White Nights In Russia And The First Poem

I remember that night clearly. The 2026 World Cup semi-final between France and Belgium. I was a 19-year-old second-year journalism student, sitting in front of the TV in a small rented room in Hanoi. Not every match stays with you forever. But there are moments, lasting only a few brief seconds, powerful enough to etch themselves into your memory, so that years later, you still recall them as an unforgettable part of your personal history. For me, that moment was Eden Hazard embracing Kevin De Bruyne in the tunnel after the match. A tight, wordless hug between two men who had journeyed through an entire tournament together with so much hope. Belgium's golden generation had stopped. Not with a humiliating defeat, but with a proud loss to the eventual champions. The 1-0 scoreline doesn't tell the whole story. It doesn't speak of tireless efforts, lightning-fast counter-attacks, or a defense that fought until the final seconds. It's just a dry number, a period at the end of an emotional journey. I wrote my first match report on that game. I called them 'lions who know how to cry'. The article didn't focus on tactics or complex technical analysis. I wrote about the people. About the tears rolling down cheeks, about embraces of shared solace, about eyes filled with regret. The article was shared over 500 times within the fan community. I realized I didn't truly care about the score. What I cared about was how those people faced defeat. How they picked themselves up after the most painful moments. That's when I understood that football is more than just a sport. It's a story about people, about rising and falling emotions, about aspirations and pain. I started writing with a different rhythm. I used more rhetorical devices, metaphors, and contrasts. I sought the 'human moment' hidden behind each pass. An embrace, a tear, a glance. That's what I wanted to capture, instead of just describing the plays. In 2026, when the pandemic struck, stadiums closed. World football faced an unprecedented silence. I was 21 then, having just completed my thesis on sports journalism. During the Premier League suspension, I created a personal blog called 'Empty Pitch'. I wrote about old matches, games without fans in the stands, only viewers through screens. In particular, I wrote about the 2026 Liverpool vs Barcelona match, a classic of comebacks. I called it an 'imaginary grandstand'. There, tens of thousands of fans still sang through screens, still pounded their hearts with every pass. I interviewed 7 Vietnamese fans from different provinces via video call. They were people who had never set foot in Anfield, never sang 'You'll Never Walk Alone' in the real stands. But their love for Liverpool was no less than anyone else's. They told me about missing the stadium, about memories tied to the team they loved. An uncle selling drinks outside Thong Nhat Stadium, a student crying when her father's team lost. Those stories became material for an article about the grandstand as an 'emotional community'. I learned to let others speak in my writing. To connect the community instead of telling the story alone. Euro 2026 final, Italy vs England. A tense penalty shootout. Italy were crowned champions. But what haunted me most wasn't the trophy lift. It was the image of three young English players of African descent - Bukayo Saka, Jadon Sancho, Marcus Rashford - subjected to racism on social media after missing their penalties. They became villains in a single moment. But they didn't deserve the abuse. I wrote 'The Balls Can Cry Too' on my blog. I argued their failure wasn't an individual's failure. It was the pain of an entire immigrant generation, of those who fought to assert themselves in a society still full of prejudice. The article was shared by a major journalist, sparking a heated discussion about media responsibility towards young players. Since then, I've been conscious of social critique in every piece. I consider the political, cultural, and historical context of each match. When describing a sensitive situation, I try to use inclusive language, avoiding blame. I always ask myself: 'Who is hurting in this moment?' Writing about football, for me, is writing about people. The ball is round, but fate is never perfect. It rolls through the cracks of history, culture, and social conflicts. I don't write about glamorous victories. I write about the people behind them. About tears in the tunnel, tight embraces, flags hung in empty stands. I write about football, but really, I'm writing about ourselves. About how we face defeat, success, difference, and ourselves.