Vietnamese Billiards: Three Tables, One Name, and the Data Gap Nobody Counts

Vietnamese Billiards: Three Tables, One Name, and the Data Gap Nobody Counts On the second floor of a billiard hall on Pham Ngoc Thach Street, in Thu Dau Mot City, Binh Duong Province, three tables sit side by side. The first is covered in deep blue cloth, with no pockets at all and four cushions bounding the path of the ball. The second has six pockets, smaller, scattered with numbered plastic balls. The third is longer, its cloth finer, and its six pockets so tight that a newcomer holding a cue knows, before striking the first ball, that he will lose. All three are called by the same name: billiards. That is where everything I want to discuss begins. A foreign visitor walking in would not understand why three completely different things share one word. Three rule sets, three techniques, three scoring systems, three economic ecosystems, and three audiences that barely overlap. Yet in everyday conversation in Vietnam, in news bulletins, in online arguments, they are all just billiards. I sit down with my spreadsheets after every tournament, and the first table I have to build is not a ranking. It is a classification table. Before I trust a number, I ask where it came from. A number about billiards that does not say which billiards it refers to means nothing at all. One Word, Three Worlds Vietnamese speakers use one word for three different sports, but usage shifts with generation and region. For most young city dwellers, going to play billiards means playing pool — pocket billiards, six pockets, fifteen numbered balls, 8-ball or 9-ball rules. It is the game of leisure, of evenings after work, of halls packed along student streets. Here the core skills are stroke power, cue-ball control, and fast, decisive finishes. For the older generation, especially in the south, billiards more often means carom — pocketless billiards, three cushions, the ball rolling across a long cloth, and the player required to send the cue ball off at least three cushions before contacting the two object balls. This is the game of patience, of shots that travel ten seconds before arriving, of people who sit for a whole afternoon just to play a few lines. It is also the discipline where Vietnam has its best international record. Snooker — pocket billiards with small pockets, a large table, twenty-two red and coloured balls — is a third world, almost separate. In Vietnam, snooker has its own community, its own halls, its own tournaments, and a loyal but quiet following. On the world professional snooker map, Vietnam is nearly absent from the top tier. Those three worlds are merged into one, and the merge has concrete consequences. When a newspaper reports that Vietnamese billiards is rising to world level, readers default to the discipline they know — some think pool, some think carom, some think snooker. One headline, three interpretations. And when an administrator designs policy for billiards, they face three rule systems, three tournament structures, and three groups of athletes with different needs, while the budget and the staff remain singular. In analytical work I learned one principle: data in the wrong unit is worse than no data. Calling three sports one sport is a unit error. And a unit error cannot be fixed by adding more numbers. Technically, the gap runs deeper than the name. A strong three-cushion player must build a shot along a coordinate system of four cushions, calculating reflection angles, stroke force and spin so the ball contacts multiple times before reaching its target. A strong pool player must master the cue ball at short range, control position after every shot, and close a rack with a run. A strong snooker player must live on endurance: a frame can run tens of minutes, and a single small mistake can cost the whole frame. Three skill sets, three kinds of pressure, three forms of fatigue. Numbers Without Labels What I have observed over years of following the scene is that Vietnamese billiards has plenty of numbers but very few fully labelled ones. People remember medals. People remember the times a Vietnamese cueman reached the final of an international event. Those numbers appear in the press, get shared, get repeated as a source of pride. But rarely does anyone ask: which discipline, which tournament, which format, which opponent, and how does it compare to the general level of that discipline. I once watched an online argument between two groups of fans, one saying Vietnamese billiards is rising, the other saying it is falling. Both sides cited data. The problem: one side cited carom figures, the other cited pool figures. Both sets were correct, and placed side by side they were meaningless, because they measure different things. For an analyst this is a nightmare. You cannot build a forecasting model on a dataset where each row belongs to a different sport with different rules. You cannot compare the win rate of a three-cushion player with that of a pool player, because scoring, frame endings and winning conditions are entirely different. But this is also an opportunity. Precisely because nobody has done it, the first to do it holds an advantage. In billiards, nobody wins a title by playing each frame under a different rule. Nor does anyone build an industry by counting every number in a different unit. Tran Quyet Chien and the Number That Stands With the Story If I had to choose one name to speak about Vietnamese billiards on the international stage, it would be Tran Quyet Chien — a leading three-cushion player, tied to Binh Duong. I write about him not because he is the most famous, but because his case shows what data can and cannot say. In terms of achievement, he is one of Asia's and the world's leading three-cushion players, a former world champion in the three-cushion discipline. That is a rare milestone for Vietnamese billiards on the international map. Alongside him, names such as Nguyen Quoc Nguyen and Ngo Dinh Nai, or in pool Duong Quoc Hoang, have all represented Vietnam on regional and international stages. But stopping at the phrase world champion omits most of the story. What interests me is the context behind it. A Vietnamese three-cushion player reaching the world summit in a discipline most Vietnamese call by the wrong name, playing in halls with no measurement systems, training under coaches without standardised curricula, competing in domestic events whose prize money cannot support a living. That is an achievement that did not come from a system; it came from an individual. And this is where data stands with the story. When I look at the career trajectory of players like this, I do not see a straight line. I see long years, small tournaments, distant trips, and silences that no number records. People see a championship; I see twenty quiet years leading to it. In Binh Duong I once sat with local billiards people. They had no expensive software, no video analysis room, no fitness specialists. They had a table, a notebook, and a belief that small numbers would find their way. Binh Duong back then had no expensive software, only people who believed every small number would find its way. That belief sits in no model, but it is what keeps the whole system running. And that human part is the hardest to measure. A player can have very high technical metrics and still lose the deciding frame, because behind the final shot lies a family, a debt, a promise. Data cannot measure that, but data can show that it exists — through unusual winning streaks, through unexplained collapses in form. That is when I have to leave the spreadsheet and go find the person behind it. Tournament Systems and Prize Structures Now let us talk structure. On the international stage, the three disciplines have three entirely different tournament systems. Three-cushion carom runs on the UMB system — the Union Mondiale de Billard. There is the World Cup, the World Championship, the Grand Prix events. Vietnam has hosted a leg of the three-cushion World Cup, held in Binh Duong, gathering the world's leading cuemen. That is one of the rare events that put Vietnamese billiards on the international map systematically. Pool runs on the WPA system — the World Pool-Billiard Association — with the World Pool Championship, events staged by international promoters, and its own ranking system. Vietnamese pool players compete there but have yet to make a mark at the top. Snooker runs on the WPBSA system — the World Professional Billiards and Snooker Association — with the professional tour, events such as the World Championship and the UK Championship, and a rolling two-year ranking. This is the harshest system, where a tour card is a career, and Vietnam has no stable representative. Prize structures across the three are vastly different. A major snooker event can carry a total purse of millions of pounds, with the champion taking hundreds of thousands. A carom or pool event is many times smaller. This means that while all three are called professional billiards players, these three groups have entirely different incomes, stability and risk levels. And this is a consequence I often repeat: when we say invest in billiards, we must say which billiards. Pouring money into a discipline with low prize money and limited international opportunity, then expecting outcomes like a large system, is a failure of expectation. Domestically, the tournament system is also fragmented by discipline. There is a national championship for carom, events for pool, events for snooker, run separately by federations and organisers. But data across these events is barely standardised, not centrally archived, and not published in a way an outsider can analyse. That is the biggest gap. Not a shortage of talent. But a shortage of a place for numbers to live. The Power Map If I drew a power map of Vietnamese billiards, I would draw three circles that barely overlap. The first circle is carom. This is where Vietnam is strongest, where players are known to the world, where there is tradition, an older audience, and halls that have existed for decades. It is also where generational succession is relatively clear. The second circle is pool. This is where the largest and youngest player base sits, and where the link to entertainment and business is strongest. Pool is the game of the many, of billiard halls springing up in every city, of crowded evenings. But it is also the discipline where the path to international professionalism is narrow and thinly invested. The third circle is snooker. The smallest, the most closed, and perhaps where the gap between amateur players and the world top is largest. These three circles share one word but very few resources. A carom medal does nothing for pool. A pool event builds no experience for snooker. And most regrettably: success in one circle is rarely used to lift another. Meanwhile, at continental level, Vietnam sits in the competitive group in carom alongside South Korea, Japan and others. In pool, Vietnam competes within Southeast Asia. In snooker, Vietnam is essentially an observer. Notably, the world's strong billiards nations are rarely strong in all three. South Korea is strong in carom but not a snooker power. England and China are strong in snooker and pool, but not always at the carom summit. Vietnam does not need to be strong everywhere. What it needs is to know where it is strong and invest there, rather than spreading resources across one shared word. The Quiet People Who Hold the Table There is a group the spreadsheets never name: the hall owners, the tutors, and the officials at small tournaments. They are the base layer of the ecosystem. A billiard hall can survive twenty years because one owner knows how to keep customers, choose tables, arrange matches so players come back. A coach can train dozens of students none of whom ever appear in any record. A referee at a grassroots event can work all day for very low pay, simply because he wants that playing field to stand. In my analyses, these people always end up at the bottom, and I always remind myself that this is wrong. They are the ones keeping the flow unbroken. When a hall closes, not only does a business disappear, a gathering place disappears with it. When a coach stops teaching, not only does an individual leave, a generation of students loses its guide. Data cannot measure those losses, but they are real. Rules, Governance and Grey Zones Each discipline has its own international governing body, and in Vietnam activities are coordinated through federations and organisers. But there is a grey zone I must always mention when writing about billiards: betting. Billiards is among the sports with a high risk of betting and match-fixing. The reason is simple: small tournaments, low prize money, a large number of matches, and difficult oversight. The world has seen serious cases of match-fixing in billiards, and those cases damage the reputation of the entire sport. In Vietnam, I do not have enough data to speak about the extent of this problem in each discipline. And that is exactly what is worrying. When you have no data, you can neither confirm nor deny. You can only say: this is a risk to be monitored. As a data person, I believe the best prevention is not strong statements but transparency. Publish results, publish scores, publish head-to-head records, publish prize money. When information is open, anomalies reveal themselves. When information is closed, even ordinary things look suspicious. Beyond betting, there are issues of competition rules, eligibility, contracts between players and sponsors, transfers and representation. In Vietnam these are barely standardised into public documents. And what is not standardised tends to breed disputes. Career Ecosystems and Psychology I want to say something rarely said: most professional billiards players in Vietnam do not live on prize money. Prize money, for most cuemen, is a small part. Most income comes from other sources: coaching, exhibition play, representing halls, selling equipment, or working as a trainer. Some hold a day job and play billiards at night. This creates a very fragile career structure. A player has no long-term contract, no insurance, no pension. If injury or a drop in form hits, income can vanish within months. And when the structure is fragile, the psychological pressure on decisive shots grows. In billiards, the mental factor is not about power but about stability. A complex three-cushion line requires the player to hold the same stroke rhythm for hours. A slight tremble, a moment of hesitation, and the ball goes astray. And when behind that shot lies a month's income, the tremble is harder to control. I have watched many matches decided not by technique but by who keeps a cool head longer. That is the part data struggles most to measure. Risks and What Must Not Be Ignored Overall, I see four risk groups for Vietnamese billiards. The first is structural risk: fragmentation across three disciplines splits resources, and no single discipline is strong enough to build a complete ecosystem. The second is human-capital risk: a shortage of people doing data, communications, and professional event organisation. Talent at the table exists; organisational skill behind it does not. The third is financial risk: low prize money, unstable sponsorship, dependence on a few entities and a few events. The fourth is reputational risk: betting and match-fixing, if uncontrolled, can damage the entire sport. Among these four, I believe the most worrying is the least discussed: the data gap. Because without data, the other three risk groups are hard to detect and address. You cannot improve what you cannot measure. Industry-Chain Transmission Vietnamese billiards is an industry chain with three tiers. The upstream tier is facilities and equipment: tables, cloth, balls, cues, chalk, gloves. Most of these are imported, from China, South Korea, Europe. Some domestic manufacturing exists but cannot compete at the high end. This is the tier where import-price swings directly affect the cost of opening and running a hall. The midstream tier is players, tournaments and media. This is the tier that creates image and brand value. A good tournament, a fine match, a famous player — all generate attention, and attention is the raw material of sponsorship. The downstream tier is sponsorship, derivative products, and related services: advertising, broadcasting, digital content, player-branded equipment. The biggest weakness of this chain in Vietnam is that the links between the three tiers are loose. A player achieving an international result can generate attention for a few days, but that attention is rarely channelled back upstream, to sell more tables and cues, nor downstream, to create lasting content, products and services. It flares and fades. This is where I think data can create real value. Not data to show off, but data to connect. The Counterintuitive Angle This is the part I want to spend the most time on, because it runs against common intuition. Intuition says: to develop Vietnamese billiards, create more world champions. Invest in the top talents. Focus on the summit. I partly think the opposite. The summit is an outcome, not a cause. Champions like Tran Quyet Chien did not appear because a perfect system existed, but because a broad base existed — thousands of players, hundreds of halls, dozens of small tournaments, and a long tradition. If that base narrows, the summit will fade too, no matter how much money is poured into a few individuals. Second, intuition says merging the three disciplines into one makes management easier and creates combined strength. I think merging without classification is self-harm. The three disciplines need three strategies. Carom must maintain its international standing. Pool must build a professional pathway from the base. Snooker needs a long-term strategy, possibly international cooperation. Merging them and splitting resources evenly is the surest way for none of them to get anywhere. Third — and this is what I hold most dearly — intuition says more numbers is better. I think the right number matters more than many numbers. In Vietnamese billiards we lack basic figures: how many regular players, how many halls in operation, how many tournaments held each year, total prize money, the conversion rate from amateur to professional. Without those, every plan is a guess. And guesses build nothing durable. There is a small paradox I often think about: people more easily remember a fine shot than a correct number. A ball travelling three cushions into the target will be recalled for years. A correctly computed accuracy rate is rarely remembered. Yet those correct numbers are what let the next fine shot be born. Fans remember the moment; data people remember the conditions that create the moment. Conclusion There is something I learned after years in data, and it holds for billiards too: sometimes the most important thing is not the number you have, but the question you dare to ask. In the empty stadiums of 2026, I could clearly hear the ball rolling and the note sheet falling onto the stands. With no audience left, I saw plainly that what keeps a sport alive is not only applause but the people who stay after the lights go out. I am the one who stays with the spreadsheet after the lights go out — you may call it work; I call it fate. Vietnamese billiards has talent, tradition and audiences. What it still lacks is a map. Not a map of championships, but a map of the whole ecosystem: three disciplines, three systems, three communities, and thousands of players quietly keeping the tables occupied. Every season is a data series, but my memory is not in any model. And perhaps what Vietnamese billiards needs now is not another victory, but someone willing to sit down, open a notebook, and start counting properly.