Kim Sang Sik and the Pakistan Match: The Remaining Pulse of a Team Repairing Itself

In the press conference, when asked about the match against Pakistan, Kim Sang Sik answered slowly. He did not look down at his notes. He looked straight at the questioner, then said that the goal of the Vietnam national team was to take all three points. Behind him, on the screen, the tournament logo lit up and went dark. I sat in the fourth row, noting every breath of the Korean coach. After many years standing in press conferences like this, I have learned one thing: after a defeat, people talk most about what they want to forget. And sometimes, the most telling detail lies in where someone hesitates. Vietnam entered the Pakistan fixture with no chance left of reaching the final. It is a familiar story in regional football: a side long seen as a contender suddenly running out of steam at the worst possible moment. Before that, Kim Sang Sik's team lost to Thailand in a match he himself called "unlucky." He offered an apology to the fans and repeated that the whole squad needed to forget that defeat and look forward. The Pakistan match takes place at Gelora Bung Karno Stadium, Jakarta, and is broadcast live on FPT Play. On paper, this is the most comfortable opponent in the group. But football does not live on paper, especially when a team has just been knocked out of the most important race. After a fall, there are two ways to get up: rise out of momentum, or rise because you understand where you fell. For Vietnam right now, the question is not whether they beat Pakistan, but how they beat them without repeating the old wound. At the press conference, Kim Sang Sik spoke about the coaching staff analysing Pakistan through video and stressed thorough preparation. No formation was disclosed, no approach was named. That is normal before a match, but it is also what makes you think. When a coach talks a lot about attitude and little about how to play, it usually means he is trying to fix a problem that is not on the tactics board. I learned this at Luzhniki. Luzhniki taught me that every move begins with a bad touch. In 2026, when I was 23 and sent to cover my first World Cup, I mispronounced Luka Modric's name three times on live camera. That night I could not sleep; I replayed the tape, counting every breath of the Croatian players as they hugged in celebration. Since then, I have understood that a team is not defined by the moment it erupts, but by how it handles the seconds before. For Vietnam, the moment worth reviewing is not the goal conceded to Thailand, but the way they walked into that match. The most concrete point in the press conference was the goalkeeper. Kim Sang Sik said Patrik Lê Giang was having a problem with his arm, and whether he starts will depend on training and the coaching staff's opinion. This is the only technical variable named in the entire press conference. An uncertain starting goalkeeper is one thing, but a starting goalkeeper publicly put in doubt is another. When a coach is willing to say out loud that his number one keeper is injured, the decision is usually genuinely open, not a media smokescreen. Coaches have a habit of protecting a keeper who is certain to start. For Vietnam, the goalkeeper is not merely the man who stops shots. He is the starting point of every move from the back. If Patrik Lê Giang cannot play, or plays with an arm not yet healed, then the whole way the team builds from its own half will have to be adjusted. A side wanting to impose itself on Pakistan needs a keeper comfortable with the ball at his feet, because the opponent will almost certainly park the bus in front of goal. The rhythm of a match can only be heard when you put your ear to the grass, and right now, that rhythm depends on one arm. As for Pakistan, this is an opponent rated far lower. But precisely because of that, the biggest trap is not the opponent, but themselves. After a defeat, a team can either surge or sag. Against a weaker opponent, the risk of complacency is real. Kim Sang Sik repeated "do our utmost" and "three points" not because he fears Pakistan, but because he fears his own team losing focus. When a coach has to repeat that a match matters, he is usually reminding his own players. I think of the empty-seat months at Brentford. Those empty months taught me that football is a conversation, not a monologue. In 2026, when the Premier League and Championship were suspended by the pandemic, I organised an online forum for more than 400 Brentford supporters. We helped a group of older fans who had never used Zoom record their stories on their phones, then edited them into a 90-minute feature. Those voices convinced the club's board to postpone a season-ticket price rise. I tell this story to make one point: a team only truly transforms when it can listen to those sitting furthest from the pitch. For Vietnam, the people sitting furthest from the pitch right now are the fans. Kim Sang Sik's apology after the Thailand defeat, along with his thanks to the supporters, shows he understands the team does not play for itself alone. But this is also a double-edged sword. An apology can soothe, or it can create the pressure of "win at all costs." If Pakistan is not beaten, today's promises will return as tomorrow's burden. The most telling point lies in how we read this match. The Pakistan game no longer decides a place in the final. It is a match of honour and spirit. For a team already out of contention, the true value of the 90 minutes is not the scoreline, but whether the team keeps its structure and identity. A heavy win can paper over problems still intact. A laboured win can say something more honest. That is why I do not expect a perfect performance. I am interested in how Vietnam reacts when they fall behind, when the opponent sits deep, when the stands grow restless. Those moments are where a team's identity shows. A missed shot is the answer; the question lies in how we get up together. There is one detail I want to state plainly. Throughout the press conference, Kim Sang Sik called the Thailand defeat "unlucky." That is the language of someone protecting his players, and I respect it. But from a professional's view, I always ask: if every defeat is "unlucky," what do we use to fix things? Football has no shortage of losses whose results reflect true strength. The issue is not admitting or denying, but telling apart an accident from a symptom. A mature team is one that dares to look straight at both. The same holds for the tournament. Its name, the composition of its teams, and even the venue are all worth verifying against an official source. A South Asian team like Pakistan appearing in a group seen as a Southeast Asian arena, or a competition branded at a broader scale, are details a professional should confirm before citing. Not to nitpick, but to avoid turning an uncertain detail into a repeated fact. In my trade, a wrong name can outlive a match. But whatever the name, wherever the pitch, the central story is still people. At the centre now is a Korean coach, standing before a national team that needs a reason to believe in itself. He promised nothing grand. He only said the team would do its utmost. Sometimes, in football, that is the only honest thing a coach can say. So when the ball rolls at Gelora Bung Karno, I will not look at the scoreboard first. I will watch how the Vietnamese players call each other's names after every broken move, how they swallow before every corner, how a keeper with an aching arm gets up after an aerial ball. The Pakistan match may not change Vietnam's position in the standings. But it may change how this team sees itself. And for a team that has just fallen, that is what is worth waiting for.