My First Chess Tournament in Vietnam: Seven Rounds of Humility

When I moved to Ho Chi Minh City, I expected to discover a new country, new food, and a new culture.

I didn’t expect Vietnam to teach me some of the most important lessons of my chess journey.

Unlike many competitive players, I came to chess late. While most serious players start pushing pieces at the age of six or seven, I only began studying the game seriously in my late thirties. What started as curiosity slowly became an obsession. I spent evenings solving puzzles, watching grandmaster games, studying openings, and convincing myself that I was gradually becoming a decent player.

Then I arrived in Vietnam.

A quick search on Facebook revealed something I hadn’t expected. Local chess tournaments were taking place almost every weekend in Ho Chi Minh City. As both a chess enthusiast and someone who enjoys exploring local cultures through their communities, I immediately registered for one.

Looking at the entry list before the event, I felt confident.

Perhaps a little too confident.

Most participants appeared to be children. Many carried ratings between 1400 and 1600. In my mind, I had already calculated the outcome.

Four or five wins seemed realistic.

The tournament hall quickly reminded me why assumptions are dangerous.

The room was filled with children, but these weren’t ordinary children spending a casual weekend playing chess. They arrived with coaches, notebooks, opening preparation, and a level of focus that immediately caught my attention. Some looked barely ten years old, yet carried themselves with the confidence of experienced tournament players.

When the first round started, I noticed something even more surprising.

These kids could calculate.

Fast.

Very fast.

Within a few moves I stopped looking at their ages and started worrying about their moves.

That was my first lesson in Vietnamese chess.

The Hidden Strength of Vietnamese Chess

India’s chess culture is visible everywhere today. Thanks to the influence of Viswanathan Anand and the emergence of stars like Gukesh, Praggnanandhaa, Arjun Erigaisi, and many others, chess has entered the mainstream. Tournaments are growing, academies are expanding, and young players are emerging from every corner of the country.

Vietnam feels different.

Chess isn’t always in the spotlight, but beneath the surface there is a remarkably strong ecosystem quietly producing talented players.

What impressed me most was the quality of the young generation.

Many players carried ratings that didn’t seem particularly intimidating. However, once the game began, those ratings often felt misleading. The children calculated quickly, defended resourcefully, and played with tremendous confidence. They were fearless.

Several times during the tournament I found myself thinking:

“This player is much stronger than their rating suggests.”

The deeper I looked, the more I realized that Ho Chi Minh City has numerous academies and training centres developing young players. They may not have the visibility of larger chess programs around the world, but they are clearly doing something right.

The result is a generation of young players who understand how to compete.

And I was about to experience that firsthand.

Seven Rounds, Seven Lessons

Round 1: Endgames Matter

My first opponent was higher rated, but I felt comfortable for much of the game. The opening went smoothly and I reached a playable position.

Then the position slowly changed.

At the board, I was focused on active moves and tactical possibilities. What I failed to appreciate was the long-term power of my opponent’s passed pawn.

Only later, while analyzing the game, did I understand what happened.

I wasn’t losing because of tactics.

I was losing because my opponent had a better plan.

The game taught me an important lesson: endgames are not simply about pieces.

They are about understanding where the position is heading.

Round 2: Chess Is Not a Monologue

This loss was entirely self-inflicted.

Throughout the game I was calculating ideas that looked attractive to me. The problem was that I was only calculating my ideas.

I was asking:

“What do I want to do?”

Instead of:

“What does my opponent want to do?”

Every move in chess is part of a conversation. In this game, I was talking while completely ignoring the other side of the discussion.

The result was predictable.

Round 3: The Joy of Coordination

This was one of my favourite games of the tournament.

For the first time, everything felt natural.

My pieces were coordinated, my attack flowed smoothly, and I never felt the need to force complications. The position simply made sense.

After the game, I realized something interesting.

The attack hadn’t worked because of a brilliant tactical idea.

It worked because my pieces were working together.

Club players often dream about sacrifices and spectacular combinations. This game reminded me that most successful attacks begin with harmony, not heroics.

Round 4: Death by a Thousand Improvements

This was perhaps the most frustrating game of the event.

Nothing dramatic happened.

There was no blunder.

No tactical shot.

No crushing attack.

Instead, my opponent simply improved his position move after move while I struggled to find a meaningful plan.

Every move he played seemed useful.

Every move I played felt reactive.

For the first time, I truly understood what positional chess looks like in practice.

Strong players don’t always calculate ten moves ahead.

Sometimes they simply know which piece needs improvement.

Round 5: Structural Problems Become Real Problems

At the board, I felt fine.

The engine would later disagree.

Small weaknesses appeared in my pawn structure, and I treated them casually. One weakness became two. Two became three.

The position never collapsed immediately.

Instead, it deteriorated gradually.

This was one of those games where the evaluation changed long before I realized it.

The lesson was simple: small positional mistakes often create large future problems.

Round 6: The Famous e5 Mistake

Every tournament has one move that stays in your memory.

For me, it was e5.

When I played the move, it felt powerful and ambitious. I thought I was seizing the initiative.

Later analysis revealed something completely different.

The move wasn’t based on calculation.

It was based on excitement.

A calmer move would have solved my problems. Instead, I became attracted to activity and ignored what the position actually required.

The experience reminded me that good chess often demands patience.

Not every opportunity should be taken simply because it exists.

Round 7: A Reward for Persistence

The final round ended with a victory.

More importantly, it ended with confidence.

Throughout the tournament I had missed chances, misunderstood positions, and learned difficult lessons.

This time, when opportunities appeared, I converted them.

The win wasn’t beautiful.

It wasn’t brilliant.

But it was evidence that improvement was already happening.

And that made it meaningful.

Expectation Versus Reality

As an Indian player, I arrived carrying certain assumptions.

I believed ratings would accurately reflect strength.

I believed my experience would help me against younger players.

I believed I had a reasonable understanding of my own level.

Vietnam challenged every one of those assumptions.

The discipline I witnessed was remarkable. The tournament hall remained calm and focused. The young players showed maturity beyond their years. They handled victories and defeats gracefully, respected opponents, and remained fully concentrated throughout long games.

Most importantly, they competed without fear.

By the end of the tournament, I had developed tremendous respect for Vietnamese chess.

And a healthy respect for every child sitting across the board.

What Vietnam Taught Me About Chess

I arrived in Vietnam thinking chess improvement was mainly about openings, tactics, and puzzles.

I left understanding something deeper.

Chess is about understanding positions.

The tournament exposed weaknesses I didn’t know I had. My biggest problems weren’t opening preparation or tactical awareness. They were impatience, overconfidence, positional understanding, and endgame technique.

Several games were lost long before any tactical mistake occurred.

The real errors happened in my evaluation of the position.

Vietnam also taught me the value of classical chess. For years I wondered why strong players spent so much time thinking. After playing long tournament games myself, I finally understood.

Good chess requires patience.

It requires discipline.

It requires the willingness to sit with difficult positions and search for the truth.

Most importantly, Vietnam taught me to respect every opponent.

Ratings matter.

Experience matters.

But once the clock starts, none of those things move the pieces.

Only good decisions do.

I didn’t leave my first Vietnamese tournament with a trophy.

I left with something more valuable.

Clarity.

And sometimes, that’s the best prize a chess player can win.