NEC Nijmegen 0-5 Juventus: A Paper-Thin Back Line and a Statement That Hurt the Whole Dressing Room

I still remember the light in that tunnel. Not the light of Juventus, not the glittering stadium of Serie A, but the dim yellow light in the technical area of a small club, where a twenty-year-old player sat with his knees pulled to his chest on the bench, eyes fixed on his boots. That was the moment before the ball rolled, when everything could still turn, and when a promise between a fanbase and a team had not yet been tested. A player walks out of the tunnel, and I see the ten-year-old child inside them. And everything I have learned in twelve years covering football teaches me that nights like this are exactly where the real story begins. The final score was 5-0. Juventus won. There is nothing surprising in that. But nobody writes about what is predictable. People write about what remains after the final whistle, about questions without answers, about words that slip out of mouths in a cramped press room where artificial light makes every face paler than reality. When the score becomes just a number on the news ticker, that is when the real work of a journalist begins. And this story is not about the gap between a giant and a dreamer. It is about a back line. The context of this match needs to be placed correctly before we judge anything. NEC Nijmegen is not a wealthy club. They have no European pedigree, no financial muscle, and no squad depth to rotate at the elite level. This is a side in the middle tier of the Dutch Eredivisie, living a model people often call a "stepping-stone club" — meaning they exist partly by developing and hosting young players from larger clubs, then giving those players chances to play before they leave or truly mature. That operating model has a price. You can have one talented player on loan from Dortmund. You can have veterans who once wore the shirts of big clubs. But you cannot have both physically intact in every match. And when you step into a European fixture against Juventus — one of the biggest brands in world football — you face something your model was never designed to face. The match in Turin was not an ordinary match. It was a Europa League fixture, a stage where merely appearing is a peak for a club like NEC. But a peak does not mean safety. With a defence made up of players limited by fitness and a young loanee from Borussia Dortmund named Almugera Kabar, the away side entered the game with an enormous uncertainty sitting at the heart of their back line. I have covered many matches involving small clubs like NEC throughout my career. And I know one thing: those clubs never lose because they are weak. They lose because they run out of options. The difference between a big club and a small club in Europe is not in the eleven starters. It is in the twelfth man, the fifteenth man. It is in the person who can step in and keep everything from collapsing. And that night, in Turin, NEC did not have that person. The first thing that struck me when analysing the match was not the goals. It was the timestamps. In the 9th minute, Juventus opened the scoring. By the 45th, the score was 3-0. And when the referee blew the final whistle, the scoreboard read 5-0. At the professional level, these numbers tell a very specific story. The goal conceded in the 9th minute is not an accident. It is a signal. When a team concedes early against an opponent superior in every way, the match often enters a psychological state analysts call "mental collapse" — a chain reaction of psychological breakdown. Because when you already know you are weaker, and you concede immediately, players' brains shift from "fight" mode to "endure" mode. The difference between these two modes is the difference between a 1-0 defeat and a 5-0 defeat. But what caught my attention even more was how the goals arrived. None of them were individual moments of brilliance from Juventus that you could do nothing about. On review, you can see that NEC's goals conceded all followed the same pattern: long balls, disorganisation, and positional errors. This is a tactical problem, not the problem of any single player. In modern football, when a team loses this way, the technical term for the problem is "defensive organisation." Defensive organisation is not the ability of individuals. It is the synchronisation between lines: between defenders and goalkeeper, between centre-backs, between full-backs and holding midfielders. When this synchronisation breaks, no matter how good your players are, you will still lose. And when synchronisation breaks for human reasons — because players cannot complete full matches, because substitutions are forced, because there are not enough bodies to rotate — the problem is no longer tactical. It is structural. To understand this clearly, we need to look at NEC's squad for that match. From what I gathered from sources and from manager Dick Schreuder's post-match statements, NEC's defence entered the game in a serious personnel crisis. Two veteran centre-backs, Bram Nuytinck and Perr Schuurs, could only play around 20 to 25 minutes due to fitness issues. That meant NEC had no centre-back capable of playing 90 minutes at European level. And the direct consequence was Almugera Kabar, a young loanee from Dortmund, being pushed into a starting role in a match he was not prepared to face. I have witnessed many similar situations in my career. In 2026, when I began blogging about Seoul E-Land in K League 2 — a club nobody cared about — I filmed a match in front of 438 spectators, and in that match I saw a young player pushed on too early. He made two mistakes in the first half. After the match, the coach told me he had no other choice. "I don't want to put him in this situation," he said. "But I have no one else." That sentence has followed me for twelve years. Because it is not an excuse. It is a bare truth about how football operates at the lower levels of the system. Small clubs do not lose because they have bad coaches. They lose because they lack depth. And when you lack depth, every time a player is injured or unfit, an entire system wobbles. That is exactly what happened to NEC in Turin. There is one thing I want to make clear here, because it relates to how we read a match. When a team loses 5-0 in the Europa League to Juventus, the first reaction of most fans is to criticise the players. Why didn't he mark his man? Why did he let the ball through his legs? Why did nobody track back? But those questions, however reasonable they seem, overlook a simple reality: football is a team sport. When a back line collapses, it is not the fault of one individual. It is the fault of an entire system. I have kept my promise to the stands since my first camera — every goal is a thank you. And throughout my career, I have always tried never to turn a collective failure into an individual to blame. Because when you do that, you are not only wrong analytically. You also hurt a human being. You forget that behind every mistake on the pitch is a player who has spent their youth trying. That is why Schreuder's statement after the match made me pause. When asked why he kept using Kabar, he replied: "Why do I keep starting Kabar? Because I have nothing else." This is a sentence worth analysing carefully. On the surface, this statement is an objective fact. If Nuytinck and Schuurs are limited in minutes, if no other centre-back is capable, then indeed he has no choice but Kabar. The issue is who hears that sentence, and who is being referred to. In professional football, there is an unwritten principle every coach knows: you never name a young player and say you have no other choice. Not because that player cannot handle pressure. But because that sentence sends a very clear message to three different audiences. First, it sends it to the player himself. A twenty-year-old is not a psychologically mature adult in football. He is still learning to face failure. When your coach publicly says you are only used because there is no one else, that is not encouragement. That is a put-down. It is a statement saying: you are not here because you are good. You are here because I ran out of people. Second, it sends it to the squad. A young player in a dressing room is always a sensitive element. He needs protection. He needs to feel part of the team. When the coach publicly points out he is not good enough, some of the respect teammates hold for him will waver. He becomes "the one chosen because there was no one else," not "the one chosen because he deserved it." That is a subtle but hugely destructive difference. Third, and perhaps most importantly, it sends it to Borussia Dortmund — Kabar's parent club. In the modern transfer market, loan deals are not merely agreements. They are relationships. When Dortmund sent Kabar to NEC, they were not just loaning a player. They were sending an expectation: that their player would be developed in a safe environment, that he would be protected, that he would learn. When the receiving club's coach publicly says the player is not good enough, that is a worrying signal for that relationship. The transfer market is a flow of numbers, but it is also where dreams change shirts. And when a dream is publicly diminished, that flow can change direction. I have been in a similar situation myself, albeit in a different context. In 2026, when I was just twenty and interning at a sports broadcaster, I was sent to Moscow to cover the World Cup. At a press conference after South Korea's 0-1 defeat to Sweden on 18 June 2026, I raised my hand to ask coach Shin Tae-yong why he did not use Lee Seung-woo. The room held 54 journalists, and only three were women. An older male colleague sneered and said: "Are you asking a question like a female fan who just started watching football?" I stayed calm. I cited Lee's pressing data from three friendlies. I asked the coach whether the team's defensive tactics suited that player's abilities. The coach was forced to explain. And after that press conference, I realised one thing: in the world of football, your words only carry weight when they are backed by data. Emotion is not enough. Criticism is not enough. You need evidence. That is why I always say data is not cosmetics. It is a defensive wall. When you have data, you do not need to raise your voice. You do not need to say "I am right." You just present the facts, and let the facts speak for themselves. And in Kabar's case, what are the facts? The facts are that he was placed in an unfair situation. Not because he lacks talent. But because he was not prepared to face the opponent he had to face. In football, there is a concept called the "development curve." Every young player has their own development curve. Some players can leap from U19 to the first team in a single season. But most cannot. Most need time. They need to play smaller matches first, then be gradually pushed into bigger ones. They need to make mistakes in a safe environment, where errors are not punished with goals conceded in the Europa League. Kabar is a young player. He was not signed to start in the Europa League. He was loaned to develop. And under normal conditions, he should develop behind experienced players — learning to play by watching, learning to face pressure by being protected. But because NEC lacked personnel, he was pushed onto the pitch against an opponent he was not ready to face. That is not Kabar's fault. It is the fault of the structure. I want to clarify the concept of "structure" here, because I think it is the key to understanding this entire story. In football, a club's structure is not just the squad. It is the sum of many elements: financial resources, youth development quality, transfer strategy, and leadership stability. When you have a strong structure, you can withstand shocks. When you have a weak structure, every shock can trigger a crisis. With NEC, their weak structure lies in the defence. This is not a problem that emerged in the Juventus match. It is a pre-existing problem, and that match simply exposed it. I have followed small European clubs for many years. And I see a recurring pattern: when a small club qualifies for European competition, they usually face a much denser schedule than normal. They must play in the domestic league, and they must play in Europe. With a small squad, that means key players wear down faster physically. And when they are injured or unfit, the club must use backup options — usually young players or players not at the required level. That is exactly what happened to NEC. Nuytinck and Schuurs, the two most experienced centre-backs, were limited to around 20 to 25 minutes for fitness reasons. That meant they could come on to "put out fires" for a half, or help the team protect a score in the closing stages. But they could not start. And when you cannot start your two best centre-backs, you are forced to use alternatives. Let us speak frankly about the data from this match. What we have are timestamps: the goal conceded in the 9th minute, the 3-0 score at half-time, and the 5-0 final result. What we do not have are deeper metrics like xG (expected goals), xGA (expected goals against), or PPDA (passes allowed per defensive action). This is a major limitation, and I want to be clear about it before drawing any conclusions. In modern sports journalism, metrics like xG and xGA are tools for evaluating chance quality. A team can lose 3-0 but have higher xG than the opponent — meaning they created better chances but were less fortunate. Conversely, a team can win 1-0 but have much lower xG — meaning they won through luck or individual finishing brilliance. In NEC's case, we do not have those metrics. That is why I cannot draw a firm conclusion about whether this 5-0 defeat accurately reflects a quality gap, or whether NEC created any meaningful chances. All we know is the result. And the result does not tell the full story. But even without deep data, we can say one thing with certainty: a team that concedes three goals in the first half and five in the match has a serious problem with defensive organisation. That is not a subjective assessment. It is a fact built from the structure of the match. When the scoreline develops in a straight line — 1-0, 3-0, 5-0 — that is a sign of continuous collapse, with no sign of recovery. And that is where I want to offer a counter-intuitive angle. Most fans, looking at a 5-0 defeat, will say the team is weak. They will say the players played badly. They will say the coach has no tactics. That is a natural reaction. But I think that reaction misses something important: in professional football, sometimes a heavy defeat is not a sign of weakness. It is a sign of a team that has reached its own limit. Consider it this way. NEC is a small club. They were not built to beat Juventus. They were not built to compete in the Europa League. They were built to survive in the Eredivisie, to develop young players, to maintain financial stability. When you place a club like that on a stage they were not designed to play on, the result — a heavy defeat — should not be read as a tactical failure. It should be read as evidence of a structural gap. This matters because it changes how we analyse. If we treat the 5-0 as a tactical failure, the question becomes: how do we fix the tactics? But if we treat it as evidence of a structural gap, the question becomes: how does NEC build a structure strong enough not to be crushed in matches like this? And that question has no easy answer. It requires years of investment, years of patience, and a long-term strategy. But there is one thing NEC can control immediately, and that is how they handle communications. I want to return to Schreuder's statement. Because I think this is the heart of the story. In football, there is a concept I call "managerial communication risk." It is the risk that arises when a coach says something publicly that harms the team, the player, or himself. In Schreuder's case, there are three distinct but linked risks. The first is the risk to squad morale. A young player publicly criticised can lose confidence. And when a player loses confidence, their performance drops. It is a vicious circle: the player plays badly because he lost confidence, and loses confidence because he plays badly. To break that circle requires support from within — from the coach, from teammates, from the coaching staff. But when the coach himself is the one who hurts the player, that support becomes harder to deliver. The second is the risk to the relationship with Dortmund. As I said earlier, loan deals are relationships. And in the world of football, those relationships are built on trust. When Dortmund sent Kabar to NEC, they believed he would develop in a safe environment. If they feel their player is being treated unfairly, they may stop sending players. That would harm NEC in the long term, because they depend on loan deals to supplement their squad. The third is the risk to the coach's own credibility. When a coach publicly says he has no other choice, he is admitting he does not control the situation. That admission can be read two ways. One is honourable honesty: he dares to speak the truth that his squad lacks personnel. Two is weakness: he cannot manage with what he has. And in the professional football environment, the second reading usually prevails. The board may understand that the coach is hinting they did not invest enough. But fans may understand that the coach is shifting blame. There is one thing I want to make clear: I am not saying Schreuder is a bad coach. I do not know enough about him to make that judgement. What I know is that he said something which, in the context of modern football, is considered a communications mistake. And that mistake can have consequences. I have witnessed many similar cases in my career. In 2026, when I began my career at a football newspaper, I covered a coach in the Korean second division who publicly criticised a young player after a defeat. The following week, that player was demoted to the reserves. Two weeks later, the coach was sacked. Not because of the match result, but because of how he handled communications. The club's leadership felt he had damaged the club's image. That is the power of communications in modern football. One sentence can change a career. One moment of lost control can trigger a crisis. And in the age of social media, when every word is recorded and spread, that power is even greater. So what lessons can we draw from this match? The first lesson is about squad depth. In modern football, a team cannot exist on just eleven starters. You need at least fifteen to sixteen players capable of performing at the highest level. For a small club like NEC, that is nearly impossible. But that is not a reason not to try. There are small European clubs that have succeeded by building a strong youth academy, by finding undervalued players, and by developing a playing style suited to their resources. The second lesson is about handling young players. In football, there is a principle I believe matters: you never push a young player into a situation he is not prepared to face. If you do, you harm not only him but also yourself. Because a wounded young player will take a long time to recover — if he recovers at all. I have followed many young players pushed on too early throughout my career. Some of them got through it. But most did not. They became trapped in a vicious circle of self-doubt and failure. And once you are in that circle, it is very hard to escape. The third lesson is about the importance of communications. In modern football, a coach is not just a tactical manager. He is also a communications manager. He must know when to speak, when to stay silent, and when to protect his players. That is a difficult skill. But it is a necessary one. But there is one thing I want to add, and it is often overlooked in discussions about small clubs. When we talk about NEC, or any small European club, we often talk about them as victims of the system. We say they are squeezed, that they lack money, that they cannot compete fairly. And that is partly true. But it is also a way of diminishing them. Because the truth is, small clubs like NEC have achieved remarkable things. They have survived in a system where everything seems against them. They have developed players who later became stars at bigger clubs. They have created moments their fans will remember forever. And they have contributed to the diversity of European football — something we need to protect. I promised the stands from my first camera — every goal is a thank you. And that promise is not only for the goals of the club I love. It is for every goal of every small club, in every league, everywhere in the world. Because every goal by a small club is a statement that football still has room for dreams. I think about Kabar a lot after that match. I think about the moment he stepped onto the pitch, with the eyes of someone who did not yet know what he would face. I think about the moments he was left alone against world-class players. I think about how he tried, failed, tried again, and failed again. I think about how a twenty-year-old could endure all of that. And I think about the coach's words. "Why do I keep starting Kabar? Because I have nothing else." In football, there is a truth we often forget: every player is a human being. They are not numbers on a stat sheet. They are not names on a team sheet. They are human beings with dreams, fears, and hopes. And when we talk about them — as journalists, as fans, as analysts — we need to remember that. Kabar will be fine. He is young. He has talent. And if he is treated correctly, he will have a long career ahead. But to get there, he needs protection. He needs proper development. He needs the chance to make mistakes in a safe environment. And that is not only his responsibility. It is the responsibility of those around him — the coach, the leadership, the people in football. It is the responsibility of all of us. I want to return to a question I posed at the start of this article: what happens after the final whistle? In football, there is a special silence after every match. When the whistle blows, when players leave the pitch, when the stands begin to empty — that is the silence of what remains. Questions without answers. Wounds unhealed. Promises unkept. For NEC, how long will that silence last? Their next match is on Sunday. An Eredivisie fixture — a stage more familiar to them. Can they recover? Can they prove the 5-0 was just an accident? For Kabar, how long will that silence last? Will he be given the chance to prove he deserves to be there? Will he be protected from criticism? Will he be developed the way he deserves? For Schreuder, how long will that silence last? Can he manage with what he has? Can he rebuild the trust he lost? Can he learn from his mistake? I do not have answers to those questions. Nobody does. Because football is a sport of uncertainties. We never know what will happen next. We can only observe, analyse, and hope. But there is one thing I know for certain. I know that in every match, big or small, there is a story. And that story deserves to be told. Not because it is dramatic. Not because it is shocking. But because it is true. It is a part of life — with all its complexity, contradictions, and surprises. For a beat reporter like me, the job is not to hunt for big stories. The job is to record what is happening — in places few people look. To listen to the voices of players who are not mentioned. To document moments others overlook. And sometimes, that job means saying: a 5-0 defeat is not the end. It can be a beginning. A beginning for a new story — about recovery, about patience, about what can happen when a small club refuses to fall. I have been in a press room full of only male voices. I have been dismissed because of my gender. I have been told I do not understand football. But I am still here. Still writing. Still watching. Still keeping my promise. Because I believe football is not only for the strong. It is for everyone. From Champions League stars to young players in the second division. From packed stands to empty stadiums during a pandemic. From legendary coaches to young players trying to find their place. During the pandemic, I learned to hear applause from empty stands. And I learned that applause never disappears. It just moves from one space to another. From stands to hearts. From one match to the next. From one generation to another. And that is why I still do this job. Not because I want fame. Not because I want money. But because I want to be part of something bigger than myself. Part of the football story — the story I have loved since I was a ten-year-old child. The match between NEC and Juventus ended long ago. The score is written into history. But the story continues. It continues in NEC's dressing room, where players are trying to recover from a painful defeat. It continues in Dortmund's offices, where executives are monitoring Kabar's development. It continues in the hearts of fans who still believe in their club, however hard things get. And it continues in me — in every article I write, every match I cover, every story I tell. Because I believe a club is not just a shirt colour, but a promise repeated every match. And that promise is never broken. It only waits to be fulfilled. In the darkness of the tunnel, I hear the heart of the whole stadium beating. And when that heart beats, I know football is still alive. Still here. Still waiting for the next stories to be told. NEC's next match is on Sunday. That is where the story continues. That is where we will learn whether Schreuder can manage with what he has, whether Kabar gets a chance to recover, whether NEC can prove they are not just a small club crushed by bigger ones. I will watch that match. Not because I want to see who wins or loses. But because I want to see the next story — the story only football can tell. And I will keep writing. Keep watching. Keep my promise. Because that is what a beat reporter does. That is my job. That is my life. That is why I am here. If you ask me whether NEC can get past this defeat, I will say I do not know. Football is a sport of uncertainty. But I know one thing: they will try. They will fight. They will not fall. Because that is what small clubs do. They fight. They endure. They hope. And sometimes, just sometimes, they surprise us. And that is why we love football. Not for what is certain. But for what is uncertain. For the moments we did not expect. For the stories we could not imagine. For the small, simple, beautiful things. Like a young player stepping onto the pitch, not knowing what he will face. Like a coach speaking the truth, even if that truth may hurt him. Like a stand applauding, even when no one is there. That is football. That is life. That is us.