Before departing for Spain, Aldridge completed one final transfer in London.
From relegated Norwich, he secured the signing of 19-year-old Danny Mills for £300,000 after hard bargaining, up from an initial £200,000 bid. Mills, who could play both right-back and centre-back, was brought in to strengthen the squad's depth. Aldridge knew he could not expect 18-year-olds like Lucas Neill and Gianluca Zambrotta to shoulder a full season. It was not a question of ability, but of protecting their long-term development. Overuse could ruin them. A deeper bench also encouraged healthy competition. Youngsters who tasted the first team too early needed reminders that their places were not guaranteed.
Soon after, Aldridge and Andrew flew to Spain. They split up upon arrival, each following separate scouting targets. Aldridge's path led him to Tuilla, a small town in the Langreo municipality of Asturias.
The further he walked from the busier streets, the more run-down the surroundings became. Dressed in a tailored suit, leather shoes, and dark sunglasses, Aldridge stood out sharply against the backdrop of worn buildings and tired faces. He followed the address on his note until he reached a modest single-storey house.
He removed his sunglasses, studying the cramped, weathered home, and sighed inwardly. So many future stars of football will one day earn millions, yet their beginnings are here—in families stretched to the limit, struggling for every coin.
It was this contrast that gave him his chance. Sometimes he wondered if it was cruel to exploit such desperation, but he could never bring himself to let the opportunity pass. If he could secure a mountain of gold for Millwall, why worry about others judging his methods? He wasn't a vulture; he was offering something transformative.
Straightening his clothes, Aldridge knocked on the door.
A middle-aged man opened it. His appearance was not unkempt, but it carried the wear of years of toil.
Aldridge smiled, handing over a business card as he introduced himself in Spanish. "Good afternoon. My name is Aldridge Hall. I'm from London. I am the owner and head coach of a football club. I'm here because I'm very interested in your son, and I hope to invite him to join my team."
The man froze, his hand trembling as he took the card. "David? But David is only fourteen… How much would you even pay him for a contract?"
In many parts of the world—Africa, South America, and poorer corners of Europe—football was more than sport. It was the single lifeline that could change the fate of entire families. The promise of wages and stability outweighed all else. Few parents dared bargain when opportunity finally knocked.
Aldridge was invited into the narrow living room, where he sat on a creaking sofa. Soon, a woman and a young boy appeared. The boy stood in front of his mother, her arms draped protectively over his shoulders as though she feared someone might steal him away.
Aldridge looked at the boy with quiet certainty. He had found the right one. Turning back to the man, he asked: "This is David Villa Sánchez, isn't it?"
The father nodded, urging his son forward. Villa shuffled awkwardly, clearly unsure how to greet the stranger, until he finally muttered a soft hello.
Aldridge gestured for him to sit. With a glance at his father for approval, Villa sat stiffly beside him.
From his briefcase, Aldridge produced a folder and handed it to father and son. "This is my club, Millwall. You may not have heard of us, but we will play in the Premier League next season. Inside, you'll find information on our stadium, training grounds, facilities, and results from last season."
Villa studied the pages carefully, his eyes widening with interest. His father, cautious but intrigued, frowned. "Sir, even if everything you say is true, how could we send our child so far away? To live in London, in a strange country?"
Aldridge nodded sympathetically. "At his age, David shouldn't be separated from his family. Millwall will provide a free apartment for you all. If you wish, we can also arrange employment for you in our community. East London already has many immigrant families; you will not be alone."
That promise struck home. Villa's father, a miner earning little in dangerous conditions, was visibly moved.
"David has exceptional talent," Aldridge continued. "I want him in our academy, where he will receive the best training and care. When he is ready, he will be part of Millwall's first team."
"Apprentice?" the father asked cautiously.
"I also know money matters," Aldridge said gently. "If David joins Millwall, he will earn £2,000 a week. That's about 400,000 pesetas—every single week. And when he reaches the first team, his contract will improve further."
The family stared, stunned. Even after tax, the monthly income would surpass one million pesetas—a fortune compared to their modest means. Combined with the free apartment, it was a chance to change their lives overnight.
Still dizzy from the offer, the father stammered: "We… we must think about it."
Aldridge smiled. He did not press. From his briefcase, he drew out an envelope and placed it carefully on the table. "Of course. Take your time. If you decide, call me any time. Or better yet, come to London yourselves, and see what awaits him."
After Aldridge left, young Villa opened the envelope on the table. Inside lay a neat stack of crisp banknotes — two hundred thousand pesetas in cash — along with three round-trip tickets from Spain to London.
For the family, it was more than paper—it was the visible key to another life.
On the road out of town, Aldridge's phone rang. Andrew's voice came down the line.
"Both players are done. Helguera's uncle handled the discussions for him. Terms agreed. Same for Capdevila."
"Good," Aldridge replied. "Wrap things up there. Next stop: Italy."
Neither Iván Helguera 20, nor 17-year-old Joan Capdevila were tied down with significant professional contracts. Both were secured without transfer fees. Helguera was still a little-known name in Albacete's system, years away from becoming a cornerstone of Real Madrid's first Galácticos era. Capdevila, still a wiry teenager in Catalonia, would one day start every match at left-back during Spain's golden age, winning Euro 2008 and the 2010 World Cup.
Two days later, the Hall brothers arrived in Rome.
In a quiet café in the capital, a man in his thirties sat with a newspaper folded in one hand, a small cup of coffee in the other. He read the La Gazzetta dello Sport unhurriedly, with the calm air of someone used to routine.
Aldridge and Andrew stepped inside, scanning the room until Aldridge spotted him: a stocky figure in a simple T-shirt, seated near the back. Walking over with composure, Aldridge greeted him in Italian.
"Alberto De Rossi. Mr. Aldridge Hall, Mr. Andrew Hall—pleasure to meet you."
The man folded his paper, stood, and shook each of their hands firmly before gesturing to the far corner. "Daniele."
A boy of 13, the mirror image of his father, closed a football magazine and joined them at the table.
Aldridge studied the boy briefly before turning back to Alberto with deliberate gravity. "Mr. De Rossi, I know well your loyalty to Roma. I also know that you are committed to guiding your son towards a future in that club's colors. Before I say anything further, let me acknowledge two truths: first, Daniele's talent is unquestionable. Second, staying in Rome would naturally serve both his growth and the club you love."
Alberto De Rossi, still a registered player at Roma despite being close to retirement, listened quietly before answering with blunt honesty. "Yes. And that is why I don't believe this meeting will bring satisfaction to either side. I am skeptical of English football. If I sent my son to Millwall, it could ruin him."
The dismissal was curt, spoken with the casual confidence of a man steeped in Italian football's pride. He never mentioned Serie A outright, but the disdain in his tone toward football outside Italy was clear.
Aldridge paused, considering his words, then replied evenly. "At Millwall, I already have four young players from Italy."
Alberto chuckled, lifting his newspaper again. "All of Italy knows. You've even recommended them for the youth national teams." He shook his head, amused. "You've made quite the name for yourself."
He flicked the paper open, deliberately turning it to face Aldridge. The page title read: Where is Millwall?
The bold letters reflected in Aldridge's eyes.
...
...
The summer of 1995 carried with it an uneasy air. Even in the Football Association's corridors, the atmosphere felt unsettled. When the Italian FA received Aldridge's recommendation letter, they not only dismissed it with sneers but even leaked it in full to the press. Soon, Millwall's request became the subject of mockery across Italy, printed in black and white for all to laugh at.
Aldridge read the report in La Gazzetta dello Sport. Column after column of Italian critics derided him, mocking the notion that an unknown English club could presume to tell Italy who deserved a place in their youth teams.
In truth, national youth squads almost always drew from domestic academies. The coaches' scouting networks were limited; they naturally picked from the players who stood out in local youth leagues. That was the norm. In that sense, Italy's dismissal was predictable.
But the criticism went further. Aldridge was labelled "blind to football," accused of arrogance. Italian commentators claimed he had never even seen their football properly, and that by sending a few Italian youngsters to England, he now imagined himself capable of judging national team quality. To them, it was laughable.
Aldridge set the paper down without a flicker of change in his expression. Then he looked across the table at Alberto De Rossi.
"Mr. De Rossi," he said evenly, "perhaps you've never watched Millwall play. Few in Italy have. You believe I exaggerate, that I overpraise the talent in my squad. I don't mind. Italy is the strongest league in the world right now—I won't deny it. But that doesn't mean you'll still rule Europe ten years from now. Forgive my bluntness, but the players in my team include not just the future core of Italy's national side. They will also become future European champions—world champions.
"I understand we won't agree today, but my sincerity will not waver. Millwall's door will always be open to Daniele. And let me end with this: if he stays in Rome, he will be a loyal club man, a star of one city. But if he comes to Millwall, then by the time he retires, he will have lifted more trophies than he can count. Because that is what I am building, and I will not stop until I achieve it. Goodbye."
He rose with Andrew, leaving behind an Alberto De Rossi who suddenly sat more solemnly, gazing thoughtfully at his young son.
Outside, Andrew scratched his head. "So… how did it go? It felt like the whole thing collapsed." He hadn't understood a word of the Italian exchange.
Aldridge's reply was calm. "There was never really room for negotiation. But it doesn't matter. Daniele is only thirteen. I'm certain that by the time he's eighteen, Millwall will be a more attractive place than Rome."
Andrew nodded. "So now—Brescia?"
"Exactly."
Millwall had already submitted an offer: £1 million for 16-year-old Andrea Pirlo. Though Pirlo had made only a single first-team appearance at the end of the previous season, Aldridge saw what others overlooked. Italian giants were still unaware.
Negotiations pushed the final fee to £1.5 million, and now Aldridge wanted to sit down with the player himself. Money alone would not sway Pirlo. Coming from a wealthy merchant family, he was no desperate prospect who could be bought with a generous wage.
Despite already boasting several midfielders—Nedvěd, Gattuso, Makelele—Aldridge knew he still lacked the key piece of his tactical vision: a true orchestrator.
Nedvěd could drive forward with power and break lines, but he was also a winger at heart. What Aldridge craved was a conductor—someone to dictate rhythm, to provide both the incisive passing to split defences and the calm control to steady possession. Without that balance, Millwall's attack could not function at its highest level.
In Brescia, he met the boy. Sixteen years old, Pirlo looked dazed, still struggling to understand how he had been sold so quickly. For Brescia, £1.5 million was a fortune.
But Pirlo, accustomed to family wealth and social ease, showed neither nerves nor arrogance. He sat across from Aldridge and Andrew with quiet composure.
"Andrea—may I call you that?" Aldridge asked gently. "Tell me, have you heard of Millwall?"
Pirlo shook his head, then added honestly, "I've read a little in the papers recently. I know you are a club from London. But not… Premier League?"
Aldridge smiled. "That was true, but not anymore. We won the First Division last season. In two months, Millwall will be in the Premier League. What I want, first of all, is for you to understand who we are and what we're building."
In football, age meant little. Authority came from knowledge and vision. Aldridge spoke to Pirlo as an equal.
He handed him a file. "Here is the squad list, player profiles, last season's data. I am both the club's owner and its head coach. That means Millwall is stable—there is no fear of management turmoil, no constant sacking of coaches. My plans for long-term development won't be derailed.
"Second, Millwall is ambitious. We won't settle for mere survival in the Premier League. I intend to build the best team in England. And once England is conquered, Europe. Our aim is to reign long-term, just as Real Madrid did with five straight European Cups, just as Liverpool did with four titles in seven years. I want Millwall to rise faster than any club in history and become the undisputed king of Europe.
"Yes, we have no heritage, no past glory. For a hundred years, our history is blank. But that is good news for me. It means we can write our own era—one that belongs entirely to us. Andrea, I want you to be part of it."
The passion of the speech struck Pirlo. Italian football was methodical, serious, rarely so fiery. Aldridge's words left an impression he could not shake.
Silently, he opened the file. He noticed the Italian names immediately—Luca Toni, Gattuso, Materazzi, Zambrotta—all of them already regulars, all with detailed match reports, ratings, and notes on their development.
Despite his wealthy background, Pirlo was a rebel at heart. His family had never wanted him to choose football as a career. The thought of going abroad did not repel him—it intrigued him.
Aldridge leaned forward. "Andrea, tell me—what role do you see for yourself on the pitch? What do you expect from your future position?"
Pirlo frowned, uncertain. "At Brescia, my coaches say I could be the next Baggio."
Aldridge nodded. Baggio's qualities had evolved over time. Before 1995, he was explosive, elusive, devastating with his dribbling and flair. After 1995, as injuries slowed him, his vision and intelligence grew sharper—he became more of a creator.
Aldridge drew a simple pitch diagram in his notebook, circling the area behind the striker. "Here? This is where you play?"
Pirlo nodded.
"Have you faced any difficulties?"
Pirlo hesitated, then admitted quietly, "The coaches tell me I can be like Baggio… but I can't dribble like him. The closer I get to the box, the more I feel lost. I spend more time trying to shake off defenders than creating."
Aldridge smiled gently. "Andrea, you can never be the second Baggio. It's impossible. Your own traits make that path unreachable. His pace, his dribbling—they aren't yours. And that's fine."
Pirlo lowered his eyes, discouraged. He knew it deep down. He didn't have Baggio's speed, nor that magical ball control.
"But," Aldridge continued firmly, "you can be the first Pirlo. You are not a copy. You are Andrea Pirlo. Stay at Brescia, and they'll try to turn you into something you're not. But with me, I will give you the stage to maximise what you do best, and I will never force you to do what you cannot."
He spoke with conviction.
His players trusted him because he never demanded the impossible. He didn't expect Jaap Stam to suddenly play delicate passes from the back, nor did he ask Makelele to score goals from midfield. He never scolded Schneider for not shooting from distance, nor forced him into physical duels he would lose.
For Aldridge, the coach's responsibility was to shape the team to the players' strengths, not to force players into roles beyond their capabilities. If a coach demanded the impossible, the failure was not the player's, but the coach's.