When the V.League Left Wing Is No Longer a Left Wing: The Story of Forgotten Touchline Runners

In the 78th minute at Hang Day Stadium, a player in a red shirt received a long pass on the left wing. He controlled the ball with the outside of his left foot, then instead of crossing, turned inside and fired a shot with his right foot. The ball flew over the bar. In the stands, an old man shook his head, turned to the person beside him, and said something I could not hear clearly. But I understood. He had watched Vietnamese football for forty years, and he had just seen a left wing that was no longer a left wing in the way he once knew. I noted that moment in my notebook. That page was already full of such scattered jottings, accumulated over many seasons of following Vietnamese football from afar, through screens in Nagoya and brief trips back home. And as the transfer window opened, when V.League clubs spent money on new contracts, I realized there was a trend unfolding quietly but powerfully: traditional wingers are being pushed to the margins. I want to tell this story not as an omniscient tactical analyst looking down from above, but as someone who has spent years sitting in stands, corridors, and canteens to listen. Because behind every tactical diagram on the board, behind every statistic on crosses or cuts inside, are human beings trying to find their place in a game that is changing faster than they expected. In the V.League last season, I counted quite a few teams using formations with two inverted wingers — a left winger playing with his right foot, a right winger playing with his left. This trend is not new globally; it has dominated European football for more than a decade. But its arrival in Vietnam carries a consequence few discuss: the generation of pure touchline wingers, those who live by their ability to dribble down the flank and cross with their natural foot, is becoming an endangered species. I remember a night in Vinh, watching a match at Vinh Stadium. It was one of the rare occasions I was there in person. In the stands, a group of middle-aged fans argued about a young home player. One said: "The kid is great on the left wing, his crosses are accurate." The other replied: "But the coach keeps making him cut inside, wasting that left foot." That small story is precisely the heart of what I want to analyze. To understand why this is happening, we must look at the tactical logic. Inverted wingers offer a clear advantage in modern pressing systems: they can move into central areas, create passing triangles with central midfielders, and most importantly, pose a shooting threat from distance with their natural foot when cutting inside. In a league where space is squeezed and defenses are more organized, having a player who can create something from the second line is a precious weapon. But what is the cost? When every team plays the same formula, football becomes uniform. The same moves, the same cuts inside, the same shots from the edge of the box. And viewers, even unconsciously, begin to feel bored. I have sat through enough evenings in the stands to recognize that. The thrill of a winger beating his marker and whipping a cross into the box is fading. What is notable is that the disappearance of the traditional winger is not a pure improvement. It is a trade-off, and in many cases, a mistaken one. Look at V.League clubs with a tradition of playing down the flanks. For years, they built their game on fast wingers who could stretch opposing defenses and create space for strikers. When these players are replaced by inverted wingers, that style loses its foundation. I followed one specific club — I will not name it, because I want this story to speak to a broader trend rather than an individual or organization. That club had a left-footer on the left wing who scored many goals and provided key assists in two consecutive seasons. In the third season, a new coach arrived and asked him to switch to the right wing, inverted. As a result, he lost confidence, his crosses dropped sharply, and at season's end he was sold to another club. This story is not isolated. In the V.League, I know at least four similar cases in the past three seasons. Traditional wingers are deemed outdated, shifted to other positions, or simply replaced by young players trained in the new model. And when they leave, they take with them a skill that Vietnamese football is gradually losing. Of course, I do not deny the value of inverted wingers. They are the ones who make a difference in many matches. But what I want to question is: are we needlessly discarding a precious tradition? Must every club and every player follow the same path? Football is a game of diversity. When everyone plays the same way, the game loses its appeal. And I believe, deep down, Vietnamese fans understand that. They remember the moves of wingers of old, those who once made entire stadiums rise to their feet. They remember the thrill of a player beating his marker and crossing into the box. I had a conversation with a young V.League coach during a trip back to Vietnam. He told me he understood the value of traditional wingers, but he had to adapt to the general trend. "If I don't play the way other clubs are playing, I will fall behind," he said. That was an honest confession, and it made me think a great deal. The question is: are we chasing a trend without fully understanding its consequences? Are we turning football into a homogeneous sport, where every club plays the same formula and every player is trained to become identical versions of one another? If that is true, we are losing something important. We are losing diversity, creativity, and above all, we are losing moments of surprise — moments when a traditional winger, through a bold move, can change the fate of a match. I do not believe in simple solutions. I do not think clubs should return to playing as they did twenty years ago. But I believe there must be room for diversity. There must be clubs willing to play differently, willing to place faith in players whose skills others consider outdated. That is why I write this article. Not to criticize a tactical trend, but to open a conversation about the value of diversity in Vietnamese football. Because I believe that within that diversity lie beautiful moments we will forever regret if we let them vanish. When the stadium falls silent, I realize I am fortunate to have a voice that can soothe. But that voice cannot replace the moves on the pitch. It can only retell them, preserve them in memory, and hope that one day, a young player will again run down the touchline, beat his marker, and cross into the box — as those before him once did. The ball rolls through generations, but the heartbeat of the fans never changes. And within that heartbeat, there is a place for left wings that never cut inside, that keep running toward the touchline, where dreams begin.