Vietnamese Chess: From the Speed of Moves to the Patience of a Generation

I look at the scoreboard at the recent international chess tournament in Hanoi. A seemingly harmless move – pawn to d4 – but behind it are hours of silent calculation. This is not just a game; it is the story of a generation of Vietnamese chess players racing against time, against themselves.

When Le Quang Liem entered the playing hall, his gaze did not fix on his opponent but on the board as if it were an uncharted map. At 33, he carries the weight of an entire Vietnamese chess generation. But I don't want to write about his victories – everyone knows them. I want to write about what happened before he sat down.

Two hours before the game, I saw him sitting alone in a corner of the lobby, headphones on, eyes closed. He was not listening to music; he was running through every variation in his mind. That is the speed of thought – a speed that cannot be measured by a stopwatch, yet decides everything on the board.

I recall my early days as a sports journalist covering athletics. I counted every stride of a hurdler, and now I count every breath of a chess player before each move. There is a strange parallel: both are races against one's own limits.

This tournament gathered many young Vietnamese players, barely over 20. They came from all over: Hanoi, Ho Chi Minh City, Da Nang, and even small provinces like Bac Giang, which once produced athletics champions. I asked a 19-year-old boy: “How do you train?” He replied: “Eight hours a day in front of a computer screen, analyzing games of the world's top players. No coach, no club. Just the internet and passion.”

That is the story of a generation. They lack the best facilities, the special nutrition. But they possess an astonishing learning speed. In the chess world, speed is not just thinking time; it is the ability to absorb new knowledge and adapt to a meta-game that changes daily.

I look at the Elo ratings of Vietnamese players. In the past five years, the number of players above 2500 Elo has doubled. But that number means nothing without context. They are racing against Chinese and Indian players who have systematic training from childhood. Yet they keep chasing, millimeter by millimeter.

What I want to say is: the speed of a generation lies not in resounding victories, but in silent, persistent steps. Every lost game is a lesson, every wrong move is an adjustment. They have no spotlight, but they have the patience of those who know the longest road leads to the peak.

I remember a moment during the tournament. A young Vietnamese player, after losing a crucial game, sat at the board for 30 minutes, analyzing every move by himself. No one asked him to. That is the self-respect of someone who understands that failure is part of the journey.

People often talk about “speed” in sports: the speed of a sprint, the speed of a counterattack. But in chess, speed is invisible. It is the ability to read the situation, anticipate ten moves ahead, and stay calm under pressure. And I see that in Vietnamese players: they are not rushed, but they are not slow. They choose the right moment to strike.

Look at the game between Nguyen Ngoc Truong Son and a Russian grandmaster. On move 25, Son sacrificed a bishop to open lines for his rook and queen. It was a bold move, but it had been calculated 15 moves earlier. The speed of thought is not about playing fast; it is about playing correctly.

I have witnessed many generations of Vietnamese athletes rise from hardship. From my days as an athletics reporter, I saw athletes training under 40°C sun, with worn-out shoes. They had nothing but will. And now, in chess, I see the same. Only their arena is a computer screen, and their weapon is intellect.

But there is a contrarian angle: is learning speed killing creativity? When every game is analyzed by engines, when openings are studied to move 30, do young players still dare to take risks? I see some young players too dependent on engines, playing like machines, lacking the human soul. That is the price of speed.

I asked a veteran coach: “What do you think?” He smiled: “The engine is just a tool. What matters is whether the user understands why that move is correct. Speed cannot replace understanding.” That is a lesson for a generation: run fast, but don't forget to look at the road.

The tournament ended. Le Quang Liem won the championship, but what I remember most is the smile of a young player after losing. He said: “I will come back.” That is the speed of growth. And I believe, with that speed, Vietnamese chess will go far.

From the running track to the virtual arena, the homeland of sports has no borders. These young Vietnamese players are running on their own path, quietly but persistently. And I, at 55, still sit here, recording every step of their race. Lifting the veil of speed, I meet an entire generation running.