Vietnam Golf Courses: Where Applause Tells a Longer Story Than Tactics

I have been sitting in Busan for four years, recording the heartbeat of Korean golf tournaments from the safe distance of an observer. But there is one thing I have never told my colleagues: every time I watch highlights of domestic tournaments, I look for the Vietnamese stands first, before I even watch the swing. Not because I am nostalgic, but because I believe that cheering is never just noise—it is the heartbeat of a city. And for Vietnamese golf, that heartbeat is beating in a very different way than what the scoreboard shows. When I was a sophomore majoring in International Communications, I once wrote 2,000 words about the proactive defensive tactics of the Korean national team at the 2026 World Cup, only to realize that a single point of the finger by Kim Young-gwon toward the stands told more than all the terminology I had learned. Likewise, I realized that to understand Vietnamese golf, I do not need to analyze every putt—I need to listen to how the audience holds their breath when a 7-iron is pulled from the bag. A course without spectators is a body without a heart—still beating, but unheard. I witnessed this in 2026, when Busan IPark entered a series of matches without spectators amid the pandemic. Mr. Park, 67, who had not missed a single match in 30 years, told me he felt the stadium was like a grave. My article about the longing for cheers went mildly viral in the local fan community, and it taught me a lesson: data only gives us a place to stand; emotions give us a reason to stay. Now, when I look at the landscape of Vietnamese golf, I see something similar. We have impressive numbers: double-digit growth in the number of golfers each year, dozens of new golf courses springing up from North to South, and young golfers consistently making their names on regional amateur rankings. But if we stop there, we will miss the real story. The story of fathers bringing their children to the driving range at 5 a.m., of young boys and girls carrying clubs heavier than their own bodies, and of stands that are still sparse but gradually warming up. I remember a March afternoon last year when I returned home and stood at the edge of a golf course in Dong Nai. A boy of about 10 was practicing his swing with a foreign coach. The boy missed three shots in a row, and instead of scolding him, the coach simply sat down, adjusted his posture, and said something in slow English. I could not hear the content, but I saw the boy nod, take a deep breath, and the next swing sent the ball straight down the fairway. No one clapped, no one cheered. But I knew that moment was more important than any title the boy might win later. That is why I am writing this article. Not to analyze tactics, not to comment on technique, but to record what I have observed from the very land where I was born. Because every match is a drumbeat; I am just the beat keeper between two stands. Let us start with a number: 5 a.m. That is the time I see the most parents at driving ranges in Vietnam. Not 6 a.m., not 7 a.m., but 5 a.m., when the sun has not yet risen and mist still covers the fairways. I met a father in Hanoi, a man named Minh, who works as a ride-hailing driver. He told me he had to arrange night shifts so he could bring his 8-year-old son to the driving range every morning before school. "He loves golf," he said, his eyes following his son practicing putts on the green. "I do not know anything about golf, but I know that if my child likes it, I must support him." Minh's story is not unique. During the three months I spent observing Vietnamese golf courses, I met at least 20 parents in similar situations. They are not wealthy people, not successful businessmen. They are ordinary workers, saving every penny so their children can play a sport that is often considered "a sport of the elite." And it is they, not the sponsors or golf academies, who are building the foundation for Vietnamese golf. But there is a paradox I have noticed: while parents are sweating on the driving ranges, the stands remain far too empty. I attended a national amateur tournament in the Central region in April. The tournament brought together the most promising young golfers in the country, but the audience could be counted on one hand. Most were family members of the athletes, a few curious passersby, and a small group of scouts. There was no cheering, no lively atmosphere. Only the sound of clubs swinging and balls landing on the grass. I sat there, on the empty stands, and remembered what Mr. Park once told me: "A stadium without spectators is a grave." But I also remembered something else: what I learned at the 2026 World Cup in Doha, when I witnessed a 19-year-old girl flying from Seoul to Qatar with a year's worth of savings just to watch her national team play. She did not understand tactics, knew nothing about pressing or zonal defense. But she cheered with all her heart, she cried when her team lost, and she made me realize that football—and golf, too—is not just a game for the players, but a game for the spectators. Vietnamese golf is at a crucial turning point. We have young talents reaching for the international stage, golf courses meeting international standards, and a growing community of golfers. But we still lack the most important thing: a spectator culture. In Korea, golf is a widely followed sport, with millions of fans tracking every tournament. In Vietnam, golf is still a foreign sport to the majority, and players are often viewed with curiosity or skepticism. But I believe that is changing. I see positive signs: media outlets are covering golf more, tournaments are being organized more professionally, and most importantly, young golfers are becoming role models admired by the youth. I remember reading an article about a young Vietnamese golfer winning a gold medal at the SEA Games, and hundreds of comments below expressed pride. "Vietnamese people really play golf well," one person commented. And I thought, yes, we are good, but we could be even better if we understood that golf is not just a sport, but a story of patience, focus, and the ability to overcome oneself. Let me tell you about another afternoon, this time at a golf course in Da Lat. I went there to meet a Vietnamese coach who had played professionally abroad. His name is Hung, 35, who returned home after 10 years in the United States. He said he had the opportunity to continue playing in small tournaments in the U.S., but he decided to return to train the younger generation. "I see great potential in these kids," he said, pointing toward a group of students practicing. "But potential alone is not enough. They need proper guidance, quality tournaments, and inspiration." Hung is one of the few Vietnamese coaches with international playing experience. He shared that one of the biggest challenges he faces is changing the mindset of his students. "Many kids just want to hit the ball far and hard," he said. "But golf is not a sport of power. It is a sport of precision, patience, and strategy." He told me he often spends hours teaching his students how to read greens, how to choose clubs, and how to control emotions. "Technique can be learned, but mentality must be trained every day," he said. Hung's story reminds me of a perspective I have always held: young coaches, driven by results, neglect technique; the trend of physicality in youth sports is destroying the ground of technique. I have seen this not only in Vietnamese golf but in many other sports. Coaches are often pressured to produce quick results, so they focus on physical training and powerful shots, instead of teaching young players the fundamentals in a systematic way. The result is young golfers who can hit the ball far but lack the ability to handle situations, lack finesse in each shot, and lack the ability to read the game. I witnessed this at a youth tournament in the South. A boy of about 14, with excellent physical condition, hit the ball much farther than his peers. But when faced with a difficult situation—when the ball was in a bad lie or when the green had complex slopes—the boy appeared confused and often made mistakes. His coach, a foreigner, could only shake his head. "This boy has potential, but he has not been taught how to think on the course," the coach told me in English. "He only knows how to hit hard, but golf is not a game of power." This leads me to a counter-intuitive perspective I want to share: Vietnamese golf does not lack talent, does not lack potential, and does not lack investment. What Vietnamese golf lacks is a systematic training system, a professional competitive culture, and a generation of coaches with both competence and dedication. We can build dozens of new golf courses, send hundreds of young golfers abroad for training, but if we do not change our approach, if we still treat golf as a sport of power and physicality, we will forever remain a mid-tier golf nation in the region. But I also see positive signals. I see more and more young Vietnamese coaches being properly trained, more golf academies opening with scientific teaching programs, and more young golfers getting opportunities to compete internationally. I remember watching a youth tournament in Korea, and I saw a young Vietnamese golfer performing impressively. The boy did not hit the ball the farthest, but he handled situations very intelligently, read greens very well, and most importantly, he remained calm in decisive moments. I approached him after the tournament and asked what he had learned from competing in Korea. "I learned that golf is not a game of power," he replied in Vietnamese, smiling. "I learned that patience and focus are the keys." His answer reminded me of a saying I have always cherished: People remember a tournament not by the trophy, but by the moments they embraced each other. And I believe Vietnamese golf is gradually creating such moments. Not moments of resounding victory, but moments of connection, of pride, and of love for this sport. Let me tell you about a Sunday morning at a golf course in Binh Duong. I went there to observe a tournament for amateur golfers, and I met an old man of about 70 sitting on the stands, his eyes following every shot of the athletes. I sat down next to him and struck up a conversation. He told me he had been playing golf for 20 years, and he often came to watch youth tournaments to "learn from the young ones." "I can no longer hit the ball far," he laughed, "but I still enjoy watching the kids compete. It reminds me of my younger days." The old man sat there all morning, not cheering, not clapping, but I saw his eyes light up every time a young golfer made a beautiful shot. And I realized that this is what Vietnamese golf needs: not just talented young golfers, but also older people, those who have been attached to this sport, those who can inspire the next generation. I left the Binh Duong golf course with a warm feeling. I remembered what I have learned in 12 years of observing the sports industry: the biggest changes often start from the smallest things. Not from million-dollar sponsorship deals, not from luxurious golf courses, but from 5 a.m. mornings at the driving range, from fathers and mothers who stay up late and wake up early to take their children to practice, and from 70-year-old men who still sit on the stands to cheer for the younger generation. Vietnamese golf is at an important crossroads. We can continue down the old path, focusing on building infrastructure and training golfers who can hit the ball far. Or we can choose a different path, one that focuses on building a true golf culture, where golf is not just a sport but a way of life, a way of connecting people. I believe the second path is the right one. Because in the end, golf is not about how far you hit the ball, or how many titles you win. Golf is about staying calm in difficult moments, about patiently waiting for your opportunity, and about respecting your opponents and yourself. And these are values that Vietnam, with its tradition of resilience and spirit of overcoming adversity, can fully impart to the younger generation. I will end this article with a question: when you look at a Vietnamese golf course, what do you see? A place for the elite? A luxury sport? Or do you see fertile ground, where seeds of talent are sprouting, where stories of perseverance and passion are being written every day? I hope your answer will be the latter. Because if we can see that potential, if we can believe in the younger generation, and if we can build a true golf culture, then I believe Vietnamese golf will not just be a sport—it will be a source of national pride. Players leave, but the seats they sat in remain in memory. And I believe the seats on Vietnamese golf stands will become more crowded, warmer, and will tell more stories. Because every match is a drumbeat; I am just the beat keeper between two stands. And I will continue to keep the beat, until the applause on Vietnamese golf courses becomes a true symphony.