Nguyen Tien Minh (43) advances through Vietnam Open 2026 qualifiers: Veteran still enjoys badminton

When the door of the changing room at Nguyen Du Stadium closed after his qualifier victory, I remembered the first time I wrote about Nguyen Tien Minh over a decade ago. The stadium was empty, but the mood was not empty. At 43 years old, the former world top-10 player is still writing a chapter many thought had already ended. The context of this tournament — the Vietnam Open 2026, a Super 100 event on the Badminton World Federation (BWF) circuit, held from September 8 to 13 — reflects a reality I have observed during 27 years in this profession: lower-tier tournaments are where the most honest sports stories get told. With over 300 players from 27 countries and territories, the event acts as a mirror reflecting the depth of regional badminton talent. In his match, Minh faced Nguyen Hoang Thai Son — a younger player whose strength lies in doubles. Readers might easily assume the victory came from the composure of a former world No. 5, but the intriguing detail lies in how Minh described the match afterward: he assessed that his opponent was "not strong in singles" but possessed "strength and speed." This is the moment I often call a hidden tactic. Forgotten feats also need someone to name them — and Nguyen Tien Minh, at 43, refuses to allow himself to be forgotten. The press conference door closes, but the court remains open. Digging into the match structure based on the statements, there is a tactical blind spot many overlook: when a doubles-based player enters a singles event, they bring habits that do not translate. Movement patterns in doubles — built on covering only half the court per player — become a disadvantage when forced to cover the entire court alone. I remember my days covering the 2026 World Cup, when I was blocked from the press conference and forced to take notes from a TV screen. Those who stay in the shadows often tell the biggest stories — within that limitation, I learned to read technique through small details. Minh, with decades at the highest level, surely recognized the weaknesses in a doubles specialist's singles game. No need for peak speed at 43, no need for reckless jumping smashes. Just move to the right place at the right time, placing the shuttle into zones where the opponent must adapt with movement patterns deeply embedded in his muscle memory. The fact that a 43-year-old still competes at Super 100 level leads many to question the meaning of his presence. And here is where I see an intriguing irony: in an era where young players train systematically to peak at age 20, a veteran is demonstrating what it means to be a hidden figure within the national badminton system — those once regarded as veteran stars still existing amid the youth development whirlwind. The bigger picture of the Vietnamese team at this event carries a distinctive tone. Le Duc Phat was on the entry list but required pain-relief injections for knee and heel injuries, highlighting the operational state of the support system for key players. Nguyen Hai Dang had already been eliminated. Nguyen Hoang Thai Son, as mentioned, comes from the doubles camp and was not expected to excel in singles. This is the reality I see clearly: the team is in a generational transition — a period of shifting winds. Pushed to the margins, you see the full court view. This is the moment I think about the role of Super 100 events like the Vietnam Open. While organizers expect it to serve as a gateway for ranking points for Asian players, for countries like Vietnam it carries a different mission. It is a place to test the health of the national team — where spectators look at the draw to see who is present, who is absent, who competes at full capacity, and who merely shows up. From a behind-the-scenes perspective — which I have always treasured more — Minh's victory sends an interesting signal about the regional badminton environment. When strong Asian badminton nations like China or Indonesia dominate in terms of top-ranked players, the presence of the oldest participant still able to compete in singles once again proves that class is not measured by age alone. It is measured by the mind, by experience, and by how one chooses to enjoy their game. Nguyen Tien Minh, in his own words, still finds joy in competing. And perhaps that is the only message needed — in an era where professional badminton grows increasingly demanding, the image of a veteran finding joy in a Super 100 event is truly invaluable. People remember the goals; I remember the faces behind them. Does this qualifier victory mean anything significant for Minh's ranking points accumulation years after he sat inside the world's top 10? The answer I see does not lie on the rankings list. As I write these lines, I recall the article I produced after being denied press conference access in 2026 — an article shared by a veteran Brazilian journalist, simply because I chose to focus on tactical details instead of complaining about my own injustice. Minh embodies the same spirit. At 43, instead of lamenting a body past its prime, he still shows up in the warm-up hall, still chooses his shuttlecock placement, still decides when to unleash the finishing shot — proof of a man using experience to resist the erosion of time. Every match, regardless of tournament size, carries its own fascinating signals. For Vietnamese badminton fans, seeing an icon like Nguyen Tien Minh register for another Vietnam Open and secure a first victory — even in qualifiers — leaves an indelible mark. When the lights of Nguyen Du Stadium come on the next day, Nguyen Tien Minh will return to the court as a main-draw player. His opponent, based on what I have read from the draw sheet, is a qualifier from Taiwan (China). Whether he wins or loses in the next match does not really matter. Those of us who have spent years following Minh all know that the court has its own way of telling its story. Those who stay in the shadows often tell the biggest stories. And Nguyen Tien Minh, at this moment, is hiding within his own age to tell the longest story of his career.