The Off-Centre Diamond: Vietnam Billiards' Journey to Rediscover Its Identity

The Off-Centre Diamond: Vietnam Billiards' Journey to Rediscover Its Identity

On the night of the World Three-Cushion Carom Championship final in the Netherlands, when the white ball came to rest after Nguyen Duc Anh Chien's magical stroke, the stands offered only polite applause from a few hundred spectators. No deafening cheers, no golden-starred red flags waved in triumph. The victory arrived quietly, much like the way this discipline has existed in Vietnam for three decades. I sat in the fourth row, noting the moment and wondering: why has a nation that produces world-class carom players never turned that success into a story big enough to matter?

Context: Rough Diamonds in the Heart of Saigon

Billiards came to Vietnam in the 1960s through clubs left behind by the French. But it was not until the 1990s, when the country opened up, that the sport truly took root. Saigon, Hanoi, and Can Tho became the three main poles of development. Clubs sprouted like mushrooms, each district had at least one venue, and from that emerged a unique ecosystem: amateur players who played for passion, club owners who acted as mini-promoters, and a young generation learning the craft from small-money matches.

Within that ecosystem, three-cushion carom emerged as a natural strength. Why? Because it suits the cramped spaces of Vietnamese clubs — a carom table takes up half the area of a pool table — and because it demands meticulousness and patience, traits that match the Vietnamese temperament. It is no coincidence that Vietnamese players excel at this discipline more than at snooker or pool.

Data from the Vietnam Billiards Federation shows: as of 2026, the country has over 3,000 carom clubs, with at least 200 professional and semi-professional players. But that figure is only the tip of the iceberg. More noteworthy is the quality of training: many young players today are coached according to structured curricula, with access to modern data and technique analysis. This is something the generation of Tran Quyet Chien or Nguyen Duc Anh Chien did not have when they started.

Core: Why Vietnam Dominates Three-Cushion Carom

If you only look at the world rankings, you might notice a puzzling phenomenon: a country with a young professional sports ecosystem produces consecutive world champions in a discipline that demands high intelligence and technical skill. Tran Quyet Chien won the world title in 2026, and Nguyen Duc Anh Chien repeated the feat in 2026. The five-year gap between the two titles shows this is not a momentary stroke of luck, but a system operating in the right direction.

I spent 17 years commentating on snooker for VTC, and I noticed a similarity between Vietnamese players and British snooker legends: exceptional table-reading ability. But there is one crucial difference. While British players are trained in professional environments with full equipment and coaches, Vietnamese players are largely self-taught, figuring things out through trial and error. This creates a very distinct playing style: flexible, unpredictable, somewhat "dirty" but extremely effective.

Look at how Nguyen Duc Anh Chien executed his decisive shot in the 2026 world final. Instead of choosing the safe option, he opted for a high-risk shot with a wide opening angle. That shot — according to my data analysis — had a success probability of only about 38%. But he executed it flawlessly, sending the white ball across three cushions, hitting both object balls in perfect sequence. That was not recklessness. That was calculation built on thousands of hours of practice, on a feel for the table that no measuring device can replace.

The off-centre diamond only appears when you stop looking at the cue ball. In three-cushion carom, what matters is not whether you hit the ball, but where you place the white ball after the shot. Vietnamese players understand this instinctively. They don't play with the present ball; they play with the future ball — with the position they will need on the third, fourth, fifth stroke.

Another factor behind Vietnam's superiority: the culture of "high-stakes matches" — big-money games played nightly at clubs. Unlike European players who only compete in official tournaments, Vietnamese players regularly participate in cash games with bets ranging from 5 to 50 million dong. This environment creates real-match pressure that no curriculum can simulate. A young player in Ho Chi Minh City can experience 50 tense matches in a month — equivalent to what a European player experiences in a full year.

Contrarian View: The Blind Spot in Development

But this very success conceals a dangerous blind spot. While the world's top players are increasingly embracing data analysis technology, high-speed filming, and trajectory simulation software, the majority of Vietnamese players still rely on feel and experience. This gap may not create an immediate difference, but it will become a problem in 5-10 years, when the younger generation of European and Korean players — those who grew up with data — begin to dominate.

I witnessed the same thing happen with Chinese snooker. When Ding Junhui and Liang Wenbo started playing in England in the early 2000s, they relied on innate talent. But by the generation of Zhao Xintong and Yan Bingtao, the difference was clear: they were trained with comprehensive data systems, detailed opponent analysis, and scientific fitness programs. The result is that China has overtaken England in the number of players in the world's top 16.

Vietnam could follow a similar path. But that requires a mindset shift: from relying on individual talent to building a data-driven training system. The question is: are we willing to change before it's too late?

Takeaway: Looking Forward

As I left the stands in the Netherlands that night, I realized that Nguyen Duc Anh Chien's victory was not just a victory for one individual. It was a victory for a system — though full of flaws — that has produced world-class players from the humblest conditions. But the bigger question lies ahead: is that system flexible enough to adapt to a rapidly changing world, where data and technology are redefining every sport?

The match ends at the eleventh angle. And the eleventh angle of Vietnamese billiards lies not in the trophies, but in how we prepare the next generation. Are we brave enough to look at the gaps that success is hiding?