Invisible Contracts in Vietnamese Billiards: When the Arena Is Empty, Money Still Flows

Hanoi, a Saturday evening in early June. I sat in a dark corner of a billiards club on Nguyen Khuyen Street, where the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the sharp sound of balls colliding. At table number 7, a boy of about 17 had just defeated a seasoned veteran with a carom shot that silenced the entire room. No one applauded. No one cheered. Only the bar owner muttered: "That kid can play, but he doesn't have a contract with anyone yet." That remark startled me. I have followed Vietnamese billiards for more than two decades, from my days as a commentator for domestic snooker tournaments, and I know that the story of that 17-year-old boy is not unique. It is a piece of a much larger picture — where invisible contracts are reshaping an entire sport. The arena is empty, money still flows, and contract documents that are never made public continue to silently decide the fate of hundreds of young players. Invisible contracts only reveal themselves when we count the numbers instead of listening to promises. The context of the problem lies in the very structure of Vietnamese billiards. Unlike football — where clubs must make contracts public and comply with FIFA transfer regulations — billiards still operates in an information "black market." Billiards establishments have mushroomed over the past five years, from major cities to small towns. According to statistics from the Vietnam Billiards Association, there are now more than 8,000 billiards establishments nationwide, but only about 15% of them have formal ties to youth training centers. The result is an underground player market, where club owners play the roles of "scout," "agent," and even "creditor." I have witnessed verbal contracts, unsigned agreements, and terms so unfair that no sports lawyer would dare defend them. Let me tell you about Nguyen Phuong Thao, a 24-year-old carom player from Hai Phong. Thao started playing billiards at 14, discovered and "sponsored" by a local club owner who covered all training costs. In return, Thao had to compete under that club's colors for 10 years. The contract was not notarized, had no clear prize-money clauses, and most importantly — had no early-termination clause. My three numbers broke a deal that was just beginning. In 2026, a club in Ho Chi Minh City wanted to recruit Thao with a transfer fee of 200 million VND. But when I examined carefully, I discovered that Thao's "contract" was actually just a handwritten piece of paper with no legal validity. The old club owner was demanding 500 million VND as a release fee — a figure with no legal basis whatsoever. In the end, the deal collapsed, and Thao remained stuck in Hai Phong, playing for a club with no reputation. This is not an isolated story. I have encountered at least 30 similar cases in the past three years, from young players in Da Nang to rising talents in Can Tho. The problem is: no one manages this. The Vietnam Billiards Association has no mechanism for registering player contracts. Clubs have no obligation to disclose transfer information. And young players, mostly from underprivileged families, lack the legal knowledge to protect themselves. But the story does not stop at unfair contracts. It is also a story of unsustainable development across an entire ecosystem. I have followed the growth of Duong Quoc Hoang, one of Vietnam's most promising players today. Hoang started his career at a small club in Binh Thanh district, and thanks to a caring club owner, he was able to develop his skills methodically. But Hoang himself admits that if he had not met the right person, he might have quit long ago. Based on my experience following matches over the past 25 years, I notice a paradox: Vietnam's best players often come from the most difficult circumstances, yet they are the most legally vulnerable. They have no agents. They have no lawyers. They have no knowledge of their own market value. Look at the numbers: according to data I collected from domestic tournaments, the average salary of a mid-tier professional player in Vietnam is only about 15-20 million VND per month. Meanwhile, top players can earn 50-100 million VND per month from prize money and sponsorships. This gap creates enormous pressure on young players, forcing them to accept unfavorable terms for a chance to compete. Another aspect few people notice: the role of "silent heroes" in the billiards world. I am not talking about the players, but about the support staff — those who clean the tables, polish the balls, prepare the cues, and most importantly, those who "read" opponents' psychology to offer tactical advice. In a sport where every shot can decide the fate of an entire match, the role of these people is undeniable. But they are almost never mentioned, never fairly compensated, and have no legal protection whatsoever. I remember interviewing a technical manager at a major billiards club in Hanoi. He had worked for 15 years, witnessed the growth of dozens of players, but had never had an official labor contract. "I work for passion," he said. "But passion doesn't pay the rent." This is precisely the blind spot that the official narrative of Vietnamese billiards' development never mentions. We often hear about the resounding victories of Vietnamese players on the international stage. We take pride in the gold medals and Asian records. But we do not hear about the unfair contracts, the exploited young players, the support staff who are not fairly compensated. The words in a contract are the only proof of infidelity in football — and also in billiards. When I read a contract, I do not look at the flowery language in the opening section. I look at the release-fee clauses, the duration, the player's rights in case of injury, the termination conditions. It is precisely these clauses that hide the greatest injustices. Take the case of Tran Duc Minh, a 26-year-old player once expected to become a star of Vietnamese billiards. In 2026, Minh signed a contract with a club in Da Nang with a monthly salary of 30 million VND. But when I read the contract carefully, I discovered an "invisible" clause: if Minh failed to reach the top 8 at the national championship for two consecutive years, the club had the right to unilaterally reduce his salary to 10 million VND. This clause was written in complex legal language, and Minh signed it without fully understanding it. When I explained this clause to Minh, he was shocked. "I thought I just needed to train hard," Minh said. "I did not know I had to read contracts so carefully." The truth is, most young players in Vietnam lack the knowledge to protect themselves. They come from working-class families, have no legal guidance, and believe that playing well is enough to succeed. But in the professional billiards world, playing well is not enough. You need to understand your value, understand the terms of your contract, and know when to say no. I do not hunt for news. I hunt for the silence between two interviews. And in those silences, I see stories that no one tells: young players forced to sign unfavorable contracts, forgotten support staff, and club owners who lack goodwill but hold enormous power. So where does the solution lie? I believe the answer is not in issuing more restrictive regulations, but in creating a more transparent system. The Vietnam Billiards Association needs to build a central database of player contracts, where every transaction is registered and made public. Clubs should be required to disclose key contract terms, just as football clubs must disclose transfer fees. But more importantly, young players need to be educated about their rights. They need to learn how to read contracts, how to negotiate, and how to protect themselves. This is a long-term investment, but it will create a generation of smarter, more confident, and more sustainable players. Looking to the future, I notice a positive shift. The current generation of young players, born in the internet age, is becoming more aware of their own value. They search for information online, participate in forums, learn from the mistakes of their seniors. And they are not afraid to speak out when treated unfairly. I have witnessed a silent revolution taking place in Vietnamese billiards. Young players are beginning to organize, share information with each other, and create a mutual support network. They no longer accept every term blindly. They ask questions. They demand transparency. And they are willing to walk away when they feel exploited. The arena is empty, money still flows. But what matters is not where the money flows, but whether it flows fairly. And the answer to that question will determine the future of Vietnamese billiards for the next two decades. I am still sitting in the corner of the billiards club on Nguyen Khuyen Street, watching that 17-year-old boy practicing alone. No one applauds, no one cheers. But I know that if he is lucky enough to meet the right people, if he learns to protect himself, and if the system improves, then one day he will not just be a forgotten talent. He will be a star — a star who knows his own worth. And that is precisely what the entire Vietnamese billiards community needs to strive for. Not just victories on the international stage, but a fair, transparent, and sustainable ecosystem — where every talent has the opportunity to develop, and every contract is respected. The remaining question is: do we have the courage to look squarely at those injustices and change them?