The Pulse of V.League: When Owner Money Decides the Fate of a League

Near eleven at night at Hang Day Stadium, when the floodlights had long since gone dark and only the sound of a bamboo broom scraping across stand B remained, a man of about sixty named Bay was still sitting on step number seven, where he had sat for twenty-three years. He told me that in the 2026 season, when Cong An Ha Noi was still playing in the second division, this stand held barely three thousand spectators. But that afternoon, on a sweltering April day, when his team scored in the eighty-ninth minute, all three thousand stood up at once, and the roar echoed back into the technical area and made the visiting coach cover his ears. He said: 'Vietnamese football is not held up by owners, but by people like me — people who have nothing except an afternoon and their faith.'

I wrote that sentence in my notebook, because it is the key to a much larger story: the story of Vietnamese football's financial structure, and why a football nation with more than a hundred million fans still lives on the breath of a few individuals.

For nearly two decades, V.League 1 has become one of the most emotionally compelling leagues in Southeast Asia, yet one of the least economically sustainable systems. This is not because there is no money — it is because the money comes from a single source, and when that source dries up, an entire club can disappear within a single season. This is a structural problem, not the story of any one person.

The revenue structure of a V.League club is inverted compared to regional standards. While Japanese, Korean, and Chinese clubs derive 60-70% of their revenue from commercial and broadcasting sources, most V.League clubs depend on direct funding from their owners, typically ranging from 70-90%. In other words, the revenue of Vietnamese clubs does not come from the market but from the pockets of a few individuals. This is the crux of what I have learned over years of following regional football and returning to observe V.League from a structural perspective.

I remember a conversation with a sporting director of a veteran V.League club. He told me something I had to write down: 'We don't sell tickets in order to survive. We sell tickets in order to feel that the fans are still there.' The ticket revenue of an average V.League club accounts for only ten to thirty percent of the overall budget. Everything else — wages, transfers, training camps, tours — is borne by the 'boss'. In many cases, the owner has to cover losses worth billions of dong each season just to keep the club standing in the top flight.

This is why when a major corporation withdraws, a club with a long history can vanish within months. You do not need to look far — names like Ha Noi FC, B.Binh Duong, Thanh Hoa, Song Lam Nghe An, and Hoang Anh Gia Lai have all gone through cycles of owner withdrawal or ownership transfer at various levels. Each time this happens, thousands of fans must learn to call a new team's name, a name that may last only a few seasons before disappearing like a short advertisement.

What is worth noting is that V.League does not lack the money to become more professional — it lacks the structure to turn money into shared assets. The broadcasting revenue of V.League, if distributed evenly among clubs, has been calculated at only a few billion dong per season — far lower than a single major match in Europe. Revenue from shirt sponsorship, stadium advertising boards, and other commercial activities, though improved in recent years, is still not enough to create a stable cash flow. As a result, each club must still rely on the person behind it, and each owner has a different approach to investment — some see it as a social responsibility, some as a branding channel, and only a few see it as a long-term sporting project.

The key point is this: the 'boss' model is not inherently bad — it is only dangerous when it becomes the only model. In the absence of a revenue-sharing mechanism, a centralized investment fund, and a broadcasting system with real market value, clubs are forced to rely on their owners — a reasonable, even the only, choice for survival. The question is not 'should we depend or not', but 'how do we reduce dependency while still preserving the pulse of the league'.

In many conversations with people working in Vietnamese football, I have noticed a paradox: the people who understand this fragility best are the least able to change it. Coaches, technical directors, players — all know that if the 'boss' withdraws, they will need a new landing spot. But none of them has the authority to decide where the money comes from. This is a system in which responsibility and power are separated, and that separation is precisely what makes every long-term plan fragile.

Beyond this, a rarely mentioned issue is the migration of young talent out of the domestic system before they can become assets of the club. While academies such as Hoang Anh Gia Lai JMG or PVF have produced generations of quality players — Nguyen Cong Phuong, Nguyen Tuan Anh, Luong Xuan Truong, Nguyen Van Toan, Nguyen Quang Hai, Do Hung Dung — most of them spent periods abroad or moved to clubs with stronger financial resources. Each time a young player leaves, the training club loses part of its asset, and the league loses part of its appeal. This loop makes it increasingly difficult for clubs to build long-term squads, and increasingly dependent on owners to buy replacements.

I spent many afternoons at the training center of a youth football academy in central Vietnam to observe this. Children of twelve and thirteen training under nearly forty-degree heat, and in their eyes was a light I have only seen in Brazilian players in their youth: the belief that football would lift them out of poverty. But the question I did not dare ask the coaches there was: 'If these children succeed, will this club be able to keep them?' And I knew the answer, because I had watched too many young talents leave the moment they were old enough to sign professional contracts.

From an institutional perspective, AFC club licensing regulations are creating a double pressure: they force clubs to be more financially transparent, while making clubs dependent on their owners more vulnerable. To participate in the AFC Champions League or AFC Cup, Vietnamese clubs must meet a series of criteria regarding facilities, governance structure, and financial position. While these criteria are designed to raise professionalism, they inadvertently create a barrier for smaller clubs — teams without wealthy owners will struggle to meet the requirements for stable revenue and independent governance.

This leads to a paradox: the more professional the league becomes, the fewer clubs can compete at the highest level. Teams like Ha Noi FC or Cong An Ha Noi — with the backing of major corporations — can meet AFC standards, but the rest of the league cannot. As a result, the gap between the leading group and the rest widens, and the league loses competitiveness — one of the most important factors in attracting spectators and sponsors.

Counterintuitive perspective: V.League's problem is not a lack of money, but a lack of mechanisms to turn money into shared value. When I read comments on social media about Vietnamese football, I often see two opposing views. One side argues that V.League needs more money from major corporations, needs stronger 'bosses' to compete with the region. The other argues that clubs need to live within their means, reduce spending, and build slowly. Both are right to some extent, but both overlook a simple truth: without a centralized revenue-sharing mechanism, without a youth football development fund, and without a broadcasting system with real market value, no matter how much money is poured in, the league will forever depend on specific individuals.

In Brazil — where I live and work — I have witnessed a similar lesson over many years. Brazilian clubs also used to depend on local 'patrons', also went through crises when owners withdrew. But they gradually built a centralized broadcasting system, a revenue-sharing fund from television, and a mechanism encouraging clubs to invest in academies. It is not a perfect solution, but it creates a system in which, even if one owner leaves, the club can survive — because it is no longer anyone's private asset.

Vietnam cannot copy Brazil. But Vietnam can learn one thing from Brazil: professional football cannot survive on emotion alone — it needs an economic structure that can weather financial winters.

The question is: is V.League heading in the right direction? In recent years, I have witnessed positive signs. V.League has a more centralized broadcasting system, and clubs have begun to pay attention to brand building and new commercial channels. The fact that some clubs are beginning to attract foreign sponsors — as in the case of LPBank Hoang Anh Gia Lai or Thep Xanh Nam Dinh — is a sign that market potential is being taken more seriously. But these are only the first steps, and the pace of change is still far slower than the pace at which owners leave.

One of the things I have always wondered while observing Vietnamese football is: why do clubs not invest more in their fans — the only 'asset' that cannot be bought or sold? While European clubs devote tens of percent of revenue to community activities, fan experience, and building supporter culture, many V.League clubs still treat fans as an auxiliary factor. Stadiums are not renovated, services are not upgraded, and community engagement activities often occur only once a season for media purposes. This is a great waste, because it is the fans who create long-term value — through ticket purchases, shirt purchases, and most importantly, passing on the love of football to the next generation.

I once spoke with a foreign sponsor considering investment in Vietnamese football. What made him hesitate, he said, was not a lack of potential — but a lack of stability. 'I cannot build a ten-year strategy with a club whose owner may change his mind after one season,' he said. 'I need to know that this club will exist even after I leave.' This is precisely the crux of a sustainable system: it must be designed to survive even when its founders are gone.

It is notable that some clubs are seeking ways to escape the dependency model — but in a different way, not by finding a new owner, but by finding new fans. I remember a trip to Nam Dinh on a weekend evening, when Thien Truong Stadium was packed for a match with little significance in the standings. The whole city lives on football, from roadside eateries to shirt shops. It is a model in which fans are not merely consumers, but part of the story. If this model can be replicated, V.League can build a more solid foundation — not based on one individual's money, but on the strength of a community.

However, I must be candid: the community model cannot fully replace owner cash flow in the short term. Professional football requires large investments — player wages, transfer fees, facilities — that ticket and shirt revenue alone cannot cover. So the question is not 'eliminate owners', but 'diversify revenue to reduce dependence on a single source'. This requires a long-term strategy, coordination between the federation, clubs, and commercial partners, as well as a stronger commitment from state management agencies.

If I had to choose one most important lesson from my years of observing Vietnamese football, it is this: any league can survive a season on one person's money, but it can only survive decades on many people's faith. And that faith cannot be bought — it must be built day by day, match by match, season by season, through the smallest actions such as keeping stadiums clean, respecting fans, and creating a professional and transparent football environment.

When I left Hang Day Stadium that night, Mr. Bay was still sitting on step number seven. I asked him whether he had ever thought about not coming to the stadium anymore. He laughed and said: 'I don't come because the team wins or loses. I come because it is where I get to be myself — a Hanoian who loves football.' It is a simple answer, but it contains an entire philosophy of attachment. And if V.League can learn from people like Mr. Bay — people who do not need an owner to love a team — then perhaps it will find its own sustainable path.

Because in the end, a league is not held up by contracts or numbers on a balance sheet. It is held up by the people who stay after the lights go out, the people who sweep leaves on the stands, the people who buy tickets even if they cannot afford a shirt, and the people who pass that love on to their children. That is the true asset of Vietnamese football — and it is also the only source of revenue that never runs dry, as long as we know how to cherish it.

The question now is not 'how much money does V.League need', but: 'What will V.League give back to those who have given their whole lives to it?' The answer lies in the future — and in the decisions we make today.