Inter, Josep Martínez: "We Concede Too Many Goals, But It Is Not Always the Goalkeeper's Fault"

A night in Milan, when the scoreboard showed 2-0 for the visitors, I was sitting in front of a screen in a small apartment in Singapore, a cup of tea long gone cold. Outside the window, the city kept running to its own rhythm — the last trains of the day, the late-night food stalls still lit in Geylang, the Vietnamese workers far from home just off their shifts. On the screen, a goalkeeper stood still in his box, arms hanging loose, eyes following the ball resting in the net. Nobody ran over to blame him. Nobody raised a hand to point at him. But the whole world was looking at exactly that spot.

Josep Martínez did not need to say anything for me to understand what he was thinking. But he did say something. In an interview with Gazzetta dello Sport, relayed by Goal.com, Inter Milan's goalkeeper uttered a line I read over and over: this team concedes too many goals, but the fault is not always the goalkeeper's. He added that Inter have gone 2-0 down too many times, that the team needs to look again at its first halves, that the whole group from the first man to the last must raise its level.

I sat quietly for a long while. In football, some apparently harmless sentences contain an entire map. And a goalkeeper's sentence about his team's goals conceded is a map drawn in pain.

Context: a goalkeeper placed between two lines of pressure

To understand why that sentence carries such weight, it must be placed where it belongs. Inter Milan entered this season as one of the strongest teams in Europe — a familiar force in Serie A and a familiar force on the continental stage. This is a club with title ambition, with squad depth, and with a tactical system shaped over several seasons: a back three, two high wing-backs, a mobile midfield, and a goalkeeper expected not only to stop shots but to play with his feet like a fourth defender.

At that goalkeeping position, Inter placed its trust in Josep Martínez.

This is a quiet but weighty generational handover. A young Spanish goalkeeper brought in to become the number one. He arrived on a contract that the Inter hierarchy regarded as a long-term investment, and this season is when that investment begins to be converted into responsibility. He is no longer the backup option, no longer the apprentice waiting for a chance. He is the man standing in the goal, with a system behind him and a nation in front of him.

Because Josep Martínez is also a Spain international. He has been called up to the national team — the side he himself calls the strongest in the world. With Spanish football at a peak built on a gifted generation, a goalkeeper from Inter appearing on that list is a double signal: it confirms his standing, and it places him in a brutal competition where every club performance is examined under a microscope.

This is the period he himself describes as the biggest spell of his career. Big, in the sense a goalkeeper means it: every match is a chance to prove that the trust placed in him was justified. And in football, no position is punished by memory quite like the goalkeeper's.

I spent years working in a sports newsroom, and I learned something that still holds: people remember the goal, not the misplaced pass that led to it. People remember the hand that failed to close, not the missed tackle in midfield three seconds earlier. Football's collective memory is a selective memory, and it always selects the last man. That is why Martínez's sentence is not merely self-defence. It is a reminder about how we watch football.

A goal begins before the ball enters the net

I have spent years watching football in different places, and what I have learned is this: a goal rarely begins where the ball crosses the line. It begins much earlier — in a misplaced pass in midfield, in a duel lost, in a defender pulled out of position, in a midfielder who did not track back in time. A goal is the end point of a chain, and the goalkeeper is simply the man standing at the end of that chain, where everything becomes visible.

Josep Martínez's remark that the fault is not always the goalkeeper's is a polite way of putting it, but beneath it lies a tactical truth. For Inter, a team that operates with a back three, every goal can be traced to a gap that appeared higher up the pitch. When the two wing-backs push high to support the attack, the corridors behind them are vast. When the three centre-backs step up to spring the offside trap, the space behind them is open to any quick forward. When midfield loses the ball high, the team must run back at a disadvantage in both numbers and direction.

That is why saying "this team concedes too many" and blaming the goalkeeper is an analytical laziness. The goalkeeper is the man who is seen. The defence is the unit that is criticised. But the system is what is responsible.

I remember a time sitting at Jalan Besar stadium, watching a Singapore Premier League match. The home side conceded twice in the first half, and the crowd around me turned to curse the goalkeeper. But if you looked closely, both goals began with midfield losing the ball far too easily, forcing the defence to push up and exposing the space behind. The goalkeeper was simply the last man in a chain of errors. He stood there, alone, and took all of it. When the stands fall silent, the ball begins to tell stories — and it tells stories about the people nobody sees.

That is true of Inter. And it is true of every football team in the world.

The ball-playing goalkeeper and the trap of modernity

There is a paradox that modern football creates but few name. The more we ask a goalkeeper to play with his feet, the more we place him in situations where he can lose the ball — and losing the ball at the goalkeeper's position is losing it in the deadliest place on the pitch.

At Inter, Josep Martínez is not allowed simply to stand in his goal and wait for the ball. He is the first link in a system that builds from the back. When the opponent presses high, the ball must go through his feet. When the back three is split, he must be the one who opens the escape route. That is a reasonable tactical demand, but it turns the goalkeeper into a high-risk player — and high risk always comes with mistakes.

I have followed matches in which a team asks its goalkeeper to take part in build-up. The feeling is strange. Every time the ball goes to the goalkeeper's feet, I hold my breath. Not because I think he will make a mistake, but because I know an entire system is piling responsibility onto the feet of a man whose main job is, originally, to use his hands. When it works, it is a beautiful combination. When it fails, it is a goal people will remember forever.

This matters because it changes how we read the phrase "concedes too many". If a team concedes because its system actively creates risk, then blaming the man who carries the risk is a logical injustice. Before it was a fact, it was a volley — and before it was a goalkeeper's goal, it was a tactical choice by the whole group.

I am not saying the goalkeeper never errs. I am saying that in a system like Inter's, the line between individual error and systemic error is far blurrier than it looks. And people tend to look at the clearest part, not the truest one.

Why Inter go 2-0 down so often

This is the part I want to dwell on longest. Josep Martínez says Inter have gone 2-0 down too many times. That is a description, but it is also a diagnosis. Because going 2-0 down is not chance. It is a pattern.

When a team repeatedly falls two goals behind, there are usually a few causes. First, they start matches too slowly — their first half lacks intensity, lacks pressure, lets the opponent hold the ball and organise attacks as they please. Second, they suffer a psychological shock after the first goal, and the second arrives while they are still reeling. Third, they have a defensive system that is easy to exploit early, when the opponent is fresh and not yet tired.

Martínez says the team needs to look again at its first halves. That points to the first and second causes. It says the problem lies in concentration and intensity, not in tactical structure. This distinction is extremely important, because the two kinds of problem require two different cures. A structural problem needs a change of system. A concentration problem needs a change of habit and psychology.

And if Martínez is right — if the problem lies in habit and psychology — then Inter do not need a tactical revolution. They need a revolution in how they walk into a match. They need to learn to start awake.

I have seen this in many teams. A team can play superbly in the second half, yet keep conceding first in the first. They become a team that specialises in comebacks — and a comeback, however heroic, is a brutal way to burn energy. In a long season, energy is the true currency. And a team constantly chasing the score is a team spending money before it has earned it.

There is another angle few mention. Going 2-0 down too often also means the team is capable of scoring back — otherwise they would be losing heavily, not merely trailing. In other words, Inter are not a weak team. They are a strong team with a bad habit. And a bad habit in a strong team is more dangerous than a bad habit in a weak one, because a strong team has no right to err in decisive matches.

"Switching off" — the moment and the psychology of lost focus

Martínez speaks of the team "switching off in certain situations". That phrase makes me think of a concept I call the "dangerous silence".

In football there are moments when a team loses focus systematically. Right after scoring — the moment of highest excitement. Right after conceding — the moment of greatest shock. The opening minutes of each half — before the rhythm arrives. The closing minutes of each half — when fatigue sets in and rest is on the mind. These are the silences the opponent waits for.

A team that "switches off" is not a lazy team. It is a team that has not yet learned to hold its focus through the transitions of a match. This is a coaching issue, and it is also a cultural one. A disciplined team will not allow itself to doze in those moments. A team still under construction might.

I hosted a football programme called "Đêm bóng đá" for around four years, and one thing I learned from analysing hundreds of matches is this: the most dangerous goals conceded are not the beautiful ones. They are the goals that come from lost focus. A long ball nobody tracks, a corner nobody marks, a counter nobody closes down. These are the goals that keep coaches awake, because they are not a matter of talent. They are a matter of awareness.

And when a goalkeeper speaks of "switching off", he is speaking of the moments when he stands alone at the end of a chain. He sees it most clearly. He sees the defence in front of him doze, and he knows that when the ball goes in, people will look at him.

The five-substitution rule and the final twenty minutes as a war of attrition

There is a regulatory factor I always watch when analysing big teams: the five-substitution rule. I have said many times that five subs help squad depth, but also turn the final twenty minutes into a war of attrition.

For a team like Inter, five subs are a weapon. They can bring on fresh players when the opponent is tired. But it is also a double-edged sword. When a team makes many changes, it disrupts its own structure. New links need time to find the rhythm. And in that settling time, a team is most prone to losing focus — exactly when it needs focus most.

The ball slows down when the 90+2nd minute knocks at the door. But before the ball slows down, it has been through the final twenty minutes of a match in which both sides have made substitutions, both are tired, both have lost their early cohesion. That is when goals come from chaos, not from inferiority.

If Inter go 2-0 down too often, part of the cause may lie in how they manage the rhythm of a match through substitutions. A team that wants to win the title must know how to play the final twenty minutes without losing its structure. And that demands something harder to coach than tactics: collective calm.

The match in Madrid and the price of competing on equal terms

Martínez mentions a defeat in Madrid — where his team came close to a result against a side of great quality. This is a small detail, but it holds much.

The opponent in Madrid was, in all likelihood, a power of European football. That match was a continental fixture, where every mistake is punished more harshly. And what Martínez says — that the team came close to a good result but could not hold it — is precisely the story of teams that "switch off". They compete, they come close, then they let it slip.

This is the most painful paradox of elite football. Competing on equal terms with a big side earns no reward. Only results do. A team can play well for seventy minutes, but if it switches off for the remaining twenty, all anyone remembers is the score. And the score does not care how close you came.

For Inter, the Madrid defeat was an expensive lesson. It showed that their problem is not the ability to play — they are strong enough to compete with the best. The problem is the ability to hold focus for ninety minutes. And on the continental stage, where the margin for error is close to zero, that is a lethal problem.

The economics of the goalkeeping position: an investment being converted

There is an aspect of this story few look at, and I want to give it some space.

Josep Martínez becoming Inter's number one is not only a sporting decision. It is the result of a succession plan laid out in advance. A big club rarely replaces its first-choice goalkeeper at random. They have a plan. They invest in a young goalkeeper, give him time to settle, then hand him responsibility when the moment is ripe.

This is part of a larger trend in modern football: big clubs manage the goalkeeping position as a long-term asset. A good goalkeeper at peak age can serve a club for ten years. That is a rare investment in a market where everything is short-term.

And with Martínez, that investment is being converted into value. His Spain call-up raises his market value. It also raises his negotiating position in future contract renewals. In football, a national-team place is not only an honour. It is a number on a balance sheet.

But there is a paradox here. As a goalkeeper's value rises, the pressure on him rises too. Every mistake becomes more expensive, not only in points but in economics. And for a young goalkeeper in the "biggest spell of his career", that pressure can be a burden, or it can be fuel. It depends on the man.

I once wrote that in football there are stories of losers more beautiful than stories of winners. The story of a young goalkeeper, given trust at a big club, then made to prove he deserves it while the whole world watches every mistake, is one such story. It has no ending yet. And precisely because it has no ending, it is worth following.

The call of La Roja and the "virus" nobody wants to name

Josep Martínez being called up by Spain is a beautiful signal. But it also carries a risk analysts often name rather harshly: the "FIFA virus".

That is the phenomenon of players returning to their clubs tired or injured after international breaks. For a goalkeeper, the risk seems smaller than for a player running constantly. But for a goalkeeper it has another dimension: focus. A goalkeeper tired mentally can lose sharpness in decisive moments.

And in Spain, where the national team has depth in goal, being called up does not mean Martínez will certainly start. It means he must compete. He must prove, in short training sessions, that he deserves it. That is a double pressure: pressure at club level, and pressure at national level.

But there is a positive side. Training with the best players in the world can raise a goalkeeper's level. It shows him the standards he must reach. And it gives him confidence — the thing a goalkeeper needs more than any other player on the pitch.

A private grief and a calm attitude to mistakes

In the interview, Josep Martínez says he faces mistakes calmly. He says he takes everything in his stride. But he also mentions a private grief — a personal loss that once drained his energy, something he says he will carry inside forever.

I do not want to go into the details of that grief, because it is the private matter of a human being. But I want to speak of the link between grief and calm. Because this is one of the things I believe most deeply about football: people who have been through loss are often calm about small mistakes on a pitch.

A goalkeeper conceding a goal is not a tragedy. A goalkeeper losing a match is not a tragedy. The real tragedy is other things — things outside the pitch. And when a person has known what real tragedy is, they look at mistakes on a pitch with a different eye.

That is why Martínez's calm is not indifference. It is the result of a process. It is a maturity born of understanding that some things matter more than others. And in a football world where every mistake is magnified to the point of cruelty, that calm is a gift.

Every assist is a poem that never got its title. And every mistake by a goalkeeper is a line struck out — but not the last line.

A counter-intuitive view: the fear is not in the goals conceded

Here I want to offer a view different from the conventional reading.

The conventional reading is: Inter concede too many, that is the problem, and they must fix the defence. I do not dispute that. But I argue the more worrying problem is not the number of goals. It is that this team has grown used to chasing the score.

Think about this. A team that goes 2-0 down and comes back is a frightening team. A team that goes 2-0 down and comes back too many times is a team that has turned comebacks into a habit. And that habit, however admired, hides a danger: it makes the team believe it can always correct its mistakes. A team that believes it can always correct its mistakes will no longer fear making them.

That is the most dangerous paradox. Confidence can become complacency. And complacency, in elite football, is a slow death.

I argue what Inter need is not a tighter defence, but a healthier fear. A fear that going behind is unacceptable, not a situation that can be turned around. Because at some point, in a match where everything matters, they will not come back. And at that moment, all the previous comebacks will not save them.

There is one more thing. When a goalkeeper speaks of his team's goals conceded, people often hear self-defence. I hear a warning. Josep Martínez is not saying he is blameless. He is saying the problem is bigger than one man. And when the man under the most scrutiny is the calmest voice saying it, that is a signal of a dressing room trying to hold together.

Martínez says the team must stick together, must help a teammate having a bad day. That is a statement about culture, not tactics. And sometimes culture is what decides a season.

What remains after the goals conceded

I have spent many years writing about football, and I have learned that what remains after a match is not the score. What remains is how a team faces itself.

Inter are in an interesting phase. They are a strong team, an ambitious team, a team expected to compete in both Serie A and Europe. But they also face a problem they have themselves admitted: they concede too many goals, and they concede at moments when they should not.

That admission, to me, is a positive sign. A team that does not admit its problem is a team that cannot fix it. A team willing to name its problem has already walked half the road.

But admitting is not enough. Football does not reward admission. It rewards results. And results, at the elite level, are decided by the smallest details — a moment of focus, a well-timed retreat, a right decision in a fraction of a second.

The stadium is empty, but the city still breathes with every pass. And in those cities there are people sitting in front of screens at midnight, in places far from the stadium, following every phase of a team they love. They do not see what happens in the dressing room. They only see the result. But they feel, match by match, the pulse of a team trying to find itself again.

An open ending

Josep Martínez says he faces mistakes calmly. That is a sentence from a goalkeeper, but it is also a sentence from a man learning to live with the pressure of a position that has no room for error.

A stumble is not the ending, only a line out of rhythm. For Inter, their goals conceded are not the ending of a season. They are lines out of rhythm in a long poem whose ending has not been written.

And for Josep Martínez, every match is a chance to prove that the trust placed in him was justified. The writer, too, is chasing a ball — with words. I do not know how this season will end. But I know I will keep watching, match by match, to see whether a team willing to admit its weakness can turn that admission into strength.

Because that is the real question of football. Not who is strongest, but who learns fastest. And in a long season, the fastest learner is usually the one who goes furthest.