Turkey's Six Absences and Montella's Defensive Nightmare: A Trial Before Italy

In the press-conference hall, camera flashes, water bottles on the table, and the murmur of journalists—and in the middle of all of it sits Vincenzo Montella. The question came straight: so much criticism, so many absences, so much pressure—how are you holding up? He smiled. And what he said next is the heart of today's story: "Only one thing upsets me—the heavy, unfair criticism directed at my players." Six key players are missing. The creative spine is broken. The defence is leaking goals. And yet the arrows are flying at the players. I know this scene. Sitting in Dhaka's 2 a.m. fan room, I have seen it many times—when the stars are absent, fans blame the system, and the system loses itself in restlessness. This press conference is really a shield, and to understand why he raised it, we must first look deeper. Turkish football stands at a strange bend. On one side is a golden generation—names like Arda Güler, Kenan Yıldız and Hakan Çalhanoğlu, playing for Europe's biggest clubs. On the other side is the pressure of playing in Nations League A, the top tier, for the first time in history. Montella himself admitted, "As a country, we are not accustomed to it." That single sentence is the summary of Turkey's whole situation. For a team that has never been at this height, the top tier means every match is a test—and nobody has taught it the passing standard. Here a structural truth hides, one that gets lost in the storm of criticism. Nations League A is not an ordinary tournament. It hosts Italy, Spain, France, Germany. Playing these teams means every Turkish mistake turns straight into a goal, every weakness is laid bare. For a team arriving at this level for the first time, it is not just a playing challenge but a psychological one. And right into that psychological pressure, six key players dropped out. Montella called them "very big and very important absences." Count the six names once—Arda Güler, Hakan Çalhanoğlu, Kenan Yıldız, Barış Alper, Orkun Kökçü and Mert Müldür. This is no ordinary list. This is the list of a team's spine. No creative playmaker, no deep-lying regista, no winger, no full-back. That is, the very parts of the philosophy Montella chose—possession football built through a creative midfield—are exactly the parts that have dropped out, the parts without which the system cannot run. One thing must be kept in mind here, which I have learned from years of watching matches: possession football is actually a football of dependence. You hold the ball because you know who will do what when they get it. When that "who" is not on the pitch, both possession and creativity collapse. The manager then faces two bad options—either keep the system and try to run it with new faces, or change the system toward a more defensive, reactive game. What is clear from Montella's interview is that he is leaning toward the second path, at least mentally. Now to the real tactical signal, the most visible and hardest admission of the whole interview. Montella said, "Defensively, we concede too many goals right now." Notice, he is not looking for the problem in attack—he is looking in defence. And he added, "We are training tactically accordingly." This is the only specific, measurable tactical hint in the entire conversation, and it is negative. A coach does not suddenly admit in public that his defence is porous unless it has become so obvious there is no way to hide it. An analysis can be built here. Having a golden generation naturally leads one to assume the team is strong in attack. But Montella's admission paints the opposite picture: the team probably leans forward, but is losing trust at the back. And the combination of the two is dangerous. A team that leans forward and concedes must maintain one balance—holding the ball in midfield so the defence comes under less pressure. But when your creative spine has dropped out, that balance disappears. The result? There is the courage to lean forward, but not the tools to keep the ball—so the defence is in danger every time. Dhaka taught me that every crisis actually has two ledgers: the one the coach opens in public, and the one played out inside the pitch. Montella's official ledger says—six are missing, but this is a chance to see new faces. His on-pitch ledger says—the defence is leaking, the creative spine is gone, and Italy is next. The gap between these two ledgers is the real story. When a coach says, "This is a chance to see new faces," he is really accepting a reality: in this match, he has no choice. And here one thing can be inferred—though it is not stated directly in the interview. Six regulars missing means the formation will change, and not just change, but likely be shuffled. And if he is training tactically on defence, one can assume set-pieces and defensive organisation are this week's main focus. This is no big tactical transformation—it is a compressed, cautious posture, in which the coach first thinks about not conceding, then about attacking. Now look at the criticism, because here lies the strangest and most important pattern. Montella's main grievance is not criticism of the coach—he is calm about his own. His grievance is about the "heavy, unfair criticism" directed at his players. This pattern is rare in football. Usually when results go bad, the arrows fly at the coach. But here the arrows fly at the players, especially the young stars. And that criticism, in Montella's words, is having a 5 to 10 percent negative effect on player performance. This number is one of the most measurable claims in the interview, and it is on the downside. Where this criticism pressure comes from is clarified by one incident. A journalist asked Montella why a 31-year-old forward playing in the third tier was not being called up. This is the mirror of the whole criticism's character. When a golden-generation team suddenly cannot produce good results, critics leave logic and go to emotion—they search for a name outside the familiar structure. The demand is statistically irrational, but psychologically understandable. It is a signal of panic, not of analysis. Montella understands this panic, which is why he uses a specific language. Repeatedly he highlights his professionalism, his clean heart, his principle of focusing on the present—"I know the dynamics of football completely," "my heart is clean." When a coach repeatedly has to prove his own purity, he is usually facing outside suspicion. This stream of self-justification is pressure management for himself as much as for the players. Yet what he can put on his own side is the relationship inside the team. He said the team's greatest strength is "friendship, togetherness and a family environment." And he added, "Things may be going badly now, but they stay united." This is an important signal, but a warning hides within it too. When a manager emphasises "unity" so heavily, that unity is usually under question somewhere—either from outside pressure, or from unspoken internal friction. And here a deeper tactical-psychological argument emerges, one I have noticed many times while watching matches from the stands. In football, a defensive problem is never only a defensive problem. When a team loses confidence, it does not press higher, it plays the ball long, it loses second balls—and every lost ball becomes an opposition attack. Montella's team is now caught in exactly that cycle: confidence drained, therefore goals conceded, and conceded goals draining more confidence. Criticism deepens the cycle, because young players then play in fear of mistakes. Now take the contrarian view, the one usually missed. The official narrative says Turkey's problem is that the golden generation is not yet meeting expectations, hence pressure on the coach. But the on-pitch ledger says the opposite. The problem is excess expectation, not a lack of talent. Turkey has reached the top tier for the first time in its history, yet the criticism is framed as though this is the failure of a regular top-tier member. This expectation gap is the biggest burden on the team, bigger than six injuries. And the second contrarian point runs deeper. This emphasis on "unity" and "family environment" from Montella, and his role shielding the players, is actually a politically smart position. Because when a match goes badly, a coach can shift blame onto the players if he wishes, but he is not doing that. Instead he makes himself the shield. If this shield tactic succeeds, it creates a strong dressing-room bond before a big match like Italy. If it fails, the pressure of federation and fans lands on him together. A question rises here, outside the pitch but important. Many players of this Turkish generation now play in Europe's best leagues—a structural upgrade. But this upgrade has a cost too. Club football's busy schedule, travel, and duty to the club all reduce the availability of these stars for the national team. Six simultaneous absences are not just an accident; they are the product of a structural trend in modern football: the more stars at top clubs, the more the national team must play without them. Against this backdrop, the Italy match is no ordinary match—it is a verification. Montella himself said it is a chance for a "reaction," and he believes "this time will be different." But this optimism does not stand on data; it stands on expectation. Italy is not just an opponent—Italy is the side whose depth, experience and tournament history are far ahead of Turkey's. And now Turkey faces that side without six key players and with a porous defence. I think this match is the biggest test of Montella's tactical intelligence. Because here he has no more than two options. He can either field a compressed, patient, reactive plan, or use the remaining part of the golden generation to play brave football. But since he himself said the defence is leaking and the creative spine is gone, the realistic path is probably the first. One thing must be stated clearly. In terms of squad building, Turkey's foundation is actually good, but its floor is thin. If one or two of the best eleven are missing, a big team survives because it has depth. But if six drop out together, that depth itself is tested. And what is clear from the interview is that Turkey is not yet ready for this test. The debate over the 31-year-old third-tier forward is really an indirect admission of this lack of depth. From Dhaka's 2 a.m. fan room I have learned one thing again and again—fans never judge by statistics, they judge by emotion. At 2 a.m., when the fan room understood that Mbappe was not just a prospect but a portal, everyone trusted that portal. It is the same with Turkey. The fans saw this golden generation as a portal—a path to big tournaments. And when that portal is temporarily closed by injuries, patience becomes hard to keep. And here is the real risk. Montella now faces four pressures at once. First, the absence of six, which is clear and confirmed. Second, the defensive weakness, which he himself admitted. Third, a big opponent—Italy. And fourth, an active, negative criticism cycle. These four together mean the outcome is now almost entirely dependent on a single match. A good result breaks the cycle; a bad one deepens it. Notably, the remedies Montella is using are mainly psychological, not tactical. He shields the players, appeals to fans to support the players, invokes the team's being a "family." These improve the mental state, but do not solve the lack of depth or the defensive problem. That is, he is trying to put out the fire, but the cause of the fire remains on the pitch. Here I want to offer a forecast, cautiously. If Turkey lose heavily to Italy, the target of criticism will shift. The criticism now aimed at players will turn directly toward the coach's seat and the federation's decisions. And that shift is usually the most dangerous, because then the coach's "shield" role itself comes under question. On the other hand, if Turkey produce a respectable result—not a win but a fight, a goal, an organised performance—then the official narrative survives. Montella's sentence, "This time will be different," then becomes credible. Because for a small side against a big one, the narrative of performance matters more than the result—fans accept a defeat, but not a surrender. Now to the most important question, the one the interview does not directly answer. Is Turkey worthy of staying in the top tier, or is it only a temporary guest? The Italy match will answer this, at least partly. If the team can play organised, patient and fighting football even without six players, the foundation will look solid. And if the team collapses without the six, it will show that Turkey is still overly dependent on its golden generation. One thing must be kept in mind, not stated directly in any information point of the interview but inferable. The competitive window of this golden generation is now, this moment. Because as club football's busyness and injury risk rise, the availability of these stars for the national team may fall. That is, Turkey's best time is perhaps now, and if this moment is missed, nobody can say when the next chance comes. And that is exactly why Montella's next match has become so important. It is not just a Nations League match—it is a test of a generation's confidence, a coach's future, and a country's football identity. Before walking onto the pitch against Italy, what Montella has is six absences, a porous defence, a criticism storm, and one hope—that in the middle of all of it, his players are still together, like a family. This interview is really more than a press conference. It is a tactical preparation—an attempt to build the narrative before the match. Montella knows that before a big match, the psychological state matters as much as the tactical state, but is discussed less. So he first shielded the players, then admitted the defensive problem, then spoke of unity. This sequence itself is his real message—we do not break from within. And this question of breaking or not breaking is ultimately the biggest. Because in football, the absence of six players is temporary, but the erosion of a team's confidence can be lasting. Montella is trying to stop that, standing amid the storm of criticism. He has no tactical magic wand, because magic does not happen without six. What he has is a ledger—a story he wants to open before the fans: this team is still together, this team will still fight. I personally consider this moment important, because this kind of pressure-management interview often tells the result of the match in advance. A coach who admits his defensive weakness before a match and emphasises psychological unity usually fields a cautious, patient plan—one that focuses on avoiding defeat and takes fewer risks for a win. Against Italy, Turkey will probably do just that: sit deep, play on the counter, look for chances. This plan has a weakness I have seen many times on the pitch. A team that plays reactively must hold its patience for the whole match—one mistake costs it dearly. And Montella's team is now at a confidence level where one mistake can turn straight into a goal. That is, whether his cautious plan works depends on whether the boys can hold concentration for the full 90 minutes. Ultimately, the Italy match is a mirror for Turkey. It will show whether the golden generation truly belongs at the top tier, or is still on the learning path. It will show whether six absences break a team, or the team returns more organised. And it will show whether Montella's shield—his decision to protect the players—creates new strength in the dressing room, or adds more pressure. Now the question is not only about the Italy match, but the next step. Suppose Turkey play well against Italy. Then the next question—will this team now move toward reducing dependence on the golden generation, building depth? And if they play badly, then the next question—will the federation keep faith in the coach, or consider change? Both questions are open now, and both answers hide in the coming weeks. One thing is clear. The language Montella chose in this interview—protection, unity, patience—is the language of a commander before a battle. He knows his opponent is not only Italy. Before him are the burden of expectation, six absences, a porous defence and an impatient criticism machine. Against all of it, his only weapon is that bond inside the team, which he calls a "family." How strong that family is—that is now the biggest question. Because football history has seen many golden generations arrive and break under pressure. And many teams have come with fewer stars but a strong inner bond—and they survived. Turkey's golden generation now stands between those two paths. The 90 minutes against Italy will decide which path they walk. And that is not the end of this story, but the beginning. Because a match ends, but a generation's journey continues. Montella's six absent players will return, the defensive problem may be fixed, the criticism may stop. But what will remain is this lesson—the gap between expectation and reality is really the biggest opponent, and to beat that opponent needs patience, time, and a strong interior.