by Mantas Aliukonis
For 35-year-old Cypriot-Serbian coach Nikola Vitorović, the 2025 season was defined by emotional grief, professional upheaval, and the slow unravelling of a project he believed could succeed. “The first half of the season,” he says, “I spent more time doing psychology – calming the players – than actually coaching.” Yet the beginning had looked promising. Riteriai were building a lively, attractive team, and for six weeks, everything suggested stability and potential for growth.
But football, just as life, seldom plays along.
Barely half a year after losing his mother – an experience that left him “in a hole emotionally and psychologically”- Vitorović found himself facing another crisis: the collapse of the club that had recruited him with promises of financial order and renewed ambition. “Pažadais sotus nebūsi,” he notes, echoing the Lithuanian proverb that promises don’t feed you. It became the defining truth of the season.
An unplanned return to Lithuania
Although remembered by few, Vitorović first arrived in Lithuania as a player over a decade ago, lining up for Nevėžis in 2014 and later working as a youth coach in Stumbras’ academy. His coaching breakthrough came elsewhere: in Latvia with SK Super Nova, a club he helped lead as assistant manager to the second division title and promotion to the Virslīga. The club president trusted him, and the environment was stable—qualities he admits he badly needed after his mother’s death. But emotionally, he says, he was “lost,” spending days alone in Riga “doing nothing and caring about nothing.”
Then came a call from former Riteriai sporting director Vytautas Masaitis, informing him that new Singaporean investors had taken over in Vilnius. Vitorović knew well the club’s reputation for financial instability and warned Masaitis that he would not step into another situation without money. “He convinced me that everything was fixed,” he says. “And for the first month and a half, that was true.”
So he left Latvia – not because he wanted a challenge more than stability, but because he needed change. “It was psychological,” he explains. “I had nothing against Super Nova or their president. We still speak almost every second day. But at that moment, I needed to move.”
Competitive hopes and financial collapse
Riteriai entered 2025 with a clear strategic plan: a Lithuanian core supported by foreign signings, with young prospects positioned for mid-season transfers. Three stood out immediately: Nojus Stankevičius, Meinardas Mikulėnas, and Milanas Rutkovskis.
“Nojus justified expectations early, Mikulėnas was our top scorer, and Milanas earned a place in the U-21 national team,” he recalls. His trust in Mikulėnas became a cornerstone of the dressing room. “Strikers need confidence. Even after a bad match, you don’t bench them. He sat only once or twice in five months.”
The preseason reinforced optimism: draws against Panevėžys and Šiauliai, a cohesive dressing room, and a tactical plan the squad understood. According to the original vision, Riteriai were to build around these three Lithuanian prospects and supplement them with six foreigners—ideally arriving early enough to integrate properly.
But the foreigners did not arrive early. They arrived late – some very late.
Bosnian midfielder B. Mulahalilović, midfielder L. Sajčić, and others joined weeks behind schedule. And the moment Singapore withdrew, full-back Ryan Stewart – a player Vitorović knew since the boy’s teenage years – arrived the same day, making the entire project feel disconnected and improvised.
And then the money disappeared.
The first sign of troubles ahead came when the sporting director resigned. The second came when the long-promised foreign players began arriving late. The third was catastrophic: Singaporean investors, whose commitment had brought Vitorović to Lithuania, abruptly withdrew.
“We won on Sunday,” he recalls, “and on Monday they told us the club was bankrupt.”
It soon became clear that the club’s financial planning had been wildly optimistic. The owner, Jan Nevoina, had not anticipated the true scale of operational costs. Wages – already delayed – drifted further out of reach. The club still carried €2.7 million in old debt, and during the spring alone accumulated over €200,000 in unpaid invoices. Partial salary transfers trickled in sporadically, only to vanish under fixed costs. “We were fed promises,” Nikola says, “and the money disappeared within two days.”
Even the €50,000 LFF payment intended to support youth integration was, according to Vitorović, “nothing for a club spending €67,000 a month on wages and around €100,000 including stadium maintenance, pitch rentals, and security.” That LFF support was used “mostly for food,” he says. “Nothing more.”
“The money would come in, and two days later it was gone.”
He also notes the burden of Lithuania’s tax system compared to Cyprus: “Here almost 20% is cut immediately. Whatever wage money you get becomes smaller. In Lithuania every transfer has another deduction. It creates perfect conditions for intermediaries (banks) to flourish.”
The collapse was total, and the effect on the squad immediate. Players, especially foreigners, became consumed by financial uncertainty. “Their entire focus shifted away from football,” he says. Many were allowed to leave on the condition that they surrendered all unpaid wages.
“I was abandoned to fight for A Lyga with just the boys”
As the crisis deepened, the squad disintegrated. At one point, Riteriai fielded only two foreign players; in other matches, the team resembled an academy selection. Against Šiauliai, they won with a 17-year-old goalkeeper and a 17-year-old striker. But those moments were exceptions; the norm was far harsher.
The defeats accumulated not because they were being “dominated”—a point he stresses—but because individual errors broke otherwise competitive performances. Young players – nine of them – each made a costly mistake per match. “If we had an experienced goalkeeper, many results would have been different,” Vitorović explains. Instead, individual errors repeatedly undermined collective effort. “I was abandoned,” he exclaims, “to fight for A Lyga with just the boys!”
He describes one match against Džiugas, leading 1–0, before two goalkeeping errors—“both situations created by the keeper himself”—turned the game. Against Banga, a miscommunication between the goalkeeper and Stankevičius resulted in an own goal. Against Hegelmann, they led 2–0 before losing 4–2. Against Kauno Žalgiris, they played the last 20 minutes on top and could have equalised to 3–3. Against Panevėžys, they conceded twice before halftime despite a balanced game.
“We were not cannon fodder,” he says. “We fought. But the boys made mistakes, and those mistakes cost us the league table.”
He had warned club leadership repeatedly that the squad lacked the quality required to compete in the A Lyga. His requests for signings were denied with the familiar refrain: we cannot afford it.
The resulting emotional erosion was equally severe. “Half the squad stopped responding to my voice. At that point, I knew it was over.”
The breaking point
On June 29, after a loss to Dainava, Vitorović left the club. The departure was amicable – he received three months’ compensation and exchanged final words with the owner outside the club office. But the coach remained convinced that his assessment had been correct.
“After the 1-5 defeat to the champions, they finally saw I was right,” he says. “Only then did they bring in foreigners.”
He lists the reinforcements that arrived just after he left: seven new players, including the experienced Croatian goalkeeper Antonio Tuta, whom he had wanted since February. “If Tuta had come earlier,” he says, “many results would have been very different.”
He also reveals that during his tenure he had secured interest from U.S. investors linked to a USL League One club but the deal fell apart amid the broader instability.
“Without 4-6 strong foreigners, there is nothing to do in the A Lyga”
His conclusion about the league is stark: “There are not enough high-level Lithuanian players for every club. Without 4–6 strong foreigners, you cannot compete.” Other teams fielded more than ten foreign players; Riteriai fought with teenagers.
He does not absolve himself of responsibility, but places events in context. “People may think I’m blaming the late salaries to justify results, but that is only part of it. Football is not only what you see on the pitch. If players cannot live, they cannot perform.”
What hurts him most is not the defeats, but the lost potential. “We were on the right path,” he says. “We had a plan, a clear vision. But the finances destroyed everything.”
Now back on Cyprus, Vitorović follows football from a distance while waiting for the right offer – one with stability, transparency, and real backing.
“I left on good terms,” he says. “Maybe someday our paths will cross again. Time will tell.”
If you are enjoying Mantas’s interviews and analysis, please consider supporting his other projects here and here, as well as follow him on TikTok
