Materazzi returned to the dressing room. He did not smash anything in anger, but simply tore off his shirt and sat heavily on the stool in front of his locker, brooding in silence.
Assistant coach Jenson pushed open the dressing room door. When he saw Materazzi sitting there, his expression grim, he immediately understood the defender's turmoil.
He sat down beside him without a word. After a moment, Materazzi whispered bitterly, "I let the boss down, didn't I?"
Jenson gave a faint smile. "Not really. We're not saints, Marco—everyone makes mistakes. You're a defender. On the pitch, attackers and defenders live under two very different standards. An attacker can fail again and again for ninety minutes, but if he succeeds just once, he's the hero. A defender can succeed again and again for ninety minutes, but if he slips once, he becomes the villain. That's how it is. Being a defender is dirty work, heavy work, thankless work. You can't carry too much blame—it comes with the role."
Materazzi let out a long breath. Jenson's words felt like those of a confidant, easing some of the tightness in his chest. He shook his head and muttered, "But that bastard went too far. I lost it, and anger blinded me. What scares me is… will I make the same mistake again next time?"
He had been poked crudely in the backside with a finger. For any man, it was an intolerable humiliation. On a football pitch, perhaps it was written off as provocation. Anywhere else, a slap in response would have been the mildest reaction.
Jenson nodded, his expression thoughtful. If he were in Materazzi's shoes, he doubted he would have reacted differently. Still, he spoke gravely. "Marco, I can't say I've experienced anything like that, so I can't tell you what to think in the moment. But I can tell you about the consequences. Imagine today's match had been the league decider. Or the League Cup final. Or the FA Cup final. Even bigger—the Champions League final. Imagine you were playing for Italy in the European Championship or the World Cup. And then—sent off just two minutes into the match. Forget what it does to your teammates or your coach. Think of yourself. Wouldn't you regret it for the next ten, twenty, thirty years? Half the fans in the world would say Wayne Allison is shameless and dirty. The other half would say Materazzi is a fool who couldn't control himself."
Materazzi turned his head, staring at Jenson with deep, searching eyes. In that look there was both a flash of cunning and a hint of something darker.
The truth was that football had always been full of villains. Hard men, butchers, notorious "bad guys" whose names became part of football folklore. They never disappeared from the game. Allison was not a big name, but he was exactly that kind of pestering forward—the type who relied on constant, niggling fouls to unsettle defenders. They were often nicknamed "doctors" in the game, because their endless pokes and prods resembled medical examinations. Today, however, it had been a striker harassing a defender, and he had succeeded: he had goaded Millwall's centre-back into self-destruction.
Back on the touchline, Craig leaned towards Aldridge. "Do you want Thuram to start warming up?"
Thuram could play both full-back and centre-back, and Aldridge had included him on the bench precisely for that versatility.
But Aldridge only smiled and shook his head. "No need."
The match itself was not tilting completely against Millwall. Swindon, fighting for survival, had no patience for measured football. With a man advantage, they did not bother with long stretches of possession or probing attacks. Instead, they used the crudest method possible—pumping long balls forward, flooding the box, trying to force chances by sheer numbers.
Watching their frantic play, Aldridge leaned towards Craig again. "Swindon think they're wolves, ready to tear Millwall apart. They're wrong. They're more like a panicked flock of sheep. We may be a man down, but we're not at a disadvantage."
He knew that losing a player would force his team into greater discipline, making their execution sharper at both ends of the pitch. It wasn't uncommon in football. Many times, sides reduced to ten men actually found a new efficiency, their play becoming more focused than with a full eleven.
Sure enough, when Swindon's cross into the penalty area was cut out by Gattuso, alarm bells rang instantly in their defence.
Gattuso played it into Vieira, who didn't hesitate. The Frenchman launched a sweeping diagonal ball into Swindon's half. Grønkjær, starting from the halfway line, exploded forward like a sprinter, leaving the entire Swindon defence trailing helplessly behind.
The Den erupted. The roar shook the stands.
Aldridge turned to Craig with a confident grin. "Look—the lions are about to massacre the sheep."
Grønkjær surged forward, Phillips and Solskjær tearing down the pitch alongside him. Swindon's defenders panicked as they saw three blue shirts charging ahead, their own back line already beaten. They hadn't even reached the edge of the penalty area, and yet Millwall had three attackers bearing down on goal.
The television commentators were astonished. "Swindon's defence is far too slow! This Millwall counter looks like a sprint event at the track. Three forwards flying down the pitch at full tilt! And the goalkeeper—he's frozen, doesn't know what to do. Does he come out or hold his ground? He comes out! Grønkjær squares it to the right—Phillips! An empty net! Goal! Millwall, a man down, take the lead! Perhaps those newspapers weren't wrong—did Aldridge really go to the athletics track to recruit sprinters and turn them into footballers?"
Phillips wheeled away in celebration, arms spread wide, shouting to the fans. His teammates engulfed him in an embrace, the Den still shaking with joy.
On the sideline, Aldridge watched the celebrations quietly. He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile and remained seated, composed as ever.
With Millwall's success this season, Aldridge's tactical system had become the subject of growing attention across England.
One of its defining traits was the sheer pace of their counterattacks—so fast that television commentators often compared them to sprint races.
Since Beckham's departure disrupted Aldridge's original plan, he had fully embraced the 4-3-3 when rotating his second lineup. In that system, Grønkjær and Solskjær, deployed as wingers, quickly drew widespread notice.
Traditionally, wide forwards had been expected to provide width, supply crosses, and track back defensively—essentially functioning as auxiliary guards for the front line. Aldridge's wingers, however, were redefining the role. His wide men combined the responsibilities of both traditional wingers and modern inside forwards. In attack they could cut inside, stretch the defence, and link play. In defence, they pressed aggressively and acted as the first line of resistance. Versatile and dynamic, they had become integral to Millwall's system.
Whether this unorthodox approach would succeed in the Premier League was one of the key reasons pundits and fans alike were eager to see Millwall next season.
On the touchline, Swindon's coach was visibly tense, barking orders and trying to rouse his players. Aldridge, in contrast, remained calm and composed. He knew the opponent's reckless assaults lacked structure. Even with a numerical advantage, they were overcommitting and leaving themselves exposed. It was too naïve to think they could simply overwhelm Millwall by force.
Their record spoke for itself. Last season, Swindon had conceded over a hundred goals in the Premier League. This year, back in the First Division, their defensive woes remained unresolved. With nearly eighty goals conceded in forty-five matches—an average of almost two per game—they were hardly equipped to win at the Den by all-out attack.
Once Millwall broke the deadlock, their counters flowed with ease. Swindon were being carved apart.
In the 30th minute, Solskjær carried the ball on the break and cut it back centrally. Ballack arrived at the top of the area and unleashed a thunderous strike, sending the ball crashing into the net. Millwall 2–0.
Before halftime, Solskjær again created havoc. Slipping past his marker just outside the penalty area, he drilled a precise shot inside the post. 3–0 Millwall.
With that commanding lead, Millwall came out for the second half with ruthless intent. Within minutes, Vieira surged forward from deep, exchanging passes and continuing his run into the box. Phillips squared the ball, and Vieira calmly slotted it home. 4–0. Swindon were finished.
The Den exploded in celebration, a sea of blue flags and roaring voices.
The match itself was long since decided, but nobody could have predicted the bizarre scenes that followed.
After a miscommunication in Swindon's attack, two of their strikers turned on each other. Words were exchanged, then shouting, then suddenly fists flew. Wayne Allison, already infamous for his temper, was again at the centre of it.
Richards, closest to the fracas, ran over desperately trying to separate them. Ironically, it was Millwall's Richards stepping in to stop Swindon's teammates from battering each other.
The crowd at the Den roared with laughter. Some fans were doubled over, tears in their eyes at the sheer absurdity of it all.
"My God!" the commentator cried. "What is Swindon doing? Relegated from the Premier League last year, now facing relegation from the First Division this year—and their players are fighting each other! The most ironic thing is that it's Millwall's Richards trying to separate them! Surely the most chaotic image of the entire First Division season. What drama this match has delivered!"
The chaos halted play for nearly ten minutes. Players from both sides struggled to separate the two brawling strikers. Once the dust settled, the referee wasted no time, producing two red cards. Swindon were down to nine men. Millwall, even with Materazzi sent off early, now held the numerical advantage: 10 versus 9. The scoreboard still read 4–0.
Swindon's fight was gone. They played out the remainder in a daze, while Millwall's youngsters, relentless and hungry, smelled blood. By the final whistle, after eight minutes of added time, the scoreboard at the Den displayed a staggering rout: Millwall 8–0 Swindon.
"Congratulations to Millwall!" the commentator declared. "This fearless young side are heading to the Premier League. Can they replicate Nottingham Forest's meteoric rise? Perhaps that's too much to expect, but one thing is certain—they are a team worth watching."
After the match, Aldridge was swarmed by cameras. Walking towards the tunnel, he smiled, reached out, and tapped the lens of one television camera. With a confident grin, he declared:
"Hey, Premier League—Millwall is coming."
...
In the 46th round of the English First Division, only the play-off places remained undecided. Four teams would battle for the right to join Millwall in the Premier League. On the very night the league concluded, Aldridge gathered all his players at the team's training hotel.
In the tactical conference room, the atmosphere was serious. Aldridge and his coaching staff, dressed smartly in suits, greeted each other with light jokes and laughter, but the players who entered came in all sorts of attire. It was summer, and most of the younger ones preferred casual clothes. Only the older men, such as Southgate and Nedved, kept to a more formal style.
Aside from Van Nistelrooy and Luca Toni—who had barely featured during the season—most of the squad were now fully integrated into life at Millwall. They could honestly consider themselves part of the club's fabric.
When the last of them had sat down, Aldridge raised his hands. The room fell silent at once. The players looked at him, smiling, their faces full of pride and disbelief at the season they had just lived through. They themselves could hardly believe it—who would have thought playing for Millwall could feel so joyous?
Winning brings happiness, and so does improvement. Their careers were on the rise. Their wages were not at the level of superstars yet, but even so, their average earnings were twenty percent higher than many regular starters in top-flight clubs across Europe.
"I was going to give a long season review tonight," Aldridge began. "But there's no need. We won the title. That is our reward for the hard work we put in this season, isn't it?"
The room erupted in cheers and applause.
"You're all eager to get away on holiday," Aldridge went on with a grin. "So am I. I'll keep this short. First of all, based on your performances this season, the coaching staff and I have written recommendation letters to the football associations of your respective countries. We've recommended you for national team selection. Of course, many of you are still very young, so for now it may only mean the youth national teams. But it is an honour all the same."
The eyes of several players lit up immediately. Smiles spread across faces—many of the youngsters had not expected this.
Normally, relations between club and national team were complicated. The two were not enemies, but nor were they natural allies. Clubs gained prestige when their players became internationals, but international duty brought no money, only risk of injury and fatigue.
Aldridge's move, bluntly, was meant to please his players. Next season, Millwall would be on the Premier League stage, and it was only a matter of time before football associations began to take notice. By recommending his men himself, Aldridge not only gave them recognition but also built goodwill, strengthening their bond with him.
There was nothing hypocritical about it. In the recommendation letters, he had been meticulous. Each one contained detailed descriptions of the player's attributes, his adaptability in different roles, his tactical value, statistical data from the season, and even video highlights. Whether the federations took the letters seriously was out of his hands—he had done his duty, and that was enough.
Aldridge then chuckled. "Next season, maybe we can even challenge for a trophy. But that's too far ahead. For now, go and enjoy your holidays with your families. Oh—and Larsson, if you don't mind, the club will send your Best Player award to you. Unless, of course, you'd like to stay in London a few extra days and accompany me to pick it up."
Larsson only shook his head with a smile. The award, selected by the Professional Footballers' Association, was given at every level of English football. For other honours, Millwall would likely be overlooked.
The meeting ended in warmth. Players stood, some waving goodbye, others cracking jokes, some sharing firm hugs with their manager.
Afterwards, Aldridge turned to Jenson. "When are you leaving?"
This summer, Aldridge would once again be busy recruiting staff. He wanted every level of the club's coaching structure filled with men who understood and could implement his philosophy. Coaches with modern, attacking ideas were essential.
Jenson's mission was in Holland. He would return to Ajax, his old home, and lure a new group of coaches to Millwall.
"The day after tomorrow," Jenson replied. "Don't worry, the club's pre-season begins July 18. I'll make sure the new coaches are here by the first week of July."
"Good," Aldridge said. He smiled and shook his colleague's hand. "Have a great holiday."
After exchanging farewells with his staff, Aldridge left the conference room and walked alone towards his office.
The hotel was already quiet, most of the staff having left for vacation. His footsteps echoed along the empty corridor, and as he walked, his mind turned over the thoughts that never left him.
The importance of coaching was beyond dispute. Especially in England, where the footballing culture was dominated by a system of "test-oriented education"—a rigid, results-first mentality. It was a system that stifled creativity. England rarely produced players of truly unique talent. Even those who rose to prominence often peaked early, then faded into mediocrity.
A large part of the blame lay in the country's training models and coaching philosophy. Even after ten years of Premier League dominance in Europe, it was rare to see English players with distinctive technical traits. They were praised as "complete" players, but in truth, many lacked defining qualities. Their stories followed a familiar pattern—young prodigies hailed as geniuses, only to settle into the ordinary.
Aldridge had no great faith in English coaches. Instead, he leaned on Dutch methods, on coaches who encouraged players to express their talent and push their limits. Coaches were the keepers of tradition and culture, the guardians of a club's footballing genes. Their influence outstripped anything that could be bought in the transfer market.
Even if Aldridge had the money to sign footballing prodigies, if those players were later drilled into mediocrity by rigid, unimaginative coaches, the result would be nothing but disappointment. To him, that would be the greatest waste and the deepest pain of all.
Pushing open the office door, Aldridge stepped inside.
Across the desk sat two men: club CEO Adam and head of the medical department, Dr. Thompson.
Both men rose politely, but Aldridge waved his hand. "No need for formalities. We're all familiar faces here. I've asked you both in today because there's something we need to work on together."
Aldridge walked around to his chair, sat down firmly, and went straight to the point. "Dr. Thompson, the discipline of sports medicine has only begun to gain real attention in the UK in the early 1990s. Qualified medical talent in this field is still scarce. At present, perhaps only five clubs in the country employ doctors with proper professional licenses—and I don't think that is anywhere near enough."
Dr. Thompson, a well-groomed man in his thirties with the calm air of an academic, adjusted his glasses and leaned forward. "Sir, on what basis do you say that? Over the past season, none of our players have suffered serious injuries. Those who were injured received excellent treatment, and their recovery times were consistently better than expected."
Aldridge nodded, pausing for a moment. "Dr. Thompson, I'm no medical professional. But I've spent time studying this field. If I'm mistaken, please correct me."
Thompson inclined his head. He respected the young manager across from him. Aldridge's influence in the club was far greater than his age suggested. At many other English clubs, sports medicine doctors were still treated as second-class staff, often forced to double as kit men or equipment managers. This stemmed from a deeply rooted distrust of sports science, especially among old-fashioned coaches who neither understood nor valued medical explanations. At Millwall, however, Aldridge respected Thompson's expertise, and that respect had made his work more rewarding than anywhere else he had been.
Aldridge continued slowly.
"Doctors can often tell an athlete's sport from their injuries. If a man's spine aches with stiffness, he's likely a snooker player—years of leaning rigid over the table. A wrestler's ears swell like fungus from constant grappling. Lumbar disc herniation is common in volleyball players. Shoulder impingement plagues swimmers and divers. Stress fractures haunt long-distance runners. Early arthritis troubles shooters from the strain of posture and recoil. Cervical spondylitis wears down gymnasts. Tenosynovitis dogs tennis players… If someone showed signs of all these conditions together, he would almost certainly be a footballer. Correct?"
Thompson's eyes widened slightly. After a long silence, he nodded.
Indeed, footballers carried one of the highest risks of injury in all professional sport. The variety was staggering, and often unpredictable. Football itself had accelerated the development of sports medicine, forcing the wider world to learn about parts of the body most had never heard of: the meniscus, the metatarsal bones, the soleus muscle, cruciate ligaments. Fans had become familiar with an endless list of ailments—toe fractures, groin strains, thigh tears, abdominal spasms, calf muscle pulls, ligament ruptures, hip injuries, lateral spine strains. The names filled textbooks, encyclopedias, and medical journals.
Aldridge leaned forward. "So many injuries. The terminology alone is enough to make your head spin. My question is simple: can our current medical department truly handle them all? Can we guarantee my players will always receive the best treatment?"
Thompson's confident expression faded. He shook his head reluctantly.
Modern medicine had grown increasingly specialised. Each body part, each tissue, even nerves and ligaments had their own experts. Expecting a single doctor—or even a small team—to handle every possible football injury was fanciful.
Aldridge spread his hands. "Exactly. That's my point. We must expand the medical department. We must do everything possible to avoid misdiagnosis or mistreatment, and ensure my players remain healthy. For that reason, I plan to recruit fifteen more sports medicine doctors."
"Boss, the budget!" Adam objected at once, looking alarmed. To him, Aldridge sounded as if he wanted to build a hospital inside the club.
Aldridge turned to him calmly. "Adam, do you know what a star will be worth in the future?"
Adam hesitated, then shook his head.
"In England, £10 million will soon be no more than the fee for an ordinary player. True stars will be valued between £25 million and £50 million. So, I'm not here to debate the importance of a medical department. From a commercial point of view alone, if a single player's career is ruined by injury, we lose tens of millions. If several fall at once, our losses become astronomical. You may doubt those figures now, but keep those doubts to yourself. Time will prove me right."