. A scoreline of 2-0 may sound easy, but to reach it, the Vietnamese pair had to win two sets, and each Teqball set usually stretches to a threshold where a single lapse in concentration is enough to swing the momentum. That is why I keep the habit of rewinding the tape for three days before writing anything that resembles a conclusion. Three days of reviewing the footage, and then a detail reveals itself. And the detail here was not the decisive shot, but the way the Vietnamese pair handled the passive moments. In Teqball, the most dangerous moment is not when the opponent attacks, but when the ball rebounds off the table on an unpredictable trajectory. At that moment, the player must decide in less than a second: receive with the chest, the thigh, the head, or leave it to the partner. The Indian pair of Dsouza Quimcy Joaquim and Beg Mohamed Anas Imran had excellent individual reflexes, but they tended to act independently. The Vietnamese pair was different: when the ball rebounded, one dropped back to cover the gap while the other pushed forward to press. That coordination does not come naturally. It is the result of repeated training sessions in which two athletes learn to trust each other without looking. What is notable is that Teqball remains relatively new in Vietnam. The number of training courts, domestic tournaments, and properly trained athletes is still modest compared with traditional sports. Yet in the very first appearance of this discipline at an Asiad, the Vietnamese delegation reached the podium. This is a fact that deserves to be recorded carefully, because it says much about how a nation can enter a new sport with the right people at the right time. But it also raises a question I will return to later: is a bronze medal at a debut appearance a sign of a system growing, or merely a moment of brilliance by one or two outstanding individuals? Before answering that, I want to continue recording the rest of the morning of September 20. The Vietnamese Teqball team then missed the chance to add another medal when Ba Truong Giang and Le Anh Khoa lost to the Iraqi pair in the men's doubles bronze-medal match. This defeat should be analysed with data, not emotion. Before believing a rumour, I count every play. And when I recounted the men's doubles match, a pattern emerged: the Vietnamese pair won most of the short rallies, but dropped points in the extended ones. In other words, they could finish points with technique, but lacked the ability to maintain accuracy when the tempo was raised. This is the fundamental difference between mixed doubles and men's doubles in Teqball. In mixed doubles, the overall speed is often slower because the coordination structure is more complex, which creates opportunities for pairs that control the rhythm. In men's doubles, both sides can sustain high intensity across many consecutive rallies, and at that threshold, the loser is usually the one who errs first. The Iraqi pair exploited this. They did not attack harder; they were simply more patient. And in a medal match, patience is sometimes the sharpest weapon. I followed the Vietnamese Teqball team's matches throughout the Games, and what caught my attention was not the number of medals won, but the disparity in consistency between the pairs. The Minh Tan - Gia Nghi pair maintained their form throughout, while some other pairs fluctuated noticeably. This is a problem for any new sport: when the pool of properly trained athletes is small, squad quality is uneven, and a single pair's decline immediately affects the team's overall result. That is why I do not rush to judge the development of Vietnamese Teqball by its medals. Frequency is what spectators overlook, but coaches do not. And the frequency with which Vietnamese pairs reach the podium in the future will be a more honest measure than any single moment of brilliance. That same morning, on the karate mat, another story was being written. That of Bui Ngoc Nhi, in the women's individual kata. Her final result was a bronze medal, but the way she reached it is what deserves analysis. She lost to the host athlete Ono Maho of Japan by 0-5 in her opening match. Looking at that score, many would have assumed her journey was over. But the kata competition format allows those who lose the first match to continue into the bracket for athletes competing for bronze, and that was the path Ngoc Nhi took. In that bracket, she faced Choi Haeun of South Korea and Leong Wai Yee Shannon of Singapore. She defeated Choi Haeun 5-0, then overcame Leong Wai Yee Shannon 4-1. Three matches, three very different scores: a 0-5 loss, a 5-0 win, a 4-1 win. This sudden shift is not coincidental. It shows that Ngoc Nhi adjusted her kata performance after the opening defeat. And in kata, adjusting the performance between matches is an exceptionally difficult task, because each kata is a sequence of movements the body has memorised, and changing it mid-competition demands a high level of mental clarity. Individual kata is not a contest of who strikes faster or harder, but of who can express the balance between power, speed, breathing, and focus. Judges look at posture, the stability of the centre of gravity, the precision of each technique, and above all what experts call the spirit of the kata. A kata can be technically correct yet still rated low if the performer does not bring it to life. That is why kata results are often contested, and also why I am always cautious about judging an athlete by the score alone. In Bui Ngoc Nhi's case, what is notable is that she overcame the 0-5 defeat to the host opponent to win her next two matches. Many athletes, after such a heavy loss, fall into a state of lost confidence, and their movements become rigid in the following match. Ngoc Nhi did not fall into that state. Her 5-0 win over Choi Haeun shows she not only restored her form but raised it above the previous level. This is the quality I consider most important in an athlete competing at the continental level: the ability to recover mentally after defeat. This is not Bui Ngoc Nhi's first achievement. She left her mark at SEA Games 33 and at Asian youth tournaments before arriving at Asiad 20. Looking at her trajectory, one sees a familiar pattern among Vietnamese martial artists: they often begin to shine at the Southeast Asian level, then gradually assert themselves at the continental level. But the leap from Southeast Asia to Asia is not small. At the continental level, opponents come from Japan, South Korea, China, and nations with long karate traditions. The fact that a young Vietnamese athlete can stand on the podium at an Asiad is a signal worth noting, but not enough to assert that the gap has been closed. After winning bronze in individual kata, Bui Ngoc Nhi still had a chance to contend for another medal. She and her teammates entered the women's team kata quarter-finals against Nepal on September 22. This is a detail I want to emphasise, because it shows the diversity of karate: an athlete can compete in both individual and team events, and succeeding in both requires different mental skills. In the individual event, the performer faces the solitude of the mat. In the team event, they must blend into a collective where one person's error affects the whole group's score. The fact that Ngoc Nhi still had a team event to compete in shows she is not only an excellent individual athlete but also capable of contributing to a collective result. Now let us place these two bronze medals in the broader context of the medal table. After nearly half a day of competition, China had risen 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 nation Japan ranked second with 2 golds and 3 bronzes. Macao, South Korea, and Kazakhstan had each won 1 gold, ranking third to fifth respectively. Meanwhile, Vietnam was temporarily ninth with 2 bronze medals. Reading the medal table in the usual way, one sees only a ninth place and some numbers. But read closely, and there is more. China and Japan split the top two positions, reflecting the dominance of Asia's two leading sporting nations, partly from investment and partly from the number of athletes trained across all disciplines. Macao appeared third with 1 gold, which careful observers will recognise as the result of concentrating investment in a few key sports rather than spreading it thin. South Korea and Kazakhstan ranked fourth and fifth, each with 1 gold as well. These are delegations with well-structured training systems and enough athletes to compete across many events. For Vietnam, two bronzes at nearly half a day of competition is not a poor result, but nor is it a result for complacency. A delegation's problem is not how many medals it wins on the first day, but in which disciplines the medals are distributed. If medals come from traditional sports, it reflects the stability of the system. If medals come from new sports such as Teqball, it reflects the ability to seize opportunity. Both have value, but they say different things about the future. I have witnessed many Games, and what I always note is how delegations handle the first moments. The first medals of a Games often have a huge psychological effect. They can build momentum for the whole delegation, or they can create pressure that makes athletes compete more cautiously. Vietnam having two bronzes on the first day, in two different sports, is not a bad start. But the real question is not about the first day. The real question lies in the following days, when medal pressure rises and the strongest opponents enter the competition. This is where I want to offer a different angle, one that may irritate those currently excited by the results. In sports newly added to the programme, such as Teqball at this Asiad, a delegation's performance is often influenced by the draw and the number of participating nations. When a new sport has only a small number of countries sending athletes, the chance of winning a medal for early entrants is higher. This does not diminish the value of Minh Tan and Gia Nghi's medal, because they still had to face specific opponents and win. But it raises a question about whether this result can be repeated once the sport becomes more popular and more nations compete. As someone who has spent years following martial arts and new sports, I have seen this pattern repeat many times. A nation wins a medal in a new sport at the first Games, then cannot sustain the result once the sport develops. The reverse can also be true: some nations miss the early opportunity and lose their position as others rise. So the value of Vietnam's first Teqball medals will be decided by what happens next, not by the moment of winning itself. For Bui Ngoc Nhi and karate, the story is somewhat different. Karate has been in the Games for a long time, and it is a sport in which Vietnam has a tradition. Ngoc Nhi's achievement is therefore not a structural surprise, but a step forward in the trajectory of a young athlete. This is the kind of result one can predict, based on earlier results at SEA Games 33 and Asian youth tournaments. The difference between these two types of medals matters: one comes from seizing opportunity in a new sport, and one comes from sustainable development in a traditional one. Both are necessary, but they require different strategies. If we read the results of the morning of September 20 again, we see a pattern in how medals are created. No medal came easily. The Minh Tan - Gia Nghi pair had to win two sets for bronze. Bui Ngoc Nhi had to overcome two opponents after a heavy defeat for bronze. Both had to fight for every point. Meanwhile, the Ba Truong Giang - Le Anh Khoa pair could not do the same, and they left without a medal. The difference between those who win medals and those who do not, in many cases, is not talent, but the ability to handle the decisive moments. This is where my experience following competition becomes useful. Over more than a decade observing martial arts and combat sports, I have found one thing: the athletes who win medals at major Games are usually not those with the best technique, but those who can maintain mental stability in the most tense moments. And this is true not only of karate or Teqball, but of every combat sport. So what made the difference for the medallists on the morning of September 20? For the Minh Tan - Gia Nghi pair, it was coordination. They did not play as two excellent individuals standing side by side, but as a pair who understood each other's limits and strengths. This is not easy to achieve in Teqball, because the sport requires both players to make decisions in real time, and one wrong decision can ruin an entire rally. Their chemistry is the result of training time, and in a new sport like Teqball, training time is a luxury few possess. For Bui Ngoc Nhi, it was recovery. She lost 0-5 to the host opponent, a result that could demoralise any athlete. But she returned and won her next two matches. In kata, performing the forms demands absolute confidence, because even a trace of hesitation robs the movement of its decisiveness. That she kept her decisiveness after the opening defeat shows a solid mental foundation built over years of competing at different levels. And for the Vietnamese delegation as a whole, the morning of September 20 was a meaningful start, but not a start sufficient for conclusions. A Games lasts many days, and the final result will be decided by the ability to maintain form day after day. Two bronzes on the first day are a foundation, but a foundation that must be reinforced by subsequent results. I still remember the feeling of staying behind in the stands after the matches ended. The venue gradually emptied, the footsteps of the cleaning staff echoed, and I looked down at the Teqball table still marked by the traces of the ball. When the stands are empty, the field begins to tell its true story. The traces on the table do not lie about the players' technique. The athletes' movements on the mat do not either. In the silence after competition, one can see the weaknesses and strengths that the noise of the crowd had covered. In the following days of Asiad 20, I will continue to follow Vietnam's matches, not only to record results but to understand the stories behind them. For Teqball, the question is whether other pairs can rise and add more medals for the sport. For karate, the question is whether Bui Ngoc Nhi and her teammates can go further in the women's team kata against Nepal on September 22. These are questions whose answers will come from the field of play, not from the medal table. What I always remind myself when writing about sport is not to judge an entire process by a single moment. The bronze of Minh Tan and Gia Nghi is a memorable moment, but its true value can only be assessed when looking back after a few years. The bronze of Ngoc Nhi is the same. It is reasonable to see them as indicators of development, not as conclusions about success. Football does not hurry; neither does the writer. And the best way to respect athletes' achievements is to record them accurately, with full context and data, rather than inflating them into something grander than reality. In the hours that follow, I will review the footage, note every play, cross-check against different data sources, and try to find the patterns the naked eye cannot see. That is how I work, and that is how I believe a sports article should be written. Not to praise or criticise, but to understand. Because only when we understand what stands behind an achievement can we speak about it honestly. Returning to the question I posed at the start: are these two bronze medals a sign of a system growing? My answer is: it cannot yet be confirmed. More data, more time, and more Games are needed. But one thing I can confirm: Vietnam appeared on the podium in two very different sports in the same morning, and that shows diversity in the source of medals. This is a positive signal, and it deserves to be recorded seriously. I will end this record with a small observation. Among all the athletes competing on the morning of September 20, the medallists left an impression on me not because they played more beautifully, but because they played with purpose. They knew what they were doing at every moment, and they did not let the emotions of the crowd dictate their decisions. That is the quality of athletes trained over many years, and it is the quality I always look for when following any sport. Because in elite sport, the difference between winner and loser often lies not in talent, but in the ability to stay clear-headed when everything around is tense. And in the coming days, as Asiad 20 continues, I will keep sitting back, reviewing footage, and taking notes. Because the story of a Games is not written in a single morning, but day by day, through every rally, every point, and every moment the stands may have missed.