by Mantas Aliukonis
He can be liked or disliked, but figures who operate on the margins of Lithuanian football are few and far in between. One of them is Vacys Lekevičius, a former long-time player of the Klaipėda club later known as Atlantas and, earlier, the ideological driving force behind PSK Aras – a team assembled on the foundations of the bankrupt Granitas. In the past, Lekevičius became known for sharp statements, public confrontations, and a refusal to soften his language.
Anticipating his mood is difficult. This interview did not succeed on the first attempt and, when calling back to reschedule and clarify details, the former Atlantas leader is already visibly less receptive than the first time around, declining to elaborate on the sudden change of plans further. When conversation does take place, it moves between memories and accusations, shaped by the conviction that Lithuanian football took a wrong turn long ago, never correcting its course.
Much of the discussion is focused on the present state of the game in Lithuania, particularly the football federation, its leadership, and the forces that, in Lekevičius’ view, continue to shape football from behind the scenes.
Lithuanian Football Federation
“They look good,” he says of the Lithuanian Football Federation. “Everyone is in suits, well dressed.” Appearances, according to him, replaced substance. He contrasts today’s leadership with earlier figures, including former players who rose through football but ultimately became dependent on what he openly calls “crooks – thieves under the law.”
He dismisses euphemisms and gradual reform. In his view, meaningful change is impossible without direct state intervention.
“Until the government takes the LFF into its own hands, there’s no point even talking about football in Lithuania,” he states.
Lekevičius recalls attempts to challenge federation leadership in the past and the consequences that followed. Atlantas, he claims, paid the price, eventually dropping to the Second League. These were not isolated disputes but prolonged conflicts that shaped both his reputation and the club’s fate.
In his account, the origins of the current system stretch back decades. He identifies former federation president Julius Kvedaras as a central figure and describes failed efforts to remove him, even with backing from influential businessmen such as the late Rimantas Karpavičius. Over time, alliances shifted, interests consolidated, but football itself, Lekevičius argues, ceased to be the priority.
“There’s big money there,” he says. “Big interests. Football is just a cover.”
Distance from the game
Today, Lekevičius lives in Klaipėda and spends much of his time at a homestead in Klaipėda district. He keeps around twenty dogs and lives close to nature. Football no longer structures his daily life.
He says that people still ask where he disappeared to. His response is blunt and tinged with irony. He describes himself as an old man, nearing the end of his life, and uninterested in returning to fight the fights he believes were never resolved.
Atlantas has long vanished from the Lithuanian football map. Asked whether he follows the game now, Lekevičius rejects the premise of the question.
“What football?” he asks. “What football can there be in Lithuania?”
In his view, the federation maintains appearances while suppressing criticism. He questions how many people remember the early years after independence, when football, he argues, was stronger in sporting terms but deeply entangled with criminal influence.
For Lekevičius, the decline of Lithuanian football is most visible in its failure to produce players of international relevance.
“Which players has Lithuania produced over all these years?” he asks. “What have they achieved? Who represents the country?”
He contrasts the present with earlier generations, mentioning Tomas Danilevičius and Edgaras Jankauskas as examples of players who emerged from a different ecosystem. He questions how those pathways disappeared and why the domestic league no longer produces comparable figures.
Today’s system, he argues, relies on academies funded largely by parents, with little tangible return.
“Parents pay,” he says. “And what comes of it? Nothing.”
Sūduva, influence, and closed doors
Asked about rumours surrounding ownership changes at Sūduva, Lekevičius laughs. He describes tight personal networks, municipal resistance, and figures whose influence, in his view, extends far beyond official titles.
“Everyone knows who is who,” he says. “There shouldn’t be space for them in football.”
The same logic, he believes, applies to media coverage. He has little interest in mainstream reporting on Lithuanian football, which he sees as superficial and risk-averse.
“Someone writes something somewhere,” he says. “And that’s where it ends.”
What is missing, in his view, is investigative journalism; into finances, governance, and accountability. He speaks approvingly of those who have taken legal action against football authorities and won, arguing that only documented evidence and court rulings produce real pressure.
He claims that he himself has been denied accreditation and kept at a distance, while larger outlets maintain access through compliance.
“They all sit in the same boat,” he says.
The national team and managed expectations
The national team’s results, Lekevičius argues, reflect the wider system. Lithuania loses regularly, with rare victories framed as progress. Official narratives remain optimistic, and federation leaders receive awards.
“It’s just window dressing,” he dismisses.
He describes a coaching structure designed to avoid conflict and a federation culture that rewards loyalty over challenge. Certain individuals said to have left football, he claims, never truly did.
“Everything is arranged the way they want it,” he says.
He questions the credentials of current leadership, particularly those who arrived from other sports, and dismisses repeated assurances that success will come “someday.”
“Other teams will keep getting better,” he laments. “We’ll stay where we are.”
Klaipėda without football
Klaipėda occupies a central place in Lekevičius’ narrative. The city, he argues, has been stripped of football infrastructure and ambition. There is no stadium, no top-level team, and no clear plan for revival.
“I fought for Klaipėda,” he says. “I went through everything.”
He insists that his confrontational methods were driven by loyalty to the city, not personal ambition. Today, he sees only absence, and his own role is reduced to memory.
“They keep asking where I am,” he says. “But do I need this alone?”
Looking back
Lekevičius says he has witnessed Lithuanian football across political systems, from the Soviet period through independence and transition. Many figures from those years, he notes, are dead, imprisoned, or disappeared. He claims intimate knowledge of how referees were once selected and influenced, and doubts that the fundamentals have changed.
“Everything looks nice in the stadium,” he says. “But it isn’t as nice as it seems.”
He speaks of betting, of outside money, and of criminal structures adapting rather than disappearing. Football, in his account, has always existed alongside them.
Asked about Vilnius Žalgiris and Vilma Venslovaitienė’s departure, Lekevičius describes her as intelligent and effective. He did not expect her to relinquish control, though circumstances unfolded differently.
“We’ll see what happens without her,” he says.
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