South Korea U23 vs Vietnam U23: A Team Built to Win and the Gaps That Are Not About Height

Seventeen thirty, Vietnam time, on the twenty-fifth of September. Paloma Mizuho stadium in Nagoya. It is an afternoon that anyone who has sat long enough in the stands of any training centre will recognise as familiar: every team has a different way of walking onto the pitch, and that way of walking tells you more than any registration list ever will.

I remember a late afternoon session not long ago, when I was following a youth side preparing for a major tournament. There was a player barely under one metre seventy, standing lost in a forest of far larger red shirts. He did not win a single duel in the first forty-five minutes. Yet he was the one who made twelve intelligent off-ball runs, opening spaces nobody else noticed. I wrote about that. And I hold to it still: the training ground does not lie, we are simply not patient enough to listen.

The story in Nagoya is the same. People are talking endlessly about height, about the names playing in Europe, about the nine players summoned from the United Kingdom. They are building a statistical wall in front of Vietnam U23. But every wall has a crack, and the crack usually lies where the eye does not go.

A quarter-final at Asiad 20 is not decided by who is taller, but by who understands their own rhythm better in the final twenty minutes.

That is what I want to dissect here, through the eyes of someone who has spent most of his career on the touchline, recording what television cameras never show.

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The rhythm of a match is not in the scoreline, it is in the silences between phases of play. And to hear those silences, we must start by understanding what these two teams were built to do.

Earlier this year, Vietnam U23 beat South Korea U23 on penalties, after the sides drew two-two across one hundred and twenty minutes of two halves and two periods of extra time. That was the third-place match of the AFC U23 Asian Cup 2026. A fine memory, a milestone worth remembering. But anyone who thinks that memory can be repeated mechanically in Nagoya is misreading the nature of youth football.

Because the South Korean side at Asiad 20 has changed enormously from the one in January. They called up nine players who play in Europe to return home for the Asian Games. These players mostly feature for clubs in the United Kingdom, including England, Scotland and Wales. Speed and a strength-based style are likely to be what they bring against Vietnam U23.

That tells a truth observers sometimes overlook: South Korea have not brought a U23 side in the pure sense of the age bracket. They have brought a purpose-built tournament squad, where three over-age players serve as pillars of experience. Midfielder Lee Gi Hyuk, twenty-six, currently at Gangwon FC. Yang Hyun Jun, twenty-four, at Celtic in Scotland. Eom Ji Sung, twenty-four, at Swansea City in England.

Those three names give South Korea U23 a professional foundation far deeper than Vietnam U23, whose players are largely at the twenty-one age threshold.

This is the crux: the objectives of the two teams at Asiad 20 are very different, and that difference shapes everything.

Vietnam U23, along with sides such as Japan U23 and Uzbekistan U23, are using many young faces from the twenty-one age group, aiming at the Los Angeles 2028 Olympics. It is a long-term strategy, an investment in the next cycle. South Korea U23, by contrast, are targeting the gold medal at this year's Asian Games. They are the hungriest side in men's football at the Asiad across eras.

That is why they routinely add over-age players and use many Europe-based players for the Asiad, and why they won the last three editions, in 2026, 2026 and 2026.

Three consecutive titles. Near-total dominance at a tournament Asian football still regards as the second-most prestigious after the Asian Cup.

But I want to tell a different story, one the championship numbers do not finish.

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There is something the Korean press understands better than anyone: every dominance carries a price. And the price of a team built to win is the pressure to win, a pressure that forbids them from playing as conquerors who have nothing to lose.

Ahead of this match, the Korean media have been notably cautious about Vietnam U23. The Daum newspaper commented that although coach Kim Sang Sik, who knows Korean football well, is not leading Vietnam U23, South Korea U23 cannot be complacent. They wrote: "In recent years, Vietnam U23 have emerged as a formidable dark horse of Asian football, relying on their solid defence and their characteristic strong team spirit."

Daum continued: "This is no easy opponent. Even the absence of coach Kim Sang Sik is acting as a catalyst driving the competitive spirit of the Vietnamese players."

They added that the team is still run on Kim Sang Sik's tactical framework. They play solidly, pragmatically, pressing hard, preventing opponents from building play.

I read those lines and see a respect that is not diplomatic courtesy. Koreans do not easily praise a Southeast Asian opponent if they truly believe the match will be a stroll. Their word choice — "formidable dark horse", the emphasis on "solid defence" and "team spirit" — shows they have studied Vietnam U23 closely.

But I also read something else.

When a team built to win begins talking about the opponent's spirit, it is usually because they have not found a way to break that opponent's tactical structure. Spirit is what people mention when they have nothing more concrete to mention. And in this case, they may well be right to worry.

Because Vietnam U23 under Kim Sang Sik are not a team that plays beautifully. They are a team that plays effectively. And in football, especially knockout football, effectiveness beats beauty in the decisive moments.

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Now let us talk about height, the thing everyone is talking about.

Physically, the South Korea U23 players are genuinely imposing. Goalkeeper Kim Joon Hong is one metre ninety. Centre-back Park Seong Hoon is one metre eighty-three. Kim Jo Soo is one metre ninety-two. Shin Min Ha is one metre eighty-six. Central midfielder Lee Gi Hyuk is one metre eighty-four. Winger Park Seung Soo is one metre eighty-four. Forward Lee Young Jun is one metre ninety-three, and Kim Myung Jun is one metre eighty-two.

This is a squad with systematic height advantage, not a few outliers. From goal to attack, they hold advantages in space and power in aerial duels.

The physical contrast with Vietnam U23 is stark. Our starting eleven from the beginning of the tournament has usually had only two players over one metre eighty: goalkeeper Cao Van Binh at one metre eighty-four, and centre-back Pham Ly Duc at one metre eighty-two.

The rest are relatively short, which can create significant disadvantage against the tall Korean side in aerial balls and duels.

That is a fact. I will not soften it with empty encouragement.

But I will also not let it become a sentence.

Because across my career observing the game, I have learned a lesson I want to share with those worried about Vietnam U23. Height decides who wins the ball. Rhythm decides who controls the match.

And a match is not counted by duels won, but by goals scored.

Think about this. A tall side like South Korea will try to turn the game into an aerial war. They will cross often. They will force the ball into the box at all costs. They will exploit set pieces, where height is maximised.

But to cross, they need time and space on the flanks. To force the ball into the box, they must beat the first pressing line. To exploit set pieces, they must first win possession in the opponent's half.

This is precisely where Vietnam U23's tactical structure can make a difference.

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I want to tell you about an afternoon when I sat on the edge of a training pitch, watching a small side prepare to face a much bigger one. Their coach did not mention the opponent's height once. He spoke only of two things: the distance between lines, and the moment of transition.

He asked his players to keep a maximum of fifteen metres between the three lines. He asked them never to expose the gap between centre-back and full-back. He asked them to switch from defence to attack within three seconds of winning the ball.

That small side drew their first match and won their second.

I tell this story to illustrate a principle I believe applies to Vietnam U23 against South Korea U23. When you cannot win a game, you must refuse to play it.

Vietnam U23 cannot win the aerial game. So they must refuse it. How do you refuse a game the opponent wants to impose? By never letting them play it.

That sounds simple, but it demands tactical discipline of the highest order. Every player must know his position in the defensive structure. Every player must know when to press and when to drop. Every player must know that one small error in spacing can open a gap that the tall opponent will exploit ruthlessly.

And this is why I believe the absence of coach Kim Sang Sik from the dugout, if the Korean media's reading is correct, could actually be a positive.

I know this sounds paradoxical. How can missing a coach be good?

But think again. A well-built tactical framework does not depend on its creator being on the bench. It depends on how deeply the players have absorbed it. And when a team plays without a leader at their side, they tend to take more responsibility, make more decisions, and fight harder for one another.

That is the catalyst Daum mentioned. And I believe it is real.

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But let us return to something more concrete. I do not want this to be empty encouragement. I want to talk about numbers, about situations, about details I have observed across the tournament.

Let us start with South Korea's back line.

When you have a centre-back one metre ninety-two like Kim Jo Soo, you tend to feel safe in aerial balls. But you also risk becoming dependent on his aerial ability. And when a tall centre-back faces small, quick players who like to move into the gap between centre-back and full-back, he often struggles to turn.

This is a weakness Vietnam U23 can exploit. Not by trying to head with them, but by forcing them to move along low, fast balls into the spaces behind the defensive line.

Think about how our forwards can force a tall centre-back out of central position. A diagonal run, a sudden change of direction, a dart into the pocket between centre-back and full-back. All of this requires coordinated combination play and a high level of reading the game.

And here, the inexperience of Vietnam U23 can be compensated by a kind of naivety that is positive. Young players sometimes play without fear, because they have not suffered enough painful defeats to know fear.

Young players are like unfinished music; do not rush to correct the notes before you have heard the whole melody. That is why I believe using many twenty-one-year-olds is not a regression, but a long-term investment for the Los Angeles 2028 cycle.

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Let us talk about South Korea's midfield.

With Lee Gi Hyuk at one metre eighty-four, playing professionally at Gangwon FC, South Korea U23 have a central midfielder who can both duel well and distribute effectively. He is a key link connecting defence and attack, and a source of dangerous line-breaking passes.

Beside him, Yang Hyun Jun of Celtic brings speed and the ability to dribble at pace, something Korean football has always prided itself on. Eom Ji Sung of Swansea City brings tactical thinking and delicate touches in tight spaces.

This is a midfield combining power, speed and technique. A midfield any side in Asia would have to respect.

But there is something I always watch when sides are assembled from many overseas players. Cultural difference. A player in Scotland, a player in England, a player in Korea. They come from three different football environments, with three different understandings of tempo, of handling situations, of reacting when trailing.

Assembling them into a single block is not easy, especially in a tournament as condensed as the Asian Games. This is where Vietnam U23, built from players who have long known each other, may hold an advantage in cohesion.

The strong team spirit the Korean media mention, I believe, stems from Vietnamese players having played together enough to understand each other without speaking.

A collective does not fall apart starting from a defeat, but from silent meals. Conversely, a strong collective starts from meals full of laughter, where each player knows the man beside him will fight for him to the last breath.

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Now set pieces. This is where height can truly decide a match.

In modern football, set pieces account for roughly thirty per cent of goals in major competitions. In youth tournaments the rate is often higher, because young players lack the experience to defend set pieces effectively.

With eight players over one metre eighty, South Korea U23 hold a clear edge in these situations. They will try to maximise corners and free kicks near the box.

So what must Vietnam U23 do?

The answer lies in man-marking rather than zonal defending. When the opponent has many tall players, man-marking assigns clear responsibility to each defender and avoids leaving men free.

But man-marking carries risk. If one player is blocked, if one player is a step late, a gap opens immediately. And against a side of South Korea's quality, one small gap can lead to a goal.

This is why spacing and communication in the back line are paramount. I have seen a short but well-organised defence succeed against a much taller side. Their secret was not height, but that every player knew exactly what to do in every situation.

The training ground does not lie, we are simply not patient enough to listen. And what I have heard from Vietnamese youth training in recent years is a growing focus on organised defensive structure, not just individual effort.

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There is another aspect rarely discussed but, to me, crucial: the five-substitution rule.

In modern football the five-sub rule has entirely changed how coaches approach matches. It allows deep squads to rotate flexibly and sustain high pressing intensity throughout.

But it also turns the final twenty minutes into a war of attrition.

For South Korea U23, their substitutes are of similar quality to their starters. That means they can introduce fresh, energetic players exactly when the opponent begins to tire.

For Vietnam U23, this poses a huge challenge of stamina and endurance. If we press hard in the first half, will we have enough to sustain that intensity for ninety minutes?

This is the question the coaching staff must answer with concrete tactics. Selective pressing, only at certain moments. Or sitting deep and countering. Or a blend, depending on the flow.

The key is a clear plan for each phase, and the flexibility to adjust when needed.

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I want to add a factor I consider decisive: the first twenty minutes.

In many matches between a strong and a weaker side, the first twenty minutes decide everything. If the weaker side can hold out without conceding, they gain confidence and begin to believe they can do something.

Conversely, if the stronger side scores early, the match usually turns one-way.

For Vietnam U23, keeping a clean sheet in the first twenty minutes is objective number one. It requires maximum focus, strict tactical discipline, and a little luck.

But it also requires something I believe matters more: the courage to play.

There is a difference between passive defending and active defending. Passive defending is worrying only about not conceding. Active defending is trying to control the match, create chances, apply pressure even without the ball.

Vietnam U23 must defend actively. They must show South Korea U23 that every attack costs effort and concentration.

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Now I want to speak of something I call "the rhythm of patience".

In football some teams play a fast, urgent rhythm, attacking continuously. That is the rhythm of sides who believe in their strength, who believe they will outscore the opponent.

But some teams play a slow, patient rhythm, waiting for the moment. That is the rhythm of sides who believe in solidity, who believe they will exploit the opponent's mistakes.

South Korea U23 will play the first rhythm. Vietnam U23 should play the second.

And the real battle is a battle of rhythms. Whoever imposes their rhythm wins.

If the match is fast and urgent, with many aerial balls and set pieces, South Korea hold the edge. If it is slow and tight, with few gaps and few clear chances, Vietnam have a chance.

This is why I believe controlling tempo is Vietnam U23's most important task. They must slow the game, disrupt the opponent's build-up, make every passing minute a struggle.

And they must do so without crude fouls, because cards only make things harder.

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There is a question I always ask when watching a big side against a small one: what if the small side scores first?

The answer depends on many factors, but usually it changes everything. The big side attacks frantically, and the small side endures terrible pressure.

But the big side also exposes more space behind. And that is the chance for the small side to launch lightning counters.

If Vietnam U23 can score first, the match becomes fascinating. Because then South Korea U23 find themselves in a situation they never wanted: forced to attack, forced to take risks, forced to play as a team chasing the game.

And that is a posture a team built to win is often uncomfortable in.

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Stars do not truly emerge from a screen, but from the eyes of those in the stands.

I repeat this because I believe in youth football the decisive moments usually come from players television never notices. Not the scorers, but those who make the goals possible.

A committed tackle in midfield. An off-ball run to stretch the defensive line. A calm pass under intense pressure. None of this shows on the scoreboard, but together they create the final result.

When a player is criticised for not scoring, I often wonder: did the critic notice how many chances that player created? How many times he stretched the defence? How many minutes he worked defensively?

This is how I try to read matches. Not by the numbers on the screen, but by what actually happens on the pitch.

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Let us talk about something I consider among the most important in knockout matches: concentration.

In a group game, a small mistake can be fixed in the next match. In a quarter-final, a small mistake can be the end of the tournament.

Knockout pressure can make young players commit errors they never make in training. An inaccurate pass. An indecisive clearance. A lapse in marking at a set piece.

For South Korea U23 the pressure is even greater, because they carry the expectation of a football nation that has won three consecutive titles. Any result short of gold will be treated as failure.

For Vietnam U23 the pressure is lower. We came to Asiad 20 with a young squad, looking to the future. We got out of the group. We reached the quarter-final. Anything more is a bonus.

This difference in psychological pressure can be an advantage for Vietnam U23. But it is also double-edged. If the players enter with a nothing-to-lose mindset, they can play freely and creatively. If they enter with a mindset of having accepted defeat before kick-off, they have no chance.

This is where the coaching staff matter. They must convey that facing South Korea U23 is an opportunity, not a sentence. They must make the players believe they can do something.

And that belief must be built not on empty encouragement but on concrete plans, clear tactics, achievable tasks.

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I want to speak of something I call "the power of preparation".

Across my years following Vietnamese youth sides, I have noticed something interesting: when we have full preparation time for a big match, when we can study the opponent closely, when we can build a detailed plan, we usually perform above expectations.

Relegation seasons teach you to hear a team's heartbeat from within. And big continental matches teach you that preparation can compensate for a lack of talent and experience.

Vietnam U23 do not have much preparation time, given the density of Asiad. But they have another advantage: they have played many matches together since the tournament began, understanding each other better and trusting each other more.

That mutual understanding is a team's most precious asset. It cannot be bought, cannot be taught in one session. It can only be built over time, through matches together, through hard moments and sweet wins.

And sometimes that asset is what makes the difference in matches where everything else is against you.

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Now something important but often forgotten: adaptability during the match.

Any plan can be broken after kick-off. An early goal. A surprise red card. An injury to a key player. These can happen at any time, and the side that adapts faster holds the edge.

For a young squad like Vietnam U23, adaptability is a big question. Young players tend to cling rigidly to the original plan even when the situation has changed. They need guidance, adjustment from the bench.

But they also have an advantage: the flexibility of youth. They are not yet boxed in by old patterns, not limited by hard-to-break habits. Sometimes naivety is an advantage, because it lets them do what more experienced players would not dare.

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I want to speak of something I believe will decide this match: heart.

In football, technique and tactics can be coached. Fitness can be built. But heart, fighting spirit, the hunger to win, cannot be taught. They must come from within each player.

And I believe Vietnam U23's players have that heart. I have seen it before, when they fought to the last breath, when they refused to give up despite trailing, when they played for each other and not just themselves.

That is something South Korea U23, assembled from many sources, may not have.

And in a match where everything else favours the opponent, sometimes heart is what decides.

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I want to close this analysis with a message to Vietnamese fans.

This match will be hard. South Korea U23 are a strong side, with quality players, with superior experience and physicality. They came to Asiad 20 to win gold, and they have reason to believe they will.

But football is not played on paper. It is played on grass, with sweat, with tears, with moments of truth.

And in those moments, anything can happen.

Earlier this year, Vietnam U23 beat South Korea U23 on penalties, after a two-two draw across one hundred and twenty minutes. Anyone who thinks that cannot be repeated has forgotten that football is the sport where the impossible happens regularly.

What matters is that our players enter the match believing they can do it. Not blind belief, but belief built on preparation, on plan, on understanding themselves and the opponent.

And I believe they have that belief.

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The match takes place at seventeen thirty Vietnam time on the twenty-fifth of September at Paloma Mizuho stadium in Nagoya. The Korean side are highly rated ahead of kick-off. They have dominated men's football at the Asiad in recent years, winning three consecutive editions.

But a champion is not someone who never loses. A champion is someone who knows how to rise after each defeat. And Vietnam U23 have shown they know how to rise.

I will sit somewhere in the stands, watching with the eye of a man who has spent a career recording the smallest details. I will note the off-ball runs nobody notices. I will note the silences between phases. I will note the rhythm of the match, the thing the scoreline never fully tells.

And after the final whistle, I will write about what I heard. Because football, in the end, always begins with the smallest things, the ones only the patient hear.

The training ground does not lie. Nor does the pitch. Ninety minutes in Nagoya will tell us the true story of two teams, a story no registration list can tell in full.

When Vietnam U23 walk out at Paloma Mizuho, they carry not only the dream of a team. They carry the dream of a rising football nation, of millions watching from home.

And sometimes a dream big enough can change a match. Big enough to produce a goal. Big enough to produce a miracle.

I do not know the result of this match. Nobody does, and that is what makes football beautiful.

But I know one thing: Vietnam U23 will not walk out as a team that has already surrendered. They will walk out as a team coming to play, to fight, to prove that dark horse is not an empty label.

And for me, that is already enough to make an afternoon worth watching.

See you in Nagoya. Whatever the result, I will be there, recording every moment.