Honda Center and the Historic Rehearsal of Olympic 2028 Volleyball

Anaheim, a city less than an hour's drive from Los Angeles, is taking on a dual mission. Honda Center – an arena that has echoed with NBA finals and legendary rock concerts – is about to become the world's largest volleyball rehearsal hall. One year before the Opening Ceremony of the 2028 Olympics, the Los Angeles organizing committee announced this venue for Olympic volleyball, while hosting an international tournament widely viewed as the dress rehearsal for the Games. This decision goes beyond a mere administrative procedure. It signals that volleyball, in the eyes of America ahead of the Olympics, now holds a distinct place. Basketball, American football, hockey all have their homes in Anaheim, but volleyball – a sport beloved by millions of Vietnamese – has been chosen as the centerpiece of one of California's largest arenas. People light stadiums to watch football; I light them to see the hidden corners. For me, the announcement from the Los Angeles organizers is not just a piece of infrastructure news. It opens a corner I have long pursued: the story of smaller teams, lesser-known athletes, and volleyball nations on a journey toward a big dream. According to published documents, the Anaheim tournament will closely simulate the Olympic format: group stage, quarterfinals, semifinals, and final, with a two-day match rhythm. Teams will experience medical checks, technical meetings, and media coordination just as in 2028. The global broadcast system will also be tested, from camera angles to commentary booths, so that by the time the Games arrive, everything will be under control. I have followed many Olympic cycles, and one principle I set for myself is to never trust rehearsals. They are usually too clean, too perfect, and too far from reality. But Honda Center has a difference: this tournament is not merely a rehearsal. It is a competition with points, pressure, and real rivalry. Teams will have to defend rankings, fight for every score, and confront the fear of losing – things that cannot exist in a purely training exercise. The most important part of this rehearsal, in my view, is the psychological factor. Many coaches have told me that the greatest Olympic pressure does not come from opponents but from unfamiliarity: new hotels, new arenas, unfamiliar rivals, and the feeling of being engulfed by an overwhelming event. Honda Center gives teams the chance to get used to that fear. They will learn how blinding the lights are when they walk out of the tunnel, how the roar of eighteen thousand spectators resonates, and how the layout of the locker room can affect an athlete's biological rhythm. Based on my experience following international matches, the difference between a major team that has attended many Olympics and a young team entering a modern arena for the first time often lies in the smallest details. The big team will test the air conditioning before the match, check the floor's traction, and examine the airflow. The young team will only stare at the stands, overwhelmed. The Anaheim tournament, therefore, is a rare chance for smaller teams to learn how to act like a big team – before it truly matters. Vietnamese volleyball, though no national team has yet secured a ticket to Los Angeles, still has reason to follow this story closely. Because it is not just about America. It is about how a sport lifts itself by demanding the best conditions, rather than accepting mediocrity. When I attended the Southeast Asian youth volleyball tournament in Hanoi last year, I noticed that our young women do not lack technique or physicality. What they lack is a sense of a sufficiently large goal. They learn how to spike and block, but no one has told them what the world's biggest stage looks like. Honda Center, therefore, becomes a map for the dream. With a capacity of more than eighteen thousand seats, this arena is among the most modern in America, once home to several professional teams. I do not want to talk about capacity. I want to talk about the lights, the floor, the way the space is designed to make athletes feel like the center of the universe during play. Elite volleyball is a symphony of movement. At Honda Center, that symphony will be performed before a grander stand than any arena Vietnamese volleyball has ever stepped foot in. But a rehearsal that is too perfect can create a dangerous illusion. A team that plays well in Anaheim may arrive in Los Angeles with excessive confidence. They grow used to everything running smoothly on schedule, to a clean court, to the absence of incidents. Then, in the real match, a mistimed set, a controversial referee call, a sudden injury – and all the perfect preparation collapses. Who will answer if a team fails because it could not anticipate the incidents the rehearsal did not simulate? The organizers, or the team's own complacency? I do not have an answer, but I know this question exposes a fragile line between preparation and self-deception. The White Nights of Moscow in 2026 taught me a lesson about the limits of preparation. I sat in a small rented room, watching the Croatia–Argentina match replay four times in a row. The first time I looked for tactics. The second time I looked for mistakes. The third time I looked for brilliance. By the fourth time, I realized I had been looking for the wrong thing. Luka Modric was not running because of tactics. He was running because of a pain carried from a broken homeland. No rehearsal can prepare for that. Volleyball is the same. The women stepping onto the Honda Center court a year before the Olympics will carry their own stories: one who overcame injury, one who nurtured a dream from a poor village, one competing for a late mother. Those stories cannot be scheduled. They appear only in the moment the ball touches the hand, in a seemingly impossible save, in a hug after a breathless victory. There is another paradox: teams come to Anaheim to rehearse, but the very presence of a tournament with points turns it into something else. Which coach would risk a new formation in a major tournament? They will field their strongest lineup, play the safest game, and chase victory. The dress rehearsal, therefore, risks becoming just another international tournament, full of calculation rather than the freedom of a training session. But I believe that is exactly the nature of the Olympics. No training session is ever truly carefree. When athletes walk down the Honda Center tunnel, even a year before the Games, they will feel the weight of expectation. Their hearts will race when they step into the lights. From the information I have gathered, the Anaheim tournament will also play an important role in determining qualification slots for the 2028 Olympics. Teams will earn tickets through continental qualifiers and the world ranking; matches at Honda Center will provide decisive data for both paths. Thus, although promoted as a rehearsal, this tournament carries stakes as high as a real final. For the media, it is also a test. The broadcast system will be rehearsed from commentator preparation to graphics and commercial signals. I remember my early days as a host, when I misspoke on air and was mocked by viewers for a week. The lesson I drew is that no rehearsal is perfect, and mistakes are the most honest teacher. I only hope that if anyone makes a mistake during the Honda Center rehearsal, they will stand up and fix it, because later, when the Olympic lights turn on, there will be no second chance. One year is enough time for a wound to become a scar, enough time for a dream to ripen. The match ends, but the stands still echo inside me as a private space. A year from now, when volleyball officially enters Honda Center as an Olympic sport, I hope to see the girls emerge from the tunnel with the eyes of those who have conquered fear. And in the stands, perhaps a young Vietnamese girl will sit there, holding a ball, dreaming of touching the court. That is something no rehearsal can measure. But precisely because of that, we never stop preparing. The Honda Center lights will go on. And when they do, I know that sport – whether in Anaheim, Moscow, or a small coastal arena in Danang – never turns off its lights. It simply waits for those brave enough to step in.