Asiad 20: Vietnam's Women's Team and U23 Are About to Play, and Fans Still Do Not Know Where to Watch

At 1 a.m. on 12 September, I sat in a late-night cafe in Namba, Osaka. Autumn rain fell softly outside the glass. In my phone, a group chat of more than two hundred Vietnamese people working and studying in Kansai kept buzzing. Nobody asked about the starting line-up. Nobody asked who would play striker, who would be in goal. The only question repeated over and over, from a market vendor to a first-year student who had just arrived, was: "Where do we watch?" I re-read the information. Vietnam's women's team face Chinese Taipei at 2 p.m. on 14 September, Group E. Vietnam's U23 face Kuwait at 5 p.m. on 15 September, Group C. Both matches fall inside the football programme of Asiad 20 in Japan. The opening ceremony is not until 19 September. Vietnamese football enters the field before the torch is lit. And as of the morning of 14 September, not a single Vietnamese broadcaster had come forward to say it had acquired the rights. That night I could not sleep. Not because I feared a defeat. Because of something smaller and more stubborn: perhaps none of us would be able to watch. I have covered Vietnamese football since 2026, when I was a young reporter in Madrid writing for domestic sports pages. Thirty-one years later I am sitting in the heart of Japan, in the country where Asia's biggest multi-sport event is about to unfold, and the loudest question from the Vietnamese community around me is not whether the teams will escape their groups. It is: will my household have a screen for this match at all? That is why I have to write. Not a score prediction, but a piece about people being shut out of the stadium in the most literal sense of the phrase. THE BALL IS ROLLING, THE SIGNAL IS NOT Asiad 20 is the twentieth edition of the Asian Games, scheduled to open on 19 September in Aichi and Nagoya, Japan. The previous edition, Asiad 19, branded Hangzhou 2026, was staged in 2026 in China. This year's Games gather 45 countries and territories, more than 11,000 athletes, and 469 events across 43 sports. For Vietnam, football is the emotional spearhead — two teams in action before the ceremony itself, literally playing before the flame. On paper, this is beautiful material to sell to an audience. In practice, it is exposing a gap. The television rights picture for Asiad 20 in Vietnam, as of the morning of 14 September, is as follows: no broadcaster has announced ownership. A Vietnamese entity was reportedly very close to buying the rights more than a week ago, but has since gone silent. The reason remains unclear. Meanwhile five other Southeast Asian nations — Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, the Philippines — have completed their acquisitions. Vietnam sits in the region's "remaining" group, at an event where football is the most anticipated product. I have reported on eight Olympic Games, eight World Cups, several editions of the Giro d'Italia and the Tour de France. One thing I learned from those trips: broadcast rights are a strange kind of contract, because they are not sold to anyone. They are sold to the memory of millions. When the contract is not yet signed, what hangs suspended is not money. It is memory. And here, the memory is suspended at the very moment the largest number of people want to hold on to it. FOOTBALL AS THE HEADLINE PRODUCT If you want to understand why this is more serious than a late announcement, look at the event's own timeline. The opening ceremony is 19 September. But football usually kicks off earlier, because the group stage needs enough time for matches and recovery. At Asiad 20, Vietnam's women play their opener on 14 September and the U23 play on 15 September. Both Vietnamese matches fall inside a window that opens without a ceremony — fans who want to watch must do so before the Games are formally named. This is the commercial crux. At a multi-sport Games, football is the only discipline that can stand alone as a "product". Athletics, swimming and archery matter, but none generates the audience in Vietnam that national-team football does. If a Vietnamese broadcaster buys the whole Asiad 20 package, the biggest slice of audience demand sits with football. And football plays earliest. The paradox: the moment fans want most is the moment rights are least likely to be in place. Rights contracts need time for paperwork, payment, feeds, schedules. Broadcasters need time to sell advertising. Matches do not wait for anyone. I remember a night at Nagai when I saw the opposite — a crowd given what it was waiting for. This time, what is being waited for is the right to look. WHEN FIVE NEIGHBOURS ARE DONE, VIETNAM IS STILL HANGING The regional contrast is what turns this into a problem rather than a simple delay. Thailand has rights. Malaysia has them. Singapore has them. Indonesia has them. The Philippines has them. Five Southeast Asian nations, five markets broadly comparable to Vietnam in football audience size, have completed their purchases. Vietnam has not. The comparison says several things. One, Asiad 20 is a product that sells — not goods nobody wants. Demand exists. Regional broadcasters saw commercial value and closed. So Vietnam's delay is not a case of "nobody wants to broadcast". Two, when all five neighbours have bought and you have not, the gap is no longer only commercial. It becomes a matter of image. Vietnamese fans will compare: why can Thais watch and we cannot? That question is not in any contract, but it is in the blood of any supporter. Three, and more importantly, a market left "remaining" right before kick-off points to a structural issue. When regional broadcasters negotiate early and close, while we negotiate late and stall, the difference usually lies in commercial preparedness, not luck. I have followed many Games and watched this repeat: well-prepared markets tend to close rights months in advance, while markets that close late find themselves reactive — accepting higher prices, narrower terms, or delayed coverage in the first days. Broadcast rights, by nature, are a game for early movers. And the latecomer usually pays in something else: memory, slightly withered. "VERY CLOSE", THEN SILENCE — READING A SIGNAL The most notable detail in this whole story is not "no rights yet". It is that a Vietnamese entity was once reported to be very close to buying, and then went quiet. In media, a "very close" signal that does not close usually tells a specific story. It can be a price disagreement. It can be a payment-guarantee issue. It can be unresolved exclusivity and sub-licensing terms. It can simply be the buyer waiting to bargain. Each possibility leads to a different outcome for fans. If it is a price dispute, the two sides likely meet late, and any deal will be dearer or will come with sub-licensing to a paid platform — meaning the women's and U23 openers may only be available on a subscription service or a little-known secondary channel. If it is technical or preparatory, even a signed deal may not deliver the first few matches in full, as has happened at major sports events when contracts close at the last minute. If the buyer is deliberately waiting until the brink to squeeze the price, the risk shifts: the seller may turn to another regional partner, and Vietnam is left watching. I have no evidence for any of these possibilities. But in this profession I learned one thing: prolonged silence before a major event is almost never a sign of a smooth deal. It is a sign of a deal stuck somewhere — and outsiders can only wait. A few months ago, if someone had asked whether a Games hosted in Japan, home to tens of thousands of Vietnamese, could fall into a rights grey zone, I might have laughed. I cannot laugh now. THE ECONOMICS BEHIND AN EMPTY CONTRACT Buying rights to a multi-sport Games is not like buying rights to a single match. It is a long-horizon investment with its own cost structure and cash flow. Imagine it simply. A broadcaster pays a sum for the right to broadcast Asiad 20 in Vietnamese territory. To recover it, it has three main sources: advertising in and around matches, sponsorship of studio programming, and subscription fees if it streams behind a paywall. For an event running weeks, advertising needs selling time. Sponsors need budget cycles, schedules, and a sense of how deep the national teams will go. A contract signed ten days before kick-off gives a broadcaster roughly ten days to sell advertising — far too little for a large package. Signed two months out, it has a whole sponsorship season. That is why broadcasters want to close early, and why closing late usually forces them to scale back: fewer studio shows, fewer features, less advertising. There is a paradox few notice. With Vietnamese football, audience demand is very high but purchasing power does not always match. Match tickets remain cheap. Paid sports services are not yet widespread. So broadcasters find advertising easier than subscriptions. But advertising needs a big audience — and for a big audience, the broadcast must be easy to reach. That loop explains why buying television rights in Vietnam is not simple. Nobody wants to pay a high price and broadcast for free with no return. But if you charge hard, viewers leave and advertising loses value. A broadcaster must find a balance — and that balance usually emerges very late, often right before kick-off. This is perhaps the hardest part of the story. Fans only see "we cannot watch", while behind it sits a chain of economic decisions none of which is easy. A LESSON FROM YANMAR NAGAI In the summer of 2026, I followed Cerezo Osaka for a local digital magazine. Against Urawa Red Diamonds at Yanmar Nagai, about 25,000 people filled the stands. In the 83rd minute, young midfielder Hiroaki Okuno — number 25, 22 years old, left-footed — received the ball at the edge of the box and drove a low shot into the far corner to seal a 1-0 win. The stadium exploded. I stood in the press area, ears ringing. I scrolled my phone and saw the hashtag #Okuno trending with more than 12,000 posts in an hour. After the match I wrote a long piece about that night: not about tactics, but about strangers hugging in the stands when the final whistle blew. That piece was shared more than 5,000 times. But what I remember most is not the number. It is the feeling after the match, walking out among the crowd, hearing an elderly Japanese man tell his granddaughter: "This is something you will tell your children about." Three years later, at the 2026 World Cup, I hosted a viewing of Japan against Belgium in a small Osaka bar. Japan led 2-0, then lost in the last three minutes to goals from Vertonghen, Fellaini and Chadli. The bar fell silent. About fifty people stayed, singing the national team's songs until 3 a.m. I stayed with them, recording their choked words, and wrote a piece titled "The night we cried, we sang, and nobody wanted to go home". I tell these two stories not for nostalgia. I tell them to say that every one of those memories began with something very simple: there was a screen to watch. No screen, no memory. No memory, and a stadium is just a block of concrete. WHO IS HIT HARDEST When people speak of the risk of "not being able to watch", they usually picture something vague. In reality, that risk divides audiences into very different groups. The first group is domestic viewers, especially outside the big cities. They depend on free-to-air television. If rights sit only on a paid platform, a large share of the audience is locked out — not because they do not want to watch, but because circumstances do not allow it. The second group is overseas Vietnamese. In Japan, South Korea, Taiwan and Europe, hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese live and work. They usually watch via international channels or online platforms. But if no Vietnamese broadcaster carries the event, access is hard unless they take other routes — and those routes are usually unclean, unstable, and wrong. I belong to the second group. And I know the feeling of sitting before a screen, waiting for a signal that may not come. The third group is the players themselves. This is rarely mentioned. Players in a big match want their families, friends and fans back home to see them. If the match is not broadcast, they lose part of their mental fuel. The feeling of "playing for the whole country" cannot exist if the whole country cannot see. The fourth group is the sponsors of Vietnam's delegation. They pay to appear alongside the team. If matches are not televised, they lose exposure, and sponsorship relationships for future Games are affected. This is a ripple effect few see immediately. An empty stadium does not make a match smaller, it only makes the memory larger. But an empty screen makes the match disappear. THE "TOP TIER" STORY AND THE EXPECTATION TRAP At the previous Asiad, Vietnam was for the first time a top seed, placed in the "upper tier" of men's football. That was a milestone in Vietnamese football's development. It was also a trap. Seeding is administrative. It speaks to ranking based on past results and draw mechanics, not to present strength. Being seeded "upper tier" means a lighter group on paper, but does not mean Vietnam is stronger than Japan, South Korea, Iran or Saudi Arabia. This is something the rights story itself concedes: the team is not highly rated despite being seeded. This internal tension is a feature of modern Vietnamese football. Fans want to believe the team is strong. Media want an eager audience. The federation wants atmosphere. But the team itself, looking at its real level, knows it is still climbing a slope short of the summit. The result is a fragile state of expectation: enough to sell tickets, fragile enough to shatter. I do not dislike optimism. Football needs it. But optimism must travel with preparation. And when it comes to preparation, the broadcast-rights question is a fairly precise test. It sits off the pitch, independent of players' talent, dependent only on organisational work. By that test, we are late. WHOSE JOB IS THIS? A common misunderstanding is that broadcast rights are the federation's business. They are not. Rights are a commercial matter between the owner — for the Asian Games, the Olympic Council of Asia and the host organising committee, with football possibly sub-licensed — and the buyer, a broadcaster or platform. A football federation can support, broker channels, and help share costs among parties, but cannot buy the rights itself in place of a broadcaster. That means when rights are not closed, responsibility cannot all be laid on a sporting body. The main responsibility lies with the market. But one more thing must be said. When the market allows a situation where kick-off is almost upon us and nothing is closed, both the leaders of the media industry and the leaders of sporting organisations carry a share of responsibility, because both know the importance of securing rights early for national teams. Fans do not need to know who is right or wrong. But fans need to know: can we watch? And that question, so far, has no official answer. A SMALL STORY WORTH THINKING ABOUT On the morning of 13 September, I had breakfast at a small shop near Tennoji station. An elderly Vietnamese woman selling banh mi on the corner asked me, in Vietnamese mixed with Japanese: "The women's team plays tomorrow, right? Tell me where to watch." I did not know how to answer. I said to wait and see, that there might be an announcement. She smiled: "I sell until late, and when I get home I sleep. The only time I can watch is while I sell." A 62-year-old banh mi seller in Osaka, who has lived in Japan for more than twenty years, has never watched a live Vietnamese football match since leaving home. She is not a demanding viewer. She just needs a free channel at the time she is free. When rights are not closed, the loser is not only the die-hard fan. The loser is her. I KEEP THE RHYTHM OF THE STORY Thirty-one years in this job, I have been through many stadiums, many cities, many sleepless nights. I learned that a match is not only 90 minutes. A match has a premise and an aftermath. The premise is how people prepared for it. The aftermath is how they remember it. Both are hanging right now in Vietnam. People do not remember the score, they remember why they did not leave the bar. But if no bar opens to watch, they will only remember that they missed it. I keep the rhythm of the story, because I have seen it fall and rise many times. But this time, the rhythm is off. Not off because of emotion. Off because a signal is missing. WHAT MATTERS IS NOT THE GROUP DRAW When a Games approaches, people usually discuss group draws, qualification chances, young talent, the next generation. But right now, the most telling thing about Vietnamese football is not the group draw. It is a contract. Between the women's team and the U23, both play within two days. Both have prepared physically, tactically, for recovery. Both will play in Japan, in stadiums full of international fans. Both will do everything a player can do. The rest — the part beyond players' feet — is hanging. That is why I am not writing a score prediction today. I want to write about the gap in front of the screen. ANOTHER VIEW: PERHAPS THIS IS NOT A TRAGEDY There is another way to see this, which I think needs to be said out loud, even if it is not easy to hear. Perhaps the fact that rights are not closed is not a sign of total failure. Perhaps it is a sign of a market learning to price correctly. Look at the recent past. At many major Games, Vietnamese rights have often been closed just before kick-off. This is an established pattern, not a new phenomenon. Broadcasters wait to gauge demand. Rights partners wait to optimise price. Fans wait, fret, but in the end there is a channel to watch. If that holds, this story will end within days with an announcement. It may be an official broadcast. It may be a streaming platform. It may be a hybrid of television and online. But it will come. Yet I do not fully believe the optimistic script, because there are signs this time is different. First, the silence after the "very close" signal has lasted longer than usual. In commercial talks, prolonged silence usually signals deadlock, not progress. Second, the regional contrast — five Southeast Asian nations already closed — shows this is not a shared regional difficulty. It is Vietnam's own. Third, the regional economic backdrop and the shift in viewing behaviour from traditional television to online platforms may make broadcasters more cautious before committing large sums to a package whose advertising they cannot be sure of selling. Three signs together do not create a bleak outlook. But they mean this is no longer an ordinary delay. And here is the most important point I want to make: whatever the outcome, this story exposes a gap in how Vietnam prepares commercially for major sports events. That gap is not a question of player talent. It is a question of organisation, of media strategy, of how a growing sports market learns to operate in step. And that step, currently, is slower than the roll of the ball. WHEN THE TEAM'S RHYTHM DOES NOT LIVE IN PLAYERS' FEET The team's rhythm does not live in players' feet, it lives in the shared heartbeat of a whole city. I believe this after years in the stands. But for that shared heartbeat to exist, a signal line from stadium to home is needed. On 14 September, at 2 p.m. Vietnam time, the women's team plays. On 15 September, at 5 p.m., the U23 play. In those two windows, millions of Vietnamese worldwide will look for a screen. In Hanoi, Saigon, Osaka, Tokyo, Taipei, Seoul, Berlin, Melbourne. They will look. The simplest question — where do we watch — still has no answer. As someone who follows the team in Japan, I can say the stadiums in Aichi and Nagoya will have Vietnamese in them. They will sit there, carrying flags, carrying shirts, singing the national anthem when the music plays. Without rights, most Vietnamese will only know the result through messages and social media. And that, to me, is an unnecessary loss. I think of the banh mi seller in Tennoji. I think of the group chat of more than two hundred in Kansai. I think of everyone who has waited months for this match, rearranged work, prepared food, worked out the timing. They do not need a promise. They need an announcement. SIGNALS TO WATCH IN THE COMING DAYS If you want to follow this systematically, here are the points to watch. One, any official announcement from a broadcaster or authority about owning the rights. Such an announcement, even late, resolves the biggest question. Watch the format: free or paid, main channel or secondary, whether it covers the two openers. Two, the identity of the buyer. It says much about how the market is positioning the event: a young streaming platform winning the rights shows a shift; a traditional broadcaster winning shows the old distribution channel's stability. Three, the results of the two openers. If the women's team and U23 win, the rights story may be overshadowed for a few days. If they lose, it may be overshadowed differently — and that is good for neither side. Four, how other Southeast Asian nations broadcast. If Thais, Malaysians and Indonesians get free-to-air television, comparative pressure on Vietnam rises, and may push a faster solution. A FORWARD-LOOKING THOUGHT I do not know how the night of 14 September will end. Perhaps I will sit before a screen, with the group chat of more than two hundred, and sing myself hoarse when the women's team score. Perhaps I will get the result by phone, read the news online, and promise myself to find another way for the next match. Both are possible. But what I think we should take from this story is a lesson about the rhythm of preparation. Vietnamese football has grown on the pitch. We have players, coaches, leagues, audiences. The rest — the commercial side, the media side, the distribution side — needs to grow in step. Otherwise we will keep falling into situations like this, over and over, every Games. The banh mi seller in Tennoji will open her shop tomorrow. She will not know whether the match is broadcast until it is too late. That is not her fault. It is the fault of a system that has not learned to tell its fans the story at the right time. There is a line I once wrote, and still believe: nostalgia is how a stadium tells its story when no one is left in the stands. At my age, people do not count trophies; they count the nights a whole city stayed awake. On the night of 14 September, many cities will stay awake. The only question is: awake to watch, or awake waiting for an announcement. And that answer, so far, lies beyond our reach.