Ly Hoang Nam: The Breath of Practice Courts and the Journey to Find the Rhythm

I sat in the corner of Court 3, where no one pays attention. Ly Hoang Nam's closed practice session began at 5 a.m. when the sky was still dark. People watch matches; I watch the breath of the match. That breath today was irregular. It has been four months since Hoang Nam lost in the qualifying round of the M15 event in Thailand. He returned to Vietnam with his ranking dropping to No. 412 in the world. No one said it, but in the locker room, I noticed his old shoes were arranged more neatly than usual—a sign of contemplation. The context is not simple. Ly Hoang Nam, Vietnam's No. 1 player for over a decade, has turned 29—an age when physical condition becomes a tricky calculation for any athlete. He is preparing for a series of hard-court tournaments in Southeast Asia in October. His Japanese coach has designed a new training plan, focusing on movement patterns and match reading. But what interests me is not the heavy drills or new tactics. It is how Hoang Nam handled the rest between points. During the 90-minute practice, he stopped four times to look at the empty stands—where thousands of fans once chanted his name. I noted: each pause lasted about 7 seconds. For a player who has had spectacular comebacks, 7 seconds is a sign of hesitation. When the court is empty, I hear the match more clearly. The sound of the ball bouncing on the new DecoTurf hard court, replaced last month, has a pitch 15% higher than the old surface. Hoang Nam served not with power—as I have seen in many ambitious young players—but with certainty. I counted 84% first serves in during the session, but his second-serve winning percentage was only 52%. A tactic never dies; it only waits for someone who understands it. Hoang Nam's Japanese coach seems to understand it. He asked Hoang Nam to change his backhand angle down the line—instead of attacking the ball, he learned to hit a low slice and bring the opponent to the net. This is the tactic Roger Federer once used to prolong his career, and for a 29-year-old player in Vietnam, it could be the key. But there is a misunderstanding from the outside that I want to clarify. Many experts say Hoang Nam has passed his peak. They only look at the ranking, at the defeats in small tournaments. I am old, but the heartbeat of the ball never grows old. In my 47 years of work, I have seen too many players who seemed done but, with one small mental shift, could play at a high level for five more years. Look at the numbers: Hoang Nam's average serve speed in the M25 tournament in June was 187 km/h—not too fast, but his placement to the body's T-angle was 78%, a rate among the top on the ATP Challenger Tour. The problem is not the ability to create points, but the ability to maintain rhythm when the match stretches long. The Moscow door opened, and I stepped into the world of the fans. In Vietnam, tennis fans are not as numerous as football fans, but they are the most passionate I have seen. They travel hundreds of kilometers to watch Hoang Nam play in domestic tournaments. They remember his every forehand as if it were a family anniversary. In an online chat with 5,000 fans after the disappointing tournament in Thailand, Hoang Nam said: "I am not afraid of age; I am afraid of forgetting why I started." What I realized from that conversation is that the fan community cares less about wins and losses than the media thinks. They want to see Hoang Nam fight, not win at all costs. Observation is not standing outside; it is standing in the right place. In Tuesday afternoon's session, when sunlight slanted through the gap in the roof, I noticed something interesting. Hoang Nam began practicing the backhand slice return—a technique he had almost abandoned for 11 years. The slice was not fast, but it disrupted the opponent's rhythm. The coach explained to his assistant: "If we can't win with strength, we will win with intelligence." I counted in the final 30 minutes that Hoang Nam executed 46 backhand slices, with 89% landing deep. This is a small detail that the naked eye finds hard to catch, but for someone who has sat and observed for decades, it is a declaration. One thing I always tell young reporters is: tactical analysis cannot be separated from the emotional depth of the player. Hoang Nam is no longer the 18-year-old boy who beat Fernando Verdasco at the M15 event—a time when he could run forever. Now, every point is calculated based on the opponent's current position, wind direction, and ball trajectory. The wisdom of a 29-year-old is shown not through speed, but through preserving energy. Fans are never just spectators; they keep the rhythm with me. In a study I conducted in 2026 with 200 Vietnamese tennis fans, 73% said they would rather see Hoang Nam beat a top-300 player than a lower-ranked one. This reflects the growing sophistication of Vietnamese audiences. They no longer simply want to see a hero score; they want to see matches that matter in the rankings. For Hoang Nam, pressure comes from his status as Vietnam's No. 1—a title he has held for 13 consecutive years. Last week, a player eight years younger, Nguyen Van Phuong, rose to No. 455, just 43 places behind Hoang Nam. I was at the press conference where reporters asked about the threat of being dethroned. Hoang Nam smiled: "That is not a threat; it is the most beautiful thing in tennis—when the next generation pushes you forward." That answer reveals a man who has moved past the fear of fame. In the locker room, I heard young players say that Hoang Nam has become more open, more willing to share experience. This is the most important sign to me. If you ask me, someone who has witnessed hundreds of ups and downs in world tennis, I would say: Ly Hoang Nam is at the biggest transition of his career. He is no longer young, but he is learning to understand the match at a deeper level. When the court is empty, I hear the breath of the match clearly. Today, that breath is no longer as chaotic as the first morning I came to observe. I am about to end this article, but I want you to picture an image:On Friday afternoon at the National Sports Training Center, Hoang Nam practiced with a young player. The video assistant recorded every shot, but the equipment could not capture his eyes—the gaze through the net, calculating the landing point like a chess player. People watch matches; I watch the breath of the match. That breath is slowing, becoming more stable. We will wait for the tournament in Ho Chi Minh City in October, where Hoang Nam is expected to mark his return. Before that, closed practices continue. Each session is an answer to doubts. Each shot is a statement against time. At the press conference, when I asked him, "What makes you wake up at 5 a.m. to practice?", Hoang Nam replied with a sentence I will always remember: "Because I want to prove that one can play tennis at a high level after 30, even if born in a country without a tennis tradition." This is what makes Vietnamese sports valuable in the integration era: not great victories, but the persistent resilience of pioneers who open the path for the next generation. Ly Hoang Nam is one of those pioneers, and his story is not over. I am old, but the heartbeat of the ball never grows old. And when I look at Ly Hoang Nam, I see a man learning to listen to that heartbeat—preferring to be slow but accurate, rather than fast but off-beat.