Four Bronze Medals and One Final Berth: The Pulse of Vietnamese Wushu at Asiad 20

On September 23, at the wushu arena of Asiad 20, I sat in the third row behind the technical area. The lined notebook that has followed me for over thirty years rested on my lap, a two-colour pen clipped to its spine. Below, the competition floor was covered in red matting, and the smell of new matting blended with the sweat of fighters who had just competed.

In front of me, Dinh Van Tam walked onto the 56kg men's sanda floor. He wore a red shirt, black trousers, bare feet, and moved with the short steps I have seen in hundreds of fighters before him: step onto the floor, bow to the stands, bow to the coach, then stand straight and wait for the command. There was nothing flashy. Wushu is not flashy. It only has discipline.

There was no roaring crowd as at a football match. Wushu has its own sound. Feet landing on the mat. Sharp breathing as two fighters enter the clinch. Sanda fabric rubbing against itself. The referee calling commands in a language I have heard thousands of times and still must write down letter by letter.

Tam fought Fereddy Sinaga of Indonesia. In round one he threw a front push kick while his opponent was still shifting weight. The kick was not beautiful. But it arrived at the right moment. The referee raised a hand. Point. In round two, Tam kept his distance, never exposing his flank, and when the final whistle sounded, he walked off the floor, bowed once more, and sat down as if he had just completed an ordinary task.

On the electronic board appeared the line I have read and re-read in my notebook: Dinh Van Tam advances to the final, guaranteed at least a silver medal. The final takes place on September 24.

Behind me, a group of Vietnamese supporters told each other: "It's raining medals." I heard it. I said nothing. I bent down and wrote one more line: "Four bronzes. One silver. One match left."

I write slowly. I have always written slowly. But slow does not mean blind. Slow only means I want to see a little more carefully than others before I put down my pen. A match can end in three rounds. A medal can be decided by a single kick. But to understand a medal, I need more than three rounds and one kick.

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To understand why I lingered on the word "bronze", I must state something that fast news reports often skip: wushu at the Asian Games is not one sport. It is two sports under one name.

The first is sanda — also called sanshou. This is a full-contact discipline: punches, kicks, throws, sweeps, takedowns. There is no ground fighting continuing after a fall as in MMA. Throwing is part of the rules, and clean throw points are weighted heavily. A good sanda fighter must know how to punch, how to kick, and most importantly how to throw an opponent once the two have entered the clinch. The clinch is the decisive moment. There, wrestling technique, balance and lower-body strength determine who falls first.

The second is taolu — the performance discipline. These are forms: fist routines, sword routines, spear routines, scored on two axes: difficulty and execution quality. There is no opponent. There is no direct win-loss. Only a judging panel and a scoreboard. A taolu routine can gain points for the difficulty of a jump, but can also lose points for an unstable foot placement. This is the discipline where age is the greatest enemy, because knees and ankles must absorb landing forces continuously across thousands of repetitions.

These two disciplines rest on completely different logics. One is collision. One is aesthetics and precision. Packing them under one headline of "rain of medals" is the media's packaging — and I do not oppose it. But I want readers to understand that beneath one name, wushu, are two different stories, with two different methods of evaluation, and two different ways to read a medal.

On September 23, Vietnam had four fighters in sanda semi-finals and one taolu athlete. At the close of the day, the team held four bronze medals and one final berth guaranteed at least silver. But to understand those four bronzes, one must understand the Games' medal-distribution rule. And to understand one final berth, one must understand the power structure of continental sanda.

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Let me begin with a number few noticed.

At the Asian Games, under the competition format, both fighters who lose in the semi-finals receive bronze medals. This is the Games' medal-distribution rule, not wushu's alone. It means each semi-final produces two names on the podium, even though both lost. This is a long-standing convention in combat sports at the Olympic and Asian Games — a way to honour the depth of a bracket rather than only the winner.

Understanding this rule, the structure of Vietnam's "four bronzes" becomes clear. Four fighters entered sanda semi-finals. Three lost. One did not — Dinh Van Tam, into the final.

Looking at the day's results: Dinh Van Tam (56kg men) beat Fereddy Sinaga of Indonesia, advanced to the final. Nguyen Thi Thu Thuy (60kg women) lost to Zhang Xiaoyu of China. Hua Van Doan (60kg men) lost to Tang Sishuo of China. Nguyen Khac Kien (65kg men) lost to Shoja Panahigelehkolaei of Iran.

Those three defeats trace a clear technical chain. Two lost to China. One lost to Iran.

China is the wall of sanda. This is not my opinion. It is data repeated across many Asian Games. From continental to world level, China always fields depth in nearly every weight class. Any non-Chinese fighter who reaches a semi-final must reckon with the possibility of meeting a Chinese sanda hand. And when they meet, the win rate usually tilts towards the red shirt.

I have watched many Chinese sanda matches. Their strength is not any single technique. It is balance. A typical Chinese sanda hand has no obvious weakness. They punch well enough, kick well enough, throw well enough, and never expose a flank for ten continuous seconds. To beat a Chinese sanda hand you need a moment — a moment when they lose balance or expose an opening. And those moments rarely come.

Iran is different. Iran is not a taolu power. But Iran is one of the world's wrestling powers. Iran's wrestling culture rests on traditional grappling disciplines, and in sanda — where throws score heavily — that foundation translates into direct advantage. Nguyen Khac Kien lost at 65kg, a weight class that wrestlers with strong backgrounds often dominate. An Iranian sanda hand in the clinch will look to throw you down before you can fire a second kick.

What matters is this: Vietnam placed three fighters into sanda semi-finals — a crowded semi-final cohort — but the number who reached the final is only one. This is the portrait of a strong regional programme that has not yet reached continental apex. Not because they are weak. But because above them remain two tiers: China and Iran.

Compare within Southeast Asia: Dinh Van Tam beat Fereddy Sinaga. This shows Vietnam's 56kg is in form above the regional average. Within the region, Vietnam has surpassed Indonesia — a traditional rival. But stepping into the final, the opponent is likely a Chinese or Iranian sanda hand, and the chance to change the medal's colour then depends on a single match.

I have followed many wushu finals. I know the distance between a semi-final and a final is not one match. It is a tier of class. A fighter can reach a semi-final through effort. But to reach a final, you need both effort and a little luck of the draw — and to win a final, you need class. Dinh Van Tam has two of three. The third is what no one can predict in advance.

On taolu, Duong Thuy Vi won bronze in the sword and spear event. This is a notable result because taolu is a domain China dominates almost absolutely. A taolu bronze by a Vietnamese athlete carries a symbolic value different from a sanda bronze. It is not measured by win-loss, but by the scoring margin of difficulty and execution quality.

In the sword and spear event, a routine may contain dozens of moves of varying difficulty: spinning jumps, push kicks, single-leg landings, mid-air rotations. Each move has a difficulty coefficient. Judges score two parts: the difficulty part and the execution part. Together they form the final score. In an event where China fields dozens of athletes scoring near-perfect marks, a bronze for an athlete at an age the specialists call a "veteran" cannot be dismissed.

I think of Thuy Vi's knees. I think of how many times she has landed after a spinning jump. I think of how many times she has held balance on one leg while her torso was still rotating. In taolu, age does not cost you punch power. It costs you jump height. And when height falls, difficulty falls with it. A taolu veteran surviving at continental level means she has learned to compensate — through execution quality, through precision, through experience.

But I write slowly — and I must also be honest. Thuy Vi's detailed scorecard is not in the data I have. I do not know by how many points she trailed the athlete above her. I do not know what difficulty coefficient her routine reached. I know only one thing: she stood on the podium. And in taolu, standing on the podium in a field China dominates is an achievement of its own weight.

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There is an aspect rarely appearing in the press: the physical cost of the floor.

Sanda is a discipline that permits throws. That means the physical cost is not only punches to the head. It is falls. Falling on the mat. Falling when thrown. Falling when losing balance alone. Every fall is a moment when the body's entire weight concentrates on one contact point — shoulder, hip, back.

I have seen many fighters leave the floor with one shoulder lower than the other. I have seen many walk straight to the medical room after the final whistle. None of them mentioned it in interviews. They spoke only of the match. Of the opponent. Of next time.

In taolu, the cost lies in knees and ankles. A sword-and-spear routine may include dozens of landings. Dozens of times the body must absorb the force of a fall from height. Over the years cartilage wears. Ligaments stretch. And the jump is no longer as high as before. That is why a taolu veteran still holding a medal is a story of willpower, not only technique.

This does not appear on the scoreboard.

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Vietnamese wushu is not a new programme. It has appeared at SEA Games, Asian Games and World Championships for many years. But it has never been a flagship discipline invested in like football, athletics or swimming. Wushu funding comes mainly from the state and national sports federations.

In a state-funded system, competitive results tie directly to budget. An Asian Games medal can mean the federation retains its funding level. A medal-less Games can mean cuts. This creates a loop: higher results, higher investment, and vice versa.

With four bronze medals and one final berth guaranteed at least silver, this is a good Games for Vietnamese wushu. But I ask myself: what happens next? Medallists will receive bonuses. What of the non-medallists? In a system where national-team selection is the main income source, failing to medal can interrupt a fighter's career. This aspect rarely appears in the press — but it is a truth I have witnessed many times.

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This is where I want to speak plainly.

The "rain of medals" packaging sounds lovely. It makes fans happy. It makes sponsors nod. It turns a competition day into a major media event. But if I look at the structure, I see something else: three of the four bronzes on September 23 were rule-guaranteed medals, not medals won from a specific victory.

This does not mean the fighters do not deserve them. They won enough matches to reach the semi-finals. They worked enough to stand in the last four. But the technical truth remains: a semi-final loss still reaches the podium. If you cannot distinguish medals that come from victory and medals that come from the rules, you will misread the level of an entire programme.

I have followed Vietnamese wushu for many years. I remember Games where the delegation had only one or two medals. Four in one day is a real advance in depth. But if someone tells me "Vietnamese wushu is at the continental apex", I will shake my head. Because the continental apex has only one colour — and it is not bronze.

The second counter-intuitive view: Duong Thuy Vi was the most important figure of that day, not Dinh Van Tam.

This sounds backwards. Tam reached the final, guaranteed at least silver. He is the bright spot in every paper, the first name in every bulletin. But taolu is where China is almost unbeatable. A taolu bronze by a Vietnamese athlete at "veteran" age speaks to what a sanda medal cannot: the endurance of a technical foundation passed down through generations, and the ability to maintain difficulty when the body has begun to decline. Tam may lose the final. Thuy Vi is already on the podium — in a discipline demanding the body's peak technique, with age as enemy number one.

The third counter-intuitive view, and the one I want to say more quietly but more importantly: no Vietnamese sanda fighter in that group of four was recorded as having defeated a Chinese or Iranian fighter at a Games. I do not say this to diminish. I say it to place it correctly. When a Vietnamese fighter takes down a Chinese sanda hand in a semi-final or final, that is when I will write about a genuine milestone. For now, I write about a good day of results. And good results deserve recording — as long as we call them by their true name.

There is one more thing I want to say about empathy. I do not write this article to diminish anyone. I write it because I believe technical truth does not reduce a medal's value. On the contrary, it makes the medal clearer. A bronze from the semi-final rule is still a bronze you must reach the semi-finals to earn. Not everyone reaches an Asian Games semi-final. That is the first truth.

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Dinh Van Tam's final takes place on September 24. I will be there. I will write into my notebook every kick, every clinch, every time the referee raises a hand. I will not write immediately. I will wait until the final whistle, when the stands have emptied, when the fighter has left the floor — and when I hear my own breathing in the quiet press room.

If Tam wins, the "rain of medals" story will be retold with gold at the front. If Tam loses, the story will be retold as "silver exceeded expectations". Both tellings are right in their own way. But both overlook one simple truth: behind every medal, someone sat in the locker room for a very long time after the whistle ended.

People remember the goals, I remember the sighs behind the net.

Every season has its own heartbeat, you just have to listen.

I write slowly because I want to remember for a long time, like the keeper of the rhythm for the whole pitch.