A Report Full of 'N/A': The Blind Spot of Vietnamese Sports Journalism

When a sports analysis report returns all results as 'N/A — insufficient information', I do not rush to conclude that the system is broken. I see in that a much larger story than a technical glitch. Seven evaluation tables, seven analysis sections, all empty. No discipline identified, no specific player, no clear tournament, no data to cross-reference. That is not a failure of the analytical tool. It reflects a chronic disease in the way we do sports journalism in Vietnam: we chase events, but we have never built the data infrastructure to understand what those events truly mean. I remember my time working for a major British newspaper, where every article had to be attached to verified data sources. There, a sports journalist was not just a storyteller; they were a verifier. They raced against the clock to report the match, but when the match ended, their real work began: tracing every number, interviewing every witness, verifying every frame of footage. That approach forces writers to acknowledge their limitations. And in that acknowledgment, I realized that an empty report is not a failure. An analysis that is honest enough to state 'insufficient information' is in fact indicting the very sport it serves. For Vietnamese billiards — a discipline growing strongly in participation but still poor in data — the question is not 'which player is in good form'. The question should be: why do we not know how that form is precisely being measured? I have followed domestic tournaments for years, and what troubles me is not a lack of talent among players. They have talent in abundance. The problem lies in how we archive those performances. Every billiards match is a series of decisions. But most local tournaments in Vietnam are still recorded through subjective impressions: this match was well played, that one was poor. Meanwhile, a fan in Laos or Thailand can look up head-to-head results, break-win percentages and pressure-shot success rates within a few clicks. That gap is not a gap in playing level. It is a gap in professionalism within organizing and media structures. An empty report is precisely a successful report. It accurately reflected what it needed to reflect: the absence of an environment that requires journalists to verify their hypotheses before publication. During the quiet mid-season period, data does not make noise but speaks the clearest truth. And what is worrying is that this truth is not being listened to. In fact, I have witnessed exactly this scene when a controversial incident occurred on the table. Media focused on referee statements and fan reactions, yet ignored the most important question: at what speed did that incident occur, and where was the exact point of contact? We are too accustomed to telling stories through emotion while forgetting that every moment on the table can be quantified. I learned that rule through video verification while analyzing international matches. A player can only be judged by their table-reading ability when we know the exact position of the cue ball relative to the object ball on every shot. That is the common language that Vietnamese sports currently lacks. But this is not purely technical. If we look deeper, the lack of systematic data reflects a bigger sports-business problem. When a nation's sport is not digitized, it cannot attract major sponsors. Brands do not just need impressions; they need media effectiveness. They need to know how many viewers a tournament attracts, what the social media engagement is, and who those fans are. Without honest analysis reports, the answer to every question remains 'N/A', and the sports industry cannot grow. A contrarian view I have come to hold is: an empty report may be the most valuable document our industry has ever produced. It exposes reality in an undeniable form. A lying report is dangerous, but a report telling the truth about our lack of understanding is far more painful. That silence deserves to be heard as a wake-up call. Over two decades of living with numbers, I believe the most crucial moment to start rebuilding is when the numbers themselves betray our sport. Media organisations must also interrogate themselves: who are we chasing events for? To serve fans with well-informed stories, or merely to sustain our visibility in the news flow? The answer lies in pursuing what I call 'the silence of data also demands interrogation'. If an analysis cannot make a judgment, do not discard it. Rather, ask why we lack enough data to judge. Look at the infrastructure that collects data, the personnel responsible for recording, and the storage systems of federations and organizing committees. When do we start investigating from these very gaps? A strong sports press is one that knows how to turn a gap into a meaningful story with a string of questions. And a sport that knows how to grow is one that sees value in an honest account of its own shortcomings. The story of Vietnamese billiards over the next ten years will not be about how many more champions emerge, but about how those champions are viewed through a data lens. Every shot, every decision, every pressure situation can be archived for future generations to learn from. Every extraordinary moment deserves to be decoded. For now, when every cell reads 'N/A', the opportunity to build a sports legacy begins precisely by accepting that honest answer. That emptiness is not an end. It is the starting point for an interrogation of data — a journey that Vietnamese sports must begin as soon as possible. We are only trustworthy when we find the flaws within our own information system.