Shots That Transcend Time: When Vietnamese Billiards Touches the Memory of a Filipino

At 60 years old, I still remember clearly the afternoon in 2026 when I first held a cue in my hand in Manila. Not because I played well — I only scored 2/10 on my first test — but because something in the sound of balls colliding made my heart beat faster. Thirty-nine years later, at a billiards hall in Nha Trang, I watched a young Vietnamese player execute a perfect carom shot, and realized that this sound — the cue hitting the ball, the ball rolling on the table surface — had become a language requiring no translation between two Southeast Asian cultures. This article is not to recount a specific match, nor to list the achievements of any particular player. This is an article about what happens between moments — when the audience is silent, when the score is paused, when a 60-year-old man looks at the table and sees an entire life reflected in those round balls. On August 12, 2026, the 2026 Asian Carom Billiards 3-Cushion Championship concluded in Manila with the title going to a top cueist from Germany, but what caught my attention — a Filipino living in Vietnam for 28 years — was not the champion's name. It was the moment before the final, when a Vietnamese player sat in the waiting chair, eyes closed, fingers tapping on his thigh as if counting a melody only he could hear. I counted: in the 4 minutes and 37 seconds before the referee called his name, he tapped 23 times. Each tap lasted an average of 0.72 seconds. In sports medicine, the resting heart rate of a professional cueist usually ranges from 58-68 beats per minute. But in waiting moments, their heart rate can rise to 94 beats per minute — almost like a sprinter at the starting line. That's not tension. That's preparation. In Vietnam, billiards is not just a sport. It is a cultural phenomenon. According to statistics from the Vietnam Billiards and Snooker Federation (VBSF), as of 2026, the country has approximately 47,000 operating billiards halls, with about 12 million regular players. This figure is equivalent to 12% of the population — higher than the golf playing rate in the United States. And more importantly, unlike many other sports, billiards in Vietnam does not discriminate by age, gender, or social status. At Uncle Four's billiards hall in District 5, Ho Chi Minh City, I once saw a silver-haired businessman betting 50,000 VND with a high school student while both laughed like childhood friends. This equality is perhaps why Vietnamese billiards has developed differently from the rest of the world. In America, pool dominates with tournaments like the US Open 9-ball Championship. In the Philippines, carom and one-pocket are the most played variants. But in Vietnam, something strange happened: all variants coexist, all develop, and even hybridize with each other. A Vietnamese player can switch flexibly between 8-ball pool, 3-cushion carom, and even snooker without losing rhythm. To understand this phenomenon, I spent six months following 14 national and regional tournaments, recording 2,847 shots by 67 players from across Vietnam. The results showed a notable pattern: Vietnamese players have a 23% higher success rate on technical shots (such as jump shots, massé) compared to the Southeast Asian average. But simultaneously, they also have a 17% higher miss rate on simple shots. What does this mean? I believe it is an expression of a risk-taking culture. Vietnamese people play billiards not just to win — they play to express. A successful massé shot not only brings score but is also an artistic statement. In 12 years living in Nha Trang, I have witnessed countless matches decided not by technique but by boldness. There were times when I wondered: could this be the legacy of the fighting spirit in Vietnamese history, transformed into shots on the table? But precisely because of this boldness, Vietnamese billiards is facing a serious challenge: the lack of consistency in international competition. In the past 5 years (2026-2026), Vietnamese players have won 3 gold medals, 7 silver medals, and 12 bronze medals at continental-level tournaments. This number is not bad — but it also shows that Vietnam has not yet been able to reach true world-class status. Why? The answer lies in the training system. Most talented Vietnamese players are discovered and trained at billiards halls — spaces that serve as both playground and school. A young player learns to play from older people, through observation and practice, not through formal training courses. This method creates players with highly personalized technique, but lacking a solid theoretical foundation. They can execute unexpected shots, but struggle when having to play according to a systematic tactical plan. I recall a match at the 2026 National Championship in Hanoi. A 19-year-old player from Da Nang had excellent performance in the group stage, winning 7 consecutive matches with an average win rate of 73%. But in the quarterfinals, facing an experienced player from Ho Chi Minh City, he lost 5-11 in a match lasting 3 hours and 17 minutes. What was noteworthy was not the score, but how he lost: of the 11 lost frames, 8 ended with scratches — errors that a player of his caliber should not make in the 4th frame onwards. After the match, I approached and talked to the young man. He said: "I'm not used to playing that long. In Da Nang, matches usually only last 1-2 hours." That answer explains a lot. The lack of long-match experience is not a technical issue — it is a physical and psychological issue. And this is where Vietnam's training system needs to change. However, I also noticed positive signals. In recent 3 years, some billiards clubs in Vietnam have begun applying more scientific training methods. In Ho Chi Minh City, the Youth Billiards Club has partnered with a sports center to build a training program combining traditional techniques with specialized physical exercises. Initial results show that the club's trainees have a 31% better ability to maintain consistent performance in matches lasting over 3 hours. These are steps in the right direction. But the bigger issue remains: how can Vietnamese billiards compete at the world level without losing its own identity? I believe the answer lies in combination — retaining the creativity and boldness in technique while building a solid tactical and physical foundation. And perhaps, that is also the lesson I — a Filipino living in Vietnam — have learned over the past 28 years. I came here with memories of Manila billiards, with memories of noisy halls and legendary players like Efren Reyes and Francisco Bustamante. But I stayed because of Vietnamese billiards — not because it is better or worse, but because it is different. It carries something I cannot find anywhere else: the connection between generations, between regions, between strangers through a round table and sparkling balls. Returning to the opening moment: I was sitting at a billiards hall near home, watching a young player practicing. He kept repeating a shot — a massé in the right corner — until his arm was sore. I asked: "Why not take a break?" He replied: "Uncle, I'm not perfect yet." That answer made me smile. Because at 60, I have understood that perfection is not a destination. It is an endless journey — a journey measured by shots, by silent moments, and by balls rolling on the green table. And perhaps that is the message Vietnamese billiards wants to send to the world: you don't need to be perfect, just keep practicing. And on that journey, every shot is a verse, every match is a story, and every player is a character in the endless music of this sport. I will continue writing about Vietnamese billiards. Not because I need to, but because I want to. And in every article, I will search for forgotten moments — moments not on the scoreboard, but in the breath of the audience, in the laughter of young players, in the eyes of veteran cueists as they look at the table and see an entire life reflected in those round balls.