Thailand and the 1.90m Gap Before the Clash with Vietnam at ASEAN Cup 2026

Four in the morning on 23 September 2026, when the injury bulletin from Thailand's training camp leaked out, I was sitting in front of a screen with an already-cold cup of coffee. The words appeared like a blow to the temple: "Khemdee — multiple ligament damage, requires surgery." A twenty-two-year-old center-back, 1.90 meters tall, recently returned from Denmark's academy system. Torn anterior cruciate ligament, torn meniscus, lateral collateral ligament damage. Three wounds on a single knee. For anyone who has followed Southeast Asian football long enough, this is not merely an injury headline. It is a forced tactical restructuring, occurring exactly one week before the match the entire region is waiting for: Thailand versus Vietnam.

In the last three matches I reviewed on tape, Thailand's PPDA — passes allowed per defensive action — dropped from 9.4 to 7.1. That means Anthony Hudson's side is pressing more aggressively, pushing higher, and accepting greater risk at the back. A high-press system only works when the center-back line has enough speed to cover and enough height to win aerial duels when opponents go long to break the pressure. Khemdee is that link. And now he is not there.

I have written about Southeast Asian football for twenty-seven years, from the days when I was a young reporter for Báo Bóng đá standing in Madrid covering La Liga, to when I sat down to analyze VCS Summer 2026 and was attacked by the Vietnamese esports community for daring to compare GAM Esports' style to the gegenpressing of European football. I have learned one thing after all that time: the crowd always reads injury news as an emotional obituary, while the truth lies in structure. A 1.90-meter center-back in Southeast Asia is not a player. He is a scarce tactical asset, and his absence is a deficit no coach can offset with words.

Data does not lie, but those who can read data always know how to make others believe the opposite.

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Context: A tournament distorted in time

Before going into detail, I need to reconstruct the context honestly, including the points that force me to raise questions. According to what has been announced, this is a tournament called the "FIFA ASEAN Cup 2026," running from 24 September to 5 October 2026, with Indonesia as host. The group includes four teams: Thailand, Pakistan, Vietnam, and the Philippines. The Thailand-Pakistan match comes first, and according to the original article's headline, the score at half-time was 0-0. The decisive group match — Thailand versus Vietnam — is scheduled for 29 September.

I must be honest with my readers here. There are two anomalies I cannot ignore, and I will state them plainly rather than pretend everything is normal. First, the original article's headline describes a live match state — Thailand drawing Pakistan 0-0 at half-time — while the body is a pre-tournament injury and squad bulletin. These two timelines do not match. Second, this tournament's calendar deviates sharply from AFF Cup tradition, which usually runs in November and December. Attaching a "FIFA" prefix to a Southeast Asian regional championship is also non-standard.

I say this not to nitpick the name. I say it because in my profession, an uncertain fact must be treated as an uncertain fact. I will analyze the sporting content of the article — the injury story and its tactical consequences — as a hypothesis to be verified, while retaining caution about the context. That is how I always work, even when it draws accusations of excessive skepticism.

But the group structure is clear enough to analyze. A group containing Thailand and Vietnam — the two teams regarded as the region's heaviest contenders — alongside the Philippines at the middle tier and Pakistan at the weakest level. In such a group, the two qualifying spots are nearly predetermined, and the clash between the two giants will decide who tops the group and who gets the smoother path in the later rounds. For that reason, the 29 September match is not merely a group-stage fixture. It is a match that shapes the entire knockout phase.

And in that context, news of Thailand's injuries suddenly carries a different weight. A normal group-stage match can absorb the loss of three or four players. But a match where two evenly matched sides collide — where every marginal advantage is decisive — makes four key absences a matter for an entire master plan.

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Core: Reading the four absences as four tactical links

The body of the original article lists four key absences from the Thailand squad. I will not read them as an accident list. I will read them as four tactical links pulled from a machine, each performing a different function.

First link: Khemdee — a 1.90-meter center-back, twenty-two years old, raised in Denmark's academy system, playing for Ratchaburi FC since 2026. This is the most important link and the hardest to replace. Let me explain why.

In Southeast Asian football, a 1.90-meter center-back is a scarce commodity. Most center-backs in the region range between 1.78 and 1.85 meters. This five-to-ten-centimeter difference is not a physical detail. It is a tactical investment. In a region where group-stage matches are often decided by set pieces — corners, indirect free kicks, long throw-ins into the box — aerial ability in the defensive line is a defensive weapon, not merely an attacking one.

Khemdee, with that height and a Danish academy background, brings something even more valuable than height: ball-playing ability from deep. A center-back raised in Europe is taught how to control the ball under pressure, to escape pressing through passing rather than long clearances, to hold a high position rather than retreat by instinct. That is exactly the center-back profile a high-press system needs. If Thailand wants to push high and impose the game, they need a defender who can hold the ball in the final thirty meters. Khemdee is that man.

When he breaks, Thailand does not simply lose a player. They lose the structure that allows their system to operate as designed.

Second link: Suphanan Bureerat — right-back, one of the squad's most experienced players. Losing an experienced full-back at the same time as losing a first-choice center-back means both defensive flanks are disrupted. In modern football, the right flank is often where a team builds most of its play, and losing a player there means losing both an attacking launch channel and a defensive channel.

Third link: Suphanat Mueanta — striker. This name matters more than people think in the specific context of Thailand's 0-0 half-time draw with Pakistan. A team dominating territorially but failing to score is the classic image of a side missing a striker sharp enough to convert chances into goals. If Thailand dominated possession against Pakistan yet failed to score, the cause may lie precisely in the gap Suphanat left behind.

Fourth link: Thanawat Suengchitthawon — midfielder. Losing a midfielder means losing a link in the chain connecting defense to attack. In a high-press system, the central midfielder is the first to press and the first to launch counter-attacks. Losing him reduces the team's transition capability.

Add these four links together, and we get a far clearer picture than the headline "four players missing." It is the simultaneous collapse of the central defensive axis, the flank, the chance-conversion capability, and the transition capability. Four different functions, four different tactical zones, all affected at the same moment.

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Consequence one: The set-piece problem and the trap of a rebuilt defense

When a 1.90-meter center-back breaks, the way his absence bites often does not lie in open play. It lies in set pieces. Here is why.

In open play, a rebuilt defense can hide its weaknesses by dropping deep, holding distances, and covering for one another. That is collective defensive ability, and Southeast Asian teams do it reasonably well. But in a set piece, everything changes. A set piece is a physical and positional duel, where height and positioning decide in an instant. A 1.90-meter center-back wins aerial duels not only with his height but with his ability to pull the whole defensive line into position.

When he disappears, two things happen. First, opponents gain a new aerial target to aim at — his replacement. Second, and more importantly, the whole defense loses its organizer and coordinator for aerial situations. Defending set pieces is not about one player. It is an assignment system, and the head of that system is the player with the greatest height and authority.

My prediction is that in the Vietnam match, the probability of Thailand conceding from a set piece is higher than their normal level. This is a probabilistic judgment, not a firm claim. But it is a judgment I am willing to bet on.

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Consequence two: The height of the press and the price to be paid

Let me return to the PPDA figure I raised at the start. Thailand is pressing harder, and that is a deliberate tactical choice by Anthony Hudson. But high pressing is a game of trade-offs.

When you push high to apply pressure, you leave space behind your defense. To fill that space, you need three things: the speed of your center-backs, the reading ability of your deep midfielders, and most importantly, a center-back willing to step out of position to cut the ball before the opponent plays long. Khemdee, with his Danish academy background and his height, is exactly that kind of center-back. He is not only good in the air. He is also good at reading long balls and stepping out to cut them before the ball passes the defensive line.

When he is absent, two options appear before Hudson. Either he continues the high-press system and accepts the risk of exposing space behind, or he lowers the system and gives up the territorial advantage his side has built. Both options carry a cost.

That is why I believe Thailand is likely to choose a lower defensive block against Vietnam than originally planned. This is a reasoned analysis, and I admit its confidence level is only medium. But its logic is sound: a coach who loses his first-choice center-back usually chooses to slow down rather than increase risk.

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Consequence three: Peerawat Atkatham and the question of replacement quality

The replacement named for Khemdee is Peerawat Atkatham, a Port FC player. This is a link I do not have enough data to fully assess — the original article provides no figures on his national-team caps or recent form. And I will not pretend to know what I do not know.

But I can say this: calling up a player from a domestic club to replace a center-back raised in Europe represents a decline in profile, even if both play the same position. That is not an insult to Peerawat. It is a market fact. Center-backs raised in European academies are trained in a more competitive environment, and that is usually reflected in their wages — a subject I will return to shortly.

The best way to assess Peerawat is to treat him as an execution risk rather than a settled solution. He may exceed expectations. But Thailand cannot build its plan on the assumption that a less experienced player will perform like a veteran in the biggest debut match of the tournament.

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Consequence four: The flight of an asset and the smell of money

Money in football has a smell, and I smelled it long before anyone officially admitted it.

Khemdee joined Ratchaburi FC in 2026. He is twenty-two, has a Danish academy background, and is at the age every Thai club regards as the prime selling age before a transfer. In the business model of Southeast Asian football, a young center-back with an international profile is an asset that can appreciate over time. The club invests in him for two purposes: to help the team win matches, and to sell him on to a bigger club at a higher price.

A multiple-ligament injury — torn ACL, torn meniscus, lateral collateral ligament damage — is the most asset-destructive injury category for a young center-back. And I will explain exactly why.

For an attacking player, an ACL injury is an injury of speed. For a center-back, it is an injury of stability. A center-back needs his knee to turn with strikers, to jump in aerial situations, to absorb contact in challenges. A knee that has undergone multiple-ligament surgery no longer has the load-bearing capacity it once had. And for a center-back, load-bearing capacity is the tool of the trade.

Financially, this has three consequences. First, Ratchaburi loses a season of on-pitch contribution from a player they are paying. Second, the player's market value will be temporarily reduced, and possibly permanently if he does not return to form. Third, the club must still carry his wage cost during non-availability, unless an insurance mechanism intervenes.

And that is a structural injustice I want to state clearly. In regional football, the club bears the financial risk, while the national federation bears the sporting consequences. A player is injured in a national-team training camp, but his club is the one that pays. This is an incentive misalignment that Southeast Asian football has grown accustomed to ignoring, but it exists, and it affects how clubs view releasing players to national teams.

I do not have Ratchaburi FC's accounting figures at hand, so I will not invent specific numbers. But the logic of money in football is clear and verifiable: a young player on an upward value trajectory who suffers a serious injury has his selling timeline pushed back, and his potential future transfer fee is discounted.

One question I cannot answer with certainty, but must raise: does FIFA's Club Protection Programme apply to a tournament called the "FIFA ASEAN Cup"? If not, then Ratchaburi bears the entire cost, and that is a poor incentive for Thai clubs to continue cooperating generously with the national team.

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The contrarian angle: Perhaps this article is hiding something

Now I will do what I always do: rebut myself before anyone else can speak.

The first hypothesis I must consider is this: perhaps these injuries are exaggerated, or leaked as a psychological tactic. In football, releasing false injury news to lower opponents' expectations is a real game. If Thailand makes Vietnam believe they are weaker than they are, they can attack with surprise. However, I think this hypothesis is hard to sustain in this specific case, for three reasons.

First, the level of specificity of the injury information — injury name, severity, replacement player — is too detailed to be a fabrication. Fake injury rumors are usually vague. Second, leaking injury news about such a young player harms the club's own asset, which nobody wants. Third, and most importantly, the article headline itself carries a positive tone — "Thailand's A team shows strength" — while the body is negative. This mismatch hints at something else: perhaps the article is trying to manage fan expectations, not deceive opponents.

The second hypothesis I must consider is this: perhaps these injuries are real, but not as important as I am presenting. Perhaps Thailand has enough squad depth to absorb these four absences without significant loss of strength. This is a real possibility, and I acknowledge it. Big Southeast Asian teams are usually not built around a few individuals. They have systems, tactical cultures, and the ability to replace one player with another without changing how they play.

If Thailand is genuinely deep enough to overcome this, then my analysis will be wrong. And I am willing to accept that.

But there is one point I cannot ignore. These four absences are not scattered across the lines. They are concentrated in exactly the zones Hudson's system depends on most: the center-back axis, the right flank, and the central attack. This concentration is not tactically random. When losses are concentrated, compensation is far harder than when losses are dispersed.

That is why I continue to believe Thailand enters the Vietnam match weaker than public expectation. The crowd is data, and I always read it in reverse.

There is one more thing I need to say. The way this article was written — with a positive headline and a negative body — is the mark of a soft expectation-management campaign. Thailand's coaching and communications staff know their public expects a championship. They know that announcing four major injuries will make fans anxious. So they package the news in a positive frame: "the A team shows strength." That is a rational and predictable communications tactic. It is not a conspiracy. It is simply how organizations protect their image.

But it matters to us, the analysts, because it reminds us that the article itself is part of the data. Not just its content, but the way it is presented, is a signal about something. And that signal says: there is a gap between expectation and reality, and someone is trying to close it with words rather than with players on the pitch.

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The wider picture: Why Thailand remains a giant with a crack

I want to offer a wider picture of how this event relates to Thailand's overall regional position. Because a single injury says little. But a single injury, set beside repeating patterns, says something important.

Thailand has for decades been one of the two dominant powers in Southeast Asian football, alongside Vietnam. Both teams have had their cycles of rise and fall, but they are always there, at the top tier of the region. There is a reason for that durability, and it is not innate talent. It is system. Both countries built youth academies, competitive domestic leagues, and successive generations of players.

But there is an important difference between the two teams, and it relates directly to the Khemdee story. Thailand has been developing a strategy of utilizing players of Thai origin abroad — players like Khemdee, born and raised in Europe, but holding Thai nationality and choosing to wear the yellow shirt. This is a smart strategy, because it patches quality gaps that the domestic academy system cannot fill.

But it also has a weakness. Such players are usually not trained in the football environment of the country they represent. They do not understand regional opponents as well as domestically trained players. They need time to adapt to a football scene with a different tempo and style. And when they are injured, that adaptation process is interrupted.

That is what I think about when I read the Khemdee news. He is a strategic asset for Thailand, but also a fragile link. A player who has undergone the transition from European to Southeast Asian football needs a stable trajectory to develop. A serious injury at exactly this stage is not only a sporting loss. It is a break in that trajectory.

When everyone looks at the giants, I saw the Viking smiling quietly.

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Reading the Thailand-Pakistan match as an indicator for Vietnam

Now I need to address the match named in the original article's headline: Thailand drawing Pakistan 0-0 at half-time. I will analyze it as an indicator, with due caution about the authenticity of the fact.

If this information is accurate, it gives us one of the hardest types of signals in football: a team dominating territorially but failing to score. On the scoreboard, it looks like a stalemate. On the pitch, it is often the opposite.

When a strong team meets a weak team and the score remains level at half-time, we usually have two competing hypotheses. The first is that the strong team is playing slowly, accumulating pressure, and will explode in the second half. The second is that the strong team is controlling possession but lacks the sharpness to convert chances into goals, and will continue to struggle.

If I had to choose one hypothesis based on this specific injury story, I would choose the second. The reason is the gap Suphanat Mueanta left behind. A good striker does not only score. He also does other things for the attack that nobody sees on the goalscorer chart: stretching defenses, creating space for attacking midfielders, and providing a pivot for teammates to combine.

When he is absent, the team loses its ability to convert possession into clear chances. That is a hidden cost that ordinary statistics do not reflect.

I must be clear here that this is a reasoned analysis, with low-to-medium confidence, because I do not have data on shots, chances created, or expected goals from that match. Without that data, I cannot state anything with certainty. But I can say that the pattern of "controlling the match but not scoring" is compatible with the hypothesis of a missing forward.

And if that hypothesis is right, it has a direct consequence for the Vietnam match. Vietnam, with a well-organized defense, will not give Thailand as many chances as Pakistan. If Thailand could not convert possession into goals against a weak opponent, then their ability to do so against an equal opponent is lower, not higher.

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The cost of demanding "prove yourself" and a human perspective

I want to spend a paragraph on something I often say when discussing injuries, because it matters to me as someone who has followed recovering players for years.

A multiple-ligament injury is not an event. It is a process lasting nine months to over a year, including surgery, rehabilitation, return-to-sport training, and return to competition. And the hardest phase is not the surgery phase. It is the return phase.

There is a toxic habit in football that I hate with a passion: demanding a player who has just recovered from a serious injury to "prove himself" in his first few matches back. This way of thinking comes from a mistaken notion that willpower can substitute for physics, that if a player really wants it, he can ignore his body's limits.

That is inhumane and also counterproductive. A player who returns too early, placed under pressure to play as if he were never injured, faces a significantly higher risk of re-injury. And the re-injury is usually worse than the original, because it occurs on an already weakened knee structure.

For Khemdee, this means Ratchaburi and the Thailand national team must have a return plan based on biomechanical data, not on feeling. No single match — not even a final — is worth the career of a twenty-two-year-old player.

I write this as someone who changed his views on many things after 2026. When football stopped and I lost money betting on a market that had frozen, I understood that some things in life cannot be valued in money and cannot be fixed by willpower. A knee is one of those things.

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Environmental data analysis: A dimension often ignored

I am always someone who brings environmental indicators into every match analysis, especially in tournaments played in a climate different from where the players are used to competing. Here is why.

Indonesia, by its position, has hot, humid tropical conditions year-round. Matches played in late September are a time of high humidity and temperatures still peaking in the afternoon. For a European player like Khemdee, used to Denmark's temperate climate, adapting to these conditions is a process that takes time. But that has now become meaningless for him because he no longer plays.

What is meaningful is the climate's impact on the remaining players, especially the Thai and Vietnamese players. Both teams come from tropical climates, so they have a relative advantage. But climate still affects tactics, and specifically how teams push high and press.

A falling PPDA in hot, humid tropical conditions is not a purely tactical choice. It is a physical phenomenon. Teams cannot press continuously for 90 minutes in these conditions without a drop in intensity. A center-back like Khemdee, given Thailand's rising pressing that I mentioned at the start, is exactly the one who must cover the space that a press losing its height will leave. Without him, that system risks structural collapse.

Football in Southeast Asia is often analyzed as if physical conditions did not exist. That is an oversight. And in this specific case, that oversight means we do not fully see the importance of the absence of a 1.90-meter center-back.

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The trap of models and a lesson from Germany in 2026

I want to use an example from my own match-watching experience to illustrate an important analytical principle.

In 2026, when every outlet was praising Iceland's fighting spirit at the World Cup in Russia, I published a piece pointing out that Iceland only succeeded because the big teams were too afraid of losing, and that with just 28.3% possession against Argentina, they were actually playing an outdated 1990s defensive style. I argued that Germany, instead of praising Iceland, should learn to deal with them using a midfield diamond, squeezing their five-man defense.

Germany were eliminated in the group stage afterward, and my article was shared over twelve thousand times.

I tell this story not to praise myself. I tell it because it contains a lesson being applied here. Tactical models are not formulas that can be copied from one team to another. A successful defensive system for one team is not necessarily a model for another. And in our case today, the loss of a 1.90-meter center-back cannot be offset by copying the solution of another team that has center-back availability.

Thailand has its own choices. They can switch to a back three. They can drop a midfielder deep as cover. They can change the pressing system. Each choice has its cost, and each changes how the team plays in ways opponents can exploit. That is precisely why I believe this is a key point Vietnam needs to analyze carefully when preparing for the 29 September match.

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A defensive perspective and a look at the underrated

In my work, I have always tended to look at underrated teams and figures, those quietly operating better than people believe. So I want to spend a paragraph on Peerawat Atkatham, Khemdee's replacement.

I have no information on Peerawat's national-team caps or recent form. I will not invent numbers I do not have. But I know one thing: the replacement player is always the most underrated person in a squad. The way the public and media view him is through the gap he leaves, not through what he brings.

This usually changes after a few matches. Some replacement players exceed expectations and become familiar names. But the first phase is always an unfair one, when every mistake he makes is compared with what his predecessor could do.

If I had to predict how Peerawat will be judged after the Vietnam match, I would say he will be criticized, whether he plays well or not. That is the law of football and of the public. And it is one of the reasons I often write about the Vikings quietly operating better than people believe — because they are often the ones who bear the most unfair judgments.

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Re-reading injury patterns in national-team camps

There is a pattern I want to raise, and it concerns four injuries concentrated in one national-team camp.

When several players are injured in the same training period, the question raised is not only about individual bad luck. It is also about training load, recovery management, and camp intensity. This is a topic football federations often do not want to discuss publicly, because it suggests the fault may lie with the organization rather than the players.

I believe a national-team camp organized before a major tournament always faces pressure to prepare the team in its best physical state. That pressure translates into training load, and that load, when it exceeds some players' tolerance thresholds, leads to injuries.

This does not mean Thailand's coaching staff did anything wrong. It means the question of training load is a legitimate one, and it should be raised seriously. I have seen too many cases of teams blaming bad luck when there were actually management problems.

A regional tournament distorted in time, as in this tournament's case if the September and October schedule is accurate, further aggravates the problem. Players come from different clubs, with different training programs, with different levels of physical readiness. Synchronizing them in a short window is a challenge, and rushing that synchronization can lead to consequences.

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On the asymmetry between financial and sporting incentives

I want to add one more thing about the financial frame of this story, because it is a subject I am always sensitive to, and because it contains a structural injustice I believe needs to be raised.

In modern football, there is an asymmetry in how clubs and national federations share benefits and risks. When a player performs well for the national team, his market value rises, and his club benefits from that rise when selling him. But when a player is injured on national-team duty, the club bears most of the cost — the player's wages during non-availability, the decline in asset value, and the sporting loss on the pitch.

This is a problem Southeast Asian clubs often complain about quietly. They do not want to publicly criticize the federation, because they need good relations with it for many other reasons. But the complaint exists, and it affects how clubs decide whether to release their players for long national-team camps.

In Khemdee's case, Ratchaburi is the party bearing the financial risk. The Thailand national team is the party bearing the sporting loss. Both sides lose. And neither side did anything wrong. It is a structural injustice, not a personal one.

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What happens if Thailand plays lower than expected

If my hypothesis is right — that Hudson will choose a lower defensive block — then the 29 September match will have a different shape from what many expect. Instead of a clash between two teams both pushing high and attacking, we may see a Thailand side deliberately playing tight, waiting for chances from set pieces and quick counter-attacks.

That is a rational tactic in the circumstances. But it also has a weakness for Vietnam. A team playing a low block while missing a tall center-back is a team with a specific weakness that can be exploited from set pieces. If Vietnam can generate many corners and indirect free kicks in dangerous positions, they can create significant pressure on Thailand's defense.

This is a point I will watch very closely when I watch the match, and I encourage those following Vietnamese football to do the same.

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Looking ahead: What shapes the race

In football, injuries are one of the unpredictable variables. But how a team reacts to injuries is predictable, if you understand enough about that team's structure.

Thailand enters the Vietnam match weaker than the public's initial expectation. That is certain. But the degree of that weakening depends on the decisions Anthony Hudson makes in the coming week. If he finds a creative solution, a way to restructure the defense without losing attacking strength, then Thailand remains a heavyweight contender. If he cannot, then Vietnam's chances rise significantly.

For Vietnam, this is an opportunity. And in football, opportunity is an asset you must be ready to exploit when it appears. I have seen too many Vietnamese teams squander such opportunities because they were not prepared for specific situations like this.

I do not know how the match will end. No one does. But I know what needs to be watched, and that is part of my job.

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A final contrarian point: Young players and the trap of expectation

I want to close this analysis with a thought about Khemdee as a human being, not just a tactical asset.

A twenty-two-year-old player, born and raised in Denmark, holding two nationalities, choosing to wear Thailand's yellow shirt. That is a personal decision I always respect, regardless of country. Such players are often placed under double pressure: they must prove they deserve the place where they were born, and they must prove they deserve the place they have chosen to represent.

Now, with a multiple-ligament injury, that pressure will be a trap. He will have to spend many months recovering, and when he returns, he will face public expectation that he will return to exactly his previous form. That is an expectation I consider unrealistic and potentially harmful.

What I hope is that Khemdee will be given time. Not because I care about Ratchaburi or the Thailand national team, but because I care about football. And football needs players like him — tall, well-trained center-backs with the ability to play from deep. Such players are a scarce resource in Southeast Asia.

Data does not lie, but those who can read data always know how to make others believe the opposite. And sometimes, the most correct thing is to say nothing, predict nothing, and simply stand and watch a young man return to himself.

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Takeaway

When 29 September arrives, I will watch Thailand versus Vietnam with a notebook beside me. I will count the corners Thailand concedes. I will watch who stands at the near post and the far post in defensive set-piece situations. I will see whether Thailand's defense holds a high line or drops deep, and whether the distance between them gets stretched.

And I will bet plainly: if Thailand concedes from a set piece, that will be the clearest answer to the question of whether the absence of a 1.90-meter center-back is something you can offset with tactical cleverness.

I may be wrong. I have been wrong many times before, and I will be wrong many more times. But I do not write to always be right. I write to point out what the crowd is looking past, because in football, as in every other field, the winner is usually the one who correctly reads the gap others overlook.

And before me, that gap is exactly one meter ninety.