Double-Value Contracts: A Lesson from Home – Why Vietnamese Football Still Drowns in Financial Darkness?

In 2026, at the age of 26, I had just left my career as a player to work as a trainee reporter for a sports news site in Binh Duong. On my first assignment, I went to Becamex Binh Duong to interview a former teammate who was demanding to terminate his contract. By chance, he showed me a "double-value" contract – one version declared to VPF (the V.League operating company), another with an actual value 2.1 times higher – involving the number 8 striker of the youth team. I saved the PDF, cross-checked it for three months with salary reports and club meeting minutes, but the editor-in-chief only told me to "not waste time." I didn't publish the story, but I recorded everything in my notebook. People call it a double-value contract; I call it the first lesson from home. From then on, I abandoned short match-report writing and switched to document-comparison writing: citing numbers, quoting each line of the contract, asking "where did that money go?" instead of "who scored the beautiful goal?" Every detail in my articles had to be cross-verified from at least three sources. The context of Vietnamese football is nothing less than a financial maze. V.League, the top-tier league, has experienced many ups and downs. Clubs rely heavily on sponsorship from local businesses, and this creates fertile ground for double-value contracts. Without a strict financial control mechanism, clubs easily inflate contract values to profit or hide underground cash flows. The Becamex Binh Duong story is just one typical example among countless similar cases. Since Moscow 2026, I no longer view the World Cup as a match, but as a cash-flow balance sheet. On the night of June 26, at a bar near Luzhniki Stadium, I recognized a familiar face from the photo I took in the 2026 Becamex case: a businessman named Hung, a college friend of that club's vice president. He was accepting illegal bets from a group of fans through a bank account. I silently took photos with my phone, saved the betting sheet for 10 days, and cross-referenced it with withdrawal amounts before each match. When I sent a 12-page investigation report to the newsroom, it was dismissed because "nobody wants to touch the World Cup." But I learned how to write indirect investigations: using the context of major sporting events as a framework, embedding observations of money trails into character details, maintaining an objective tone but with enough specifics to let readers draw their own conclusions. In the ghost season of 2026, I sat in an empty stadium watching money flow into the pockets of those in power. When all global tournaments stopped due to COVID-19, I was a mid-level reporter at a sports economics newspaper. Becamex Binh Duong announced a 50% salary cut due to difficulties, but I called to check the accounting books from an internal source and discovered they transferred 3.2 billion VND to the golf course company of a vice president right in the month the tournament was canceled. Not stopping there, the derby between Saigon FC and Binh Duong, played in front of no fans, still had a "lubrication" sponsorship contract worth 800 million VND from a beverage company – a branch of a foreign bookmaker. I spent two months during the pandemic recording, verifying, and then published a three-part series "Portrait of a Ghost Season," which forced a deputy director of the league to resign. I don't believe in intuition; I believe in a half-cent discrepancy in a transfer record. The numbers I gathered from those three cases are not just isolated events. They form a system. Double-value contracts are not an exception, but a part of the power structure in Vietnamese football. Clubs, businesses, and even officials are interconnected in a network of underground cash flows. To understand this, I had to trace every footprint on the field, every number in the books, and piece them together into a comprehensive picture. One of the most important discoveries is the existence of golf course companies. Why would a football club transfer money to a golf course company? That is a common money-laundering channel. Money from sponsorship or transfer contracts is routed through the golf company, then returns to the pockets of officials or is used for illegal purposes. In the Becamex Binh Duong case, 3.2 billion VND was transferred to the golf course company of the vice president right when the tournament was canceled. This is not a coincidence, but a pattern. From Moscow 2026, I observed how bookmakers operate. They are not just bettors; they are manipulators of cash flows. They know match outcomes in advance, and they use sponsorship contracts to legitimize their money. In the derby between Saigon FC and Binh Duong, the beverage company – a branch of a foreign bookmaker – sponsored 800 million VND. This amount could be part of an underground deal to ensure the match result as desired. I have no direct evidence, but the cash flow is a clear indicator. When the bookmaker knows in advance and the referee knows it, the match is just a script in the stands. Over the years, I have witnessed matches with unusual outcomes, and I have always sought a logical explanation. Not always with evidence, but there are signs: a player underperforming, a controversial referee decision, an unusual amount of money transferred to a related person's account. All these signs, when pieced together, form a picture of manipulation. I record every footprint on the field so that when they wipe their hands, I can identify each hand. My method is to follow the money, not the words. I believe every decision in football, from player transfers to referee appointments, has a financial reason. And if I can find that reason, I can understand the essence of the problem. However, not everyone sees the issue this way. Some argue that double-value contracts are a way for clubs to survive in difficult financial circumstances. When revenue from broadcasting rights and ticket sales is insufficient, clubs must find other ways to cover costs. Double-value contracts might be a way to raise capital from sponsors without public disclosure. This could help them maintain operations, but it also creates an environment lacking transparency, where decisions are not controlled. Another perspective is that full financial disclosure could shock fans. Many fans do not want to know about underground money; they just want to watch football. However, the lack of transparency creates greater risks. It fosters corruption, match-fixing, and other unsportsmanlike behaviors. And ultimately, it erodes fans' trust. I do not deny that there are difficulties in ending double-value contracts. Clubs may not want to disclose for fear of losing competitive advantage, and regulatory bodies may not be strong enough to control. But without a fundamental change, Vietnamese football will continue to drown in financial darkness. Every scandal has a common point: those with power stand outside the touchline but write their names on the scoreboard. In Vietnamese football, the powerful are often not those on the pitch, but those in boardrooms, those who control the cash flow. They decide who plays, who must leave, and the outcome of matches. And they do it through double-value contracts, underground transfers, and personal relationships. It is time for a revolution in financial transparency in Vietnamese football. Regulatory bodies need to enforce stricter regulations, require full financial disclosure from clubs, and severely punish violations. Fans also need to speak up, demanding a clean and fair football environment. Only then can Vietnamese football develop sustainably. Can Vietnamese football be clean while money still flows underground? That is the question I am still seeking to answer. But I believe that if we keep watching, keep investigating, and keep asking questions, we can create change. I will continue to record every footprint on the field, because I know that, in the end, the truth will be exposed.