At the beginning of May, Millwall prepared to host their final match of the First Division season at the Den, facing Swindon Town.
Over the past two months, Millwall's record had been nothing short of brilliant. In the 13 league games played during that stretch, they achieved eight wins, four draws, and only one defeat. The title had been secured six rounds in advance, and their points tally already stood at a record-breaking 104. If they were to win their final game, that total would rise to an unprecedented 107.
The individual honours were equally striking. The First Division's Golden Boot was already claimed by Larsson without the slightest suspense: 38 goals in 39 league appearances, a scoring rate of nearly one per game. Behind him, Trezeguet had also impressed, registering 28 goals in his first season in England. The assist crown belonged to Schneider, whose 21 assists set a new division record.
It was not merely a season in which Millwall had been reborn—it was a season that would be remembered as extraordinary.
Their final opponent, however, represented the opposite end of the spectrum. Swindon Town, relegated from the Premier League the previous year, had endured a disastrous campaign. Going into the last round, they sat fourth from bottom, only two points above Sunderland, who occupied the final relegation spot. Their survival depended not only on achieving the near-impossible—defeating Millwall at the Den, where Aldridge's side had 19 wins and three draws in 22 home matches—but also on Sunderland failing to win against West Bromwich Albion. Even then, goal difference posed a fatal obstacle: Swindon trailed Sunderland by 15 goals, making their escape route all but closed.
With the championship secured weeks earlier, Aldridge approached the final fixture with the same mindset he had adopted in recent months. He continued to rotate the squad heavily, giving younger and less experienced players valuable minutes on the pitch, building depth for the future.
Away from football, Aldridge's personal life had also shifted. His career was flourishing, and now, for the first time since taking charge, he seemed to be stepping into romance as well. Since meeting Melanie Chisholm, his evenings had often been spent in her company, and every night they spoke by phone before bed, their relationship growing with the easy closeness of routine.
But recently, their meetings had become rarer. The Spice Girls had just finished filming their debut single in London and were preparing for their official launch in the UK. Melanie's schedule was tightening, and Aldridge understood. He had little time to dwell on it anyway. Though the league was ending, the summer ahead promised even more work. For both club owner and manager, the transfer window loomed—the busiest and most decisive period of all.
The Premier League had just concluded its penultimate round. Both leaders Blackburn Rovers and second-placed Manchester United secured narrow home wins. In the table, United remained two points behind Blackburn. That left the final day set for high drama: United would visit West Ham while Blackburn travelled to Anfield to face Liverpool. The situation was not hopeless for United. They held a far superior goal difference, meaning that if Blackburn failed to win—if they drew at Anfield—United could still snatch the title with a victory in London.
The suspense of the final round had the entire country on edge.
Naturally, media attention turned to the battle for the Premier League crown. Kenny Dalglish leading Blackburn back to Anfield, where he once reigned as Liverpool's hero, added another layer of intrigue. The more provocative newspapers went so far as to suggest that Liverpool might "repay an old debt," letting Dalglish's side triumph over Ferguson's United.
Meanwhile, Manchester United themselves had come under fire. Since Cantona's suspension, they had repeatedly failed to seize chances to overtake Blackburn. They had been beaten at Anfield, and while that in itself was no shame, their inability to beat Leeds, Tottenham, or even a struggling Chelsea at Old Trafford—sometimes without scoring a single goal—sparked sharp criticism of their frontline.
Yes, their overall scoring record looked healthy, but it was misleading. A single 9–0 demolition of Ipswich Town, combined with a 5–1 win over them earlier in the season, had inflated their goal tally by fourteen. Outside of those routs, their attack often misfired.
Pressed on how United might address this weakness, Ferguson dropped a familiar name into the conversation: Henrik Larsson.
The old fox praised Larsson lavishly, suggesting the young Swede would be a perfect fit at Old Trafford, his technical qualities ideally suited to United's system. In Ferguson's words, Larsson could achieve greatness in Manchester.
So when Aldridge sat down for his pre-match press conference ahead of Millwall's final First Division fixture, the journalists wasted no time. More than thirty reporters had packed the room, but as soon as Aldridge adjusted his seat, a hand shot up:
"Mr. Hall, Manchester United are said to be very interested in Larsson. Will Millwall sell him this summer?"
A sudden silence fell. Dozens of eyes fixed on Aldridge. Pens poised above notepads, everyone waited to record his every word.
Technically, this was meant to be a press conference for the First Division's final round, but nobody cared. Inwardly, many reporters cursed: To hell with the First Division! The title race is finished, the only suspense left is relegation for Sunderland or Swindon, and the play-off places. Who cares? What matters is whether Larsson wears the red of United!
Larsson—nearly forty goals in one season. Yes, the gap between the First Division and the Premier League was vast, but at his age, even 15 goals in his first Premier League campaign would mark him as a star in the making.
So the key question: would Millwall sell him?
Could Aldridge keep him?
Would this young manager be stripped of his jewel before even establishing his dynasty?
News—real news—hung in the balance.
The room remained hushed. The reporters leaned forward in their seats like schoolchildren awaiting the teacher's words. Aldridge scanned the faces calmly, watching their eyes shine with hunger.
Finally, he asked, "Ferguson says he loves Larsson? Truly?"
"True love!" several reporters shouted at once.
Damn it, man, just say yes or no! they thought. Will you sell or won't you?
Aldridge blinked, then leaned closer to the microphones, his voice smooth and deliberate: "Love is a sweet pain. True love is never a smooth road."
And with that, he rose to his feet, straightened his jacket, and walked off the stage without another word.
The press room froze in stunned silence. It was as if lightning had struck.
Two thoughts rang in every reporter's mind:
What the fuck?
What the hell?
They stared at each other blankly. Finally, Thomson of The Sun—a rare liberal arts graduate among them—broke the silence.
"Shakespeare!" he exclaimed.
The others turned to him, eyes sharp as knives.
"What do you mean?"
"Mr. Hall just quoted Shakespeare."
The room erupted in chaos. Reporters muttered, trying to parse the meaning. Was Aldridge saying Millwall and Larsson's "love" was being tested? Was he hinting that Manchester United, as a third party, could never steal true love? No one could agree. The ambiguity only deepened the mystery.
Aldridge, leaving the building, smirked to himself. He had begun to master the art of handling the media. No longer would he be led by their questions in a passive game of Q&A. Now, he would seize control, turn the spotlight on his own terms, and leave them scrambling.
Behind the scenes, the reality was simpler. At the start of May, Millwall had already renewed the contracts of all first-team players. Based on their performances this season, every player had received a pay rise of £3,000 to £10,000 a week, plus a signing bonus ranging from £20,000 to £50,000.
It was a major financial commitment, but Aldridge had no hesitation. The club's accounts justified it.
Jersey sales had exploded, generating nearly half a million pounds. Average attendances were almost at full capacity, each home game bringing in around £200,000, totalling close to £5 million across the season. Television money was modest, but together with prize bonuses, another £400,000 had flowed in.
After expenses, Aldridge discovered that the £30 million he had injected the previous year—alongside the £13 million spent in the summer transfer window—still left nearly £20 million sitting in the club's accounts. It was an unexpected surplus, one that made the pay rises and bonuses easy to approve. Securing the players' loyalty now would save immeasurable trouble in the future.
And that was only the beginning. New sponsorship deals were set for the summer, and with Millwall's promotion, they would receive a fixed share of Premier League broadcasting revenue. On top of that, Aldridge estimated he could set aside a transfer budget of around £5 million.
Ambitious as ever, he was already planning. The summer would be decisive. A stronger foundation had to be built—for the battles that were still to come.
...
...
For the final match of the First Division season, the Den Stadium was packed to the rafters. From long before kick-off the stands were alive, the fans in high spirits. The result no longer mattered, but this was the team's last home appearance of the season, and for the supporters, their presence was an act of tribute.
Millwall's main lineup did not feature on the pitch. Instead, players like Larsson, Nedved, Southgate, and Pires sat in suits behind the dugout, chatting casually, the tension of battle absent from their faces.
Aldridge had made it clear that there would be no lavish celebration for winning the First Division. A trophy was a fine achievement, but he did not want his players to grow complacent or proud of conquering only the second tier. After the game, he intended to call the squad together for a season review before sending them on holiday.
When Aldridge walked out from the players' tunnel, the crowd rose as one. Applause and cheers rolled around the Den like thunder.
The Hall family had taken over Millwall, and in his very first season in charge, the young coach Aldridge had delivered the Premier League ticket. He had won the hearts of the fans.
The statistics underlined the achievement. The points total had already smashed the division record, with a chance still to extend it. The team had scored 119 goals—averaging more than 2.6 per game. Every one of the new signings had become a hero to the supporters. Looking ahead to next season in the Premier League, Millwall fans brimmed with expectation.
Aldridge raised his arms, applauding the supporters above him as he walked to the dugout. Then his gaze was drawn to the South Stand. The Roaring Fans group had unfurled a huge banner.
"To our beloved Aldridge: Keep Larsson!"
The Roaring Fans were not Aldridge's personal mouthpiece. Beyond occasional ticketing support, he rarely involved himself with them. Yet the group had a spirit of its own. Only hours earlier, when the press reported Manchester United's interest in Larsson, they had released an open letter urging the club to keep hold of the Swede. They pleaded that Millwall avoid another heartbreak like those of Sheringham and Cascarino.
Cascarino had only spent three seasons at Millwall, but alongside Sheringham he had formed a devastating strike partnership. Even now he was thriving in Marseille, still a prolific scorer.
Sheringham, though, was the scar. A product of Millwall's youth system, he had played eight years for the club before leaving for Nottingham Forest, and later returning to London—but in the colours of Tottenham Hotspur. Millwall supporters wanted to forget him, but could not. He had given them so much, yet now he was celebrated as Tottenham's leading striker. The memory was painful, cold, and bitter.
Would Larsson be another name lost?
Publicly, Aldridge offered no answer. But in private, he had already thought it through. He had spoken with Larsson directly. If the Swede wanted to leave, Aldridge would not stand in his way. After all, if Manchester United came calling, how could Millwall truly compete with their appeal?
Yet Aldridge laid out the reality clearly to Larsson. United had only just shattered the transfer record by paying £6 million for Andy Cole, signed to replace veteran Mark Hughes. Once Cantona returned from suspension, would Larsson truly find a guaranteed place in Ferguson's starting lineup? At Millwall, by contrast, his status as first-choice striker was unquestioned. So long as he stayed fit and committed, he would lead the line.
As for other English clubs, the barriers were steep: transfer fees, wage demands, and the question of competitiveness. Aldridge was confident he had persuaded Larsson that Millwall remained his best option.
At season's end, Millwall would announce a wave of contract renewals together, presenting a united front. Coupled with Aldridge's calm deflection of media speculation, there would be no storm this summer.
Out on the pitch, the players were walking out, and Aldridge settled into his place on the bench beside Jenson, chatting with him in good humour.
The mood within the squad was excellent. Youthful energy had driven them, and the coaching staff's tireless effort had paid off. To see the team dominate the division so completely filled everyone with pride.
But Swindon had come with desperation. For them, victory was essential to any hope of survival. They charged into the game with the ferocity of a team fighting for their lives.
Aldridge had fielded a rotated XI in a 4-3-3 formation: Phillips led the line, flanked by Grønkjær and Solskjær. In midfield, Gattuso and Vieira supported Ballack, who took the central role. The back four consisted of Lucas Neill at left-back, Richards and Materazzi at centre-half, and the increasingly dependable Zambrotta at right-back.
Swindon lined up in a traditional 4-4-2, their strategy obvious from the opening whistle: long balls, constant aerial pressure.
But Millwall's youngsters were unbothered. As the old saying went, if football was meant to be played in the air, the grass would have been planted in the sky. The more Swindon hoofed it forward, the more Millwall looked for chances to slice through them on the ground, fast and sharp like fish in water.
The coaching staff were relaxed, laughing and chatting as they watched. Aldridge only occasionally glanced at the pitch. He knew the young players valued every minute of these opportunities; he did not need to bark orders from the touchline. The team played with purpose on their own.
But then, just two minutes into the match, the Den witnessed a shocking scene.
Swindon launched a long ball into Millwall's penalty area from midfield. Materazzi rose high and headed it clear with ease, directing it towards Vieira. Vieira collected calmly and prepared to build a counterattack.
But just as the ball reached Ballack's feet, the referee abruptly blew his whistle, halting play. Instead of following the ball, he sprinted back towards Millwall's half.
All eyes turned in confusion.
On the ground lay a Swindon striker, rolling theatrically while clutching his face and shouting in anger. His screams of pain echoed around the stadium.
"What happened?" Aldridge frowned, having missed the incident entirely.
From the bench, Babu leaned forward and muttered, "Looks like Marco slapped Wayne Allison off the ball."
Aldridge stood sharply, and the Den erupted in furious boos as the referee pulled a red card straight from his pocket and brandished it at Materazzi.
Sent off after two minutes?
Materazzi was certainly capable of rash behaviour, but Aldridge could not see the cause. Was it provocation? A heated argument? It could hardly have been racial abuse—there was nothing in that.
"Marco, what happened?" Aldridge asked calmly as Materazzi trudged off with a stormy expression. The defender's lips moved as if to speak, but he stopped himself, shook his head, and disappeared down the tunnel without another word.
Helpless, Aldridge could only sigh. Materazzi clearly wasn't ready to explain.
With Millwall down to ten men almost immediately, Swindon seized the advantage. Wayne Allison, who moments earlier had been writhing in supposed agony, now rubbed his cheek, got to his feet, and walked to the touchline for treatment. There was some redness but nothing more.
On the opposite bench, the Swindon coach was waving frantically, urging his players forward. Sighing, Aldridge stepped to the edge of the technical area and issued instructions with sharp gestures: one hand tapping the base of his back, then pointing into the box.
His players understood immediately. Gattuso and Vieira dropped deeper as a double screen in front of the defence, creating numerical security inside the area. Against Swindon's aerial, long-ball approach, there was no need to match them man-for-man in midfield. With Gattuso and Vieira covering one another and Ballack delaying slightly higher, Millwall could absorb pressure and still spring counters.
Having made his adjustment, Aldridge sat back down, muttering in frustration. "What the hell happened just now? Bloody hell, this small ground."
The Den had no giant screen, no chance to see replays. In the stands, Craig pulled a small radio from his pocket, listening for updates from the live broadcast. Soon, boos rained down every time Swindon touched the ball.
After a few minutes, Craig leaned over with a wry smile. "The commentators just explained. Apparently, after Marco headed the ball clear, Wayne Allison came up behind him and fouled him."
Aldridge narrowed his eyes. "Fouled him how?"
Craig hesitated, lowering his voice. "The replay showed… well, Allison poked him with his fingers. Poked him in the backside."
For a moment the entire coaching staff froze, dumbstruck. Then muffled laughter erupted from the bench behind them.
Materazzi, humiliated in the worst way.
Aldridge clenched his jaw to keep a straight face, suppressing his own laugh with effort. He leaned towards Jenson and muttered darkly, "Go calm him down. Make sure he doesn't smash up our dressing room."
Jenson got up, still struggling not to laugh, and headed quickly into the tunnel.