HAGL's journey to rediscover rhythm: When silence speaks louder than cheers

On the training ground in Pleiku, the afternoon sun casts golden light but there are no spectators. Tran Phieu stands alone near the penalty area, silently practicing free kicks. He has no idea that, not far away, I am sitting on an old concrete step, notebook resting on my lap, observing every breath he takes. This is the third consecutive week I have been following HAGL training in this eerie silence. No cheers, no smoke from the stands, just the sound of boots scraping against grass and a few whistles from the coaching staff. For a beat journalist like me, everyone understands: this silence is saying more than any commentary could. HAGL this season is going through its toughest period since returning to the V-League. After three consecutive defeats, the highland club has fallen to the bottom of the league table. But what's notable isn't the statistics — it's how the players move in that silence. I remember the training session five days ago. Minh Phuong, the captain and central defender, was practicing clearing drills. After each clearance, he turned to look at goalkeeper Duc Loi — a gaze lasting three seconds. Three seconds. Enough time for me to understand that it wasn't just about technique, but an unspoken dialogue between two men carrying the same burden. People often ask me what a beat journalist should observe. My answer is always: the breath before the ball rolls. At HAGL, that breath is becoming erratic, like a piece of music losing its rhythm. According to data I collected from their last six matches, HAGL creates an average of only 1.2 dangerous chances per half. This is significantly lower than last season when the team was still competing for a top-six position. But numbers don't tell the whole story. What I see on the pitch is a team struggling with their own instincts. Xuan Truong, the midfielder expected to be the anchor, is showing signs of physical fatigue. In the second training session I observed, he ran at approximately 15% slower than at the start of the season. This isn't a technical issue — it's a body that has played too many matches in too short a time. I have followed many Southeast Asian teams, and what I've noticed is that Vietnamese football has a distinct characteristic: players often play with emotion more than reason. When the team wins, they can produce extraordinary performances. When the team loses, negative emotions seep into every pass, transforming talented players into people merely walking on the pitch. HAGL is currently in a transition phase. In the first phase under coach Lee Tae-ho, the team played high pressing, creating many chances but also exposing space behind. In the transition phase under the new coach, the style has shifted to defensive counter-attacking, but the players haven't had time to adapt to the new rhythm. In a brief conversation with a member of the coaching staff — someone I have known since the 2026 season — he told me that the biggest problem isn't tactical. "The boys need time to believe in the new system," he said, his voice low. "Not believe with their heads, but with their souls." That remark reminded me of what I observed at Guangzhou Evergrande during their coaching transition. The Chinese team has financial advantages, but in return, the performance pressure gives them almost no time to "believe in the system." At HAGL, resources are fewer, but the atmosphere within the team is closer — in the sense of family rather than a corporate organization. Next week, HAGL will host a team riding high on momentum. That match isn't just about three points — it's a test of whether the silences on the training ground can transform into confidence on the matchday pitch. I will be in Pleiku from early morning, as usual. I will sit in my familiar spot, notebook on my lap, and observe how Xuan Truong steps onto the pitch. His eyes, his breath, and perhaps — just perhaps — a slight smile when he sees the goal. Football, ultimately, isn't about numbers. It's about those moments when people decide to believe in each other, even when no one is cheering. In the empty stands, I have learned that silence isn't failure. Sometimes, it's the only way to hear the real heartbeat of a football team.