With Pirlo's transfer settled, Aldridge concluded his trip to Italy. He still had many targets in mind, but reality was often cruel. For players of the stature of Michael Owen or Steven Gerrard, Millwall simply held no attraction. They looked down on the club. Others, though, were within reach. Talents like Iván Helguera or Joan Capdevila, who came from outside the established "football families," were far more susceptible to sincere offers and the lure of opportunity.
It was the same with Fernando Torres. Andrew had already made initial contact with the boy in Madrid, but Torres was still a child, too young to consider leaving Atlético. Xavi Hernández was another example: a prodigy destined to remain rooted in Barcelona's system. For players clearly beyond reach, Aldridge did not waste energy. The world was vast; there was no need to cling stubbornly to the unattainable.
Yet his summer recruitment drive was far from finished. He still needed a true heavyweight, a striker who could blossom into a superstar within two or three years.
At present, Millwall's forward line looked strong on paper. Henrik Larsson was an undisputed starter, but Manchester United's interest hung over him like a storm cloud. Aldridge could not guarantee keeping him forever. David Trezeguet was maturing rapidly, already showing the instincts of a world-class poacher, yet Aldridge knew that France's golden generation would soon rise. By 1998, Thuram, Trezeguet, Vieira, and Pires would stand at the heart of Les Bleus. And then came the shadow of fate: in Aldridge's past life, Claude Makelele had been excluded from that World Cup squad. Would history repeat itself, or had the timeline already shifted with so many of them now under his command?
Beyond those stars, other pieces still left gaps. Ole Gunnar Solskjær brought reliability, the kind of striker who always answered when called upon, but Aldridge viewed him as the perfect rotation weapon rather than the lone spearhead of an empire. Jesper Grønkjær and Kevin Phillips had flashes of brilliance but lacked the consistency to break down elite defences on their own. Luca Toni, despite his height and presence, felt restricted within Millwall's tactical framework, his limitations too stark against the demands Aldridge placed on his system. And Ruud van Nistelrooy, the "king of the penalty box," remained a rough diamond. His predatory instincts were beyond doubt, but Aldridge knew it would take time before the Dutchman reached the lethal levels he had seen in his past life.
This was the paradox of Millwall's growth. On one hand, Aldridge commanded a squad bursting with talent. On the other, he could not escape the feeling that one summer morning, he might awaken to find several of his stars requesting transfers in unison. For that reason, he never stopped searching, never stopped networking, never stopped looking for the next young seedling who could anchor the team's future.
And so the final leg of his summer plan led him east, to Kiev.
Since the fall of the Soviet Union, journeys into Eastern Europe carried a faint air of unease for Western Europeans. The shadow of the KGB lingered, and rumours of agents still prowling in the background made foreigners wary. Aldridge, however, was undeterred. After landing in Ukraine, he and Andrew hailed a taxi straight to their destination: Dynamo Kiev.
Before his arrival, Millwall had already submitted a formal bid: £1 million for Dynamo's teenage forward, Andriy Shevchenko.
Shevchenko, who would turn nineteen that September, had made seventeen league appearances the previous season, scoring once. For Aldridge, this was a rare window of opportunity. The legendary Valeriy Lobanovskyi, the "alchemist" of Dynamo Kiev, had not yet returned for his third spell in charge. Each time he took over, he forged a new golden generation. Had he already been at the helm, Aldridge knew that prising Shevchenko away would have been impossible.
History would later prove Lobanovskyi's brilliance. In 1999, Dynamo Kiev stormed to the Champions League semi-finals, only falling narrowly to Bayern Munich, led by Oliver Kahn, Lothar Matthäus, and Stefan Effenberg. Had they triumphed, they might well have faced Manchester United in the final.
But in 1995, the road was still open. For only £1.8 million, Aldridge now stood on Dynamo's doorstep, ready to strike.
Around Shevchenko, the Kiev squad was rich with talent. Kakha Kaladze, destined for San Siro. Serhiy Rebrov, the local hero whose later English adventure would fall short of expectations. And others still anonymous, waiting for their moment.
Aldridge was not interested in spreading his net too wide. Because of the restrictions on non-EU players, he could not bring in more than one footballer of Shevchenko's background at a time. Just as he had done the previous summer with Pavel Nedvěd, he could only complete one such operation now. Faced with that choice, the answer was obvious: it had to be Shevchenko.
From his memories of the future, Aldridge knew the Ukrainian striker's career would be filled with brilliance and frustration in equal measure. Shevchenko would one day conquer Italy and even move to the Premier League, only to return to Milan in disappointment. For Aldridge, that decline had many causes—both personal and systemic.
Too often, he thought, injuries ruined great strikers. The small knocks accumulated over years of constant competition, the overuse of young bodies pushed too hard too soon, the incomplete treatments and rushed recoveries. All of it piled up until a player's physical edge dulled. Shevchenko would suffer it, just as Fernando Torres and Michael Owen would later. Early fame led to excessive strain; the second half of their careers paid the price.
And clubs bore their share of the blame. Too many lacked patience. Supporters and managers alike demanded instant impact. If a star failed to justify his price tag quickly, the criticism would drown him. Confidence eroded, a vicious circle formed, and the player's talent withered under the pressure.
Most of all, Aldridge remembered how systems could strangle strikers. At Chelsea, under Mourinho, the hierarchy was fixed: defence first, midfield second, attack third. In such a structure, even forwards of the highest calibre found themselves muted. How many seasons had it taken Didier Drogba to finally claim a Premier League Golden Boot? Even Thierry Henry, who dominated the scoring charts at Arsenal, would have struggled to maintain such numbers in that tactical cage.
Aldridge refused to fall into the same trap. A player's ability should never be judged solely by whether he fit a single tactical design. Patience was essential. Every new arrival deserved time to adapt, to find his place within the team's rhythm. He would never demand that a teenager shine instantly. Growth had to be allowed.
When he and Andrew arrived at Dynamo Kiev, they were ushered straight into a meeting room. After a round of handshakes with the club officials, the main figure appeared: a tall, lean young man with sharp features, accompanied by a translator. Even with a calm face, the flicker of excitement in Shevchenko's eyes was unmistakable.
The context was clear. Eastern European football had declined sharply since the collapse of the Soviet Union. Ambitious players no longer dreamed of staying at home. Their eyes were set firmly on the great stages of Europe: Serie A, the Bundesliga, La Liga, the Premier League. For Shevchenko, the dream was Italy. England was not in his heart.
Through the translator, the nineteen-year-old made his stance plain: he wanted to go to Italy, not England.
Aldridge offered a weary smile. He nodded to the translator and said firmly:
"Tell him this. Playing in England will give him far greater visibility than staying in Ukraine. The Premier League's reach grows every season with television broadcasts. If he proves himself here, Serie A clubs will notice him sooner. And if he remains in Britain for a few years, he can secure an EU passport—an enormous advantage should he later transfer to Italy."
The translator relayed his words at length. After a pause, Shevchenko responded with a question of his own: what guarantee did he have? Could Millwall remain in the Premier League long-term? And what plans did Aldridge, as both coach and chairman, hold for his future?
Here, Aldridge needed no tricks. Speaking with conviction, he outlined his vision. His words flowed for ten minutes, describing the structure of the club, the future of the team, and the role Shevchenko could play within it. Yet when the translator finally spoke, it was condensed into thirty seconds. Aldridge nearly lost his temper at the man, but the sight of Shevchenko listening intently, visibly shaken by the promise of such a future, calmed him.
The next concern was language. Shevchenko feared isolation, worried about adapting to a new culture.
Aldridge leaned forward. "If he leaves Ukraine, no matter where he goes—Italy, Germany, Spain, France—it will be the same. No one speaks Ukrainian. At Millwall, the club will provide a translator until he can manage independently. Tell him this: it is better to come to my team, where he will be shielded from the worst of the communication barrier, than to chase giants where he cannot even speak directly with his coach. Here, he will grow step by step, in an environment that supports him, not crushes him."
The words were carried across, slowly and carefully.
It took every ounce of Aldridge's energy, persuasion, and patience—what he later described as "the strength of nine oxen and two tigers"—to convince Shevchenko. The boy was cautious, reluctant to leave home, but his ambition eventually outweighed his fear. By the end of the meeting, Aldridge sensed the decision tilting in his favour.
The negotiations had taken hours, but Aldridge did not mind. For a teenager preparing to leave his homeland for England, hesitation was natural. Prudence was healthy.
Once the breakthrough came, Aldridge returned to London immediately, leaving Andrew to handle the final paperwork. The deal for Andriy Shevchenko—Millwall's boldest transfer yet—was now on the verge of completion.
But sealing the move was never going to be straightforward. To push the transfer through, Millwall needed cooperation from the Football Association, and that meant finding the right middleman.
Football had always carried its share of "black and gold" scandals, shady deals before and behind the curtain of player transfers. Aldridge did not want to plunge into that mire. He only needed the FA to open a discreet back door, to allow Shevchenko's registration to go through.
If, years later, questions or whispers about the deal surfaced, there would be little he could do. But he was unconcerned. Nedvěd had arrived under similar circumstances, without an EU passport. And when the Czech lit up English football, who dared say he was not a genius? If he had never been signed, it would have been England's loss.
Shevchenko's case was the same. As long as he succeeded on the pitch, the hearings and paperwork would fade into irrelevance. Once a player became a star, no one wasted time debating how he had first been brought in.
What mattered was making sure there were no loose ends in the financial process. On that front, Aldridge had complete faith in Andrew. The boy had always been obsessed with money since childhood. He treated deals like puzzles to be solved cleanly, without leaving a trace. Aldridge knew that nothing they did would be clumsy enough to leave evidence.
Yet Andrew soon sent a message back from London: the FA would require a sponsor at the transfer hearing.
This was where the situation grew complicated. Last year, Millwall were still in the First Division. No one paid much attention to who they signed. But this summer, the Lions stood in the Premier League spotlight. Any special treatment would be seen by nineteen other clubs. If Millwall slipped through a loophole, others would demand the same. The FA needed cover, someone whose name carried enough weight to silence the doubters.
Aldridge considered carefully. In the football world, only a handful of men commanded that kind of respect. Only one, in fact, came to mind—someone who might be both able and willing to help him carry this burden.
Sir Alex Ferguson.
...
In English football, only three clubs could truly be called traditional giants: Manchester United, Liverpool, and Arsenal.
Everton, Tottenham, and others had weight in the game, but they could not be classed among the elite. As for Chelsea, their later rise would not change how they were regarded in the 1990s—they were never spoken of as old powerhouses.
When Aldridge looked for someone with the authority to stand beside him, the options narrowed quickly. Arsenal were out of the question. George Graham had been dismissed, his successor Stewart Houston only held the job temporarily, and Bruce Rioch was yet to establish any influence. Liverpool were even less likely. Aldridge had no relationship with Roy Evans, and worse, his raid on Liverpool's youth ranks had soured ties beyond repair. Gerrard's leaks to the press made sure Millwall's name was cursed in Merseyside.
That left only one man. Manchester United's manager, Sir Alex Ferguson, who was about to enter his tenth year at Old Trafford.
When Aldridge phoned Ferguson's home and briefly explained the situation, the Scot agreed immediately. He even asked questions about Shevchenko, clearly intrigued.
Aldridge was aware of the risk. The transfer was not yet completed. Manchester United could easily swoop in and hijack the deal. But he doubted Ferguson would commit two million pounds to a player United had never scouted. Aldridge's squad already looked like a nursery of future stars; it was only natural to expect that not every talent would shine. Even great managers made misjudgments.
Ferguson never mentioned compensation. There was no talk of favours. Both men were too experienced to put such things into words. Instead, Aldridge quietly acknowledged that he now owed Ferguson a debt. One day, Manchester United might need a concession from Millwall, and when that time came, he would have to repay it.
With Ferguson standing as sponsor, Shevchenko's registration no longer troubled him. The transfer would go through.
At the start of July, however, another issue landed on Aldridge's desk. He was busy with the team's training camp when Andrew arranged a discreet meeting in the hotel. Aldridge closed the door behind him and sat down opposite his partner.
"Really? His family agreed?" he asked in a low voice. From a legal standpoint, what they were planning might be questionable. The consequences would not be severe, but a scandal could damage his reputation.
Andrew leaned back, stroking his chin. "Agreed? They were desperate to move out of the slums. I've been to Brazil, Aldridge. You don't know until you see it. I used to think the kids in East London had it hard. Compared to Rio's favelas, East London is paradise. There, children either leave the club with a contract or end up in the hands of drug dealers. Being woken by gunfire at midnight is considered normal."
Aldridge knew something of South America's instability, but secondhand knowledge was nothing compared to Andrew's eyewitness account. He said nothing, unbuttoned his jacket, and stood with his hands on his hips, deep in thought.
"How much will it cost?"
"To bring the family to Britain, about £1.05 million. And that's only the beginning. With visas, legal fees, housing, schooling, and work arrangements, over the next five years you'll spend at least £2 million. Honestly, Aldridge, I think it's risky. I'm not sure it's worth it."
A sharp breath escaped Aldridge. His mind raced. Two million pounds. For one family? Was it madness—or foresight?
The boy's name was Ronaldo de Assis Moreira. To the world, he would one day be known as Ronaldinho. Only fifteen years old, spotted by one of Andrew's scouts in Brazil.
Andrew had made tentative contact. The family lived on almost nothing. The mother and brother carried the burden, but his brother's earnings at Grêmio were meagre. Brazil's domestic football market could not compare with Europe's wealth. In the 1990s, stars left Brazil every year for Europe. A decade later, with television money flooding in, things would change, but not yet.
Ronaldinho's father had died young. He had a sister at home. The story was all too familiar. Half the great players of Brazil seemed to emerge from the same background of loss and poverty.
Aldridge wanted Ronaldinho, but he could not separate him from his family. To secure the boy, he would have to bring them all to London, even the brother who was already playing professionally.
"Can immigration handle it?"
Andrew tapped the table. "Not simple, but possible. Ronaldinho can come on a student visa if he's enrolled in Millwall's youth program. His mother and sister can enter as dependents, and his brother could qualify for a work permit if we tie him to a football contract. It will need good lawyers and a sponsor to smooth it through. Nothing illegal—but expensive, and it takes months."
Aldridge nodded slowly. "Then handle it. The money can't come from the club's accounts. I'll cover it privately. I'll get you another £2 million. But two things must be guaranteed: first, the family must settle without issues—school for the sister, work for the mother, stability for everyone. Second, Ronaldinho joins Millwall's youth system. I won't invest all this only for him to vanish into someone else's team."
He hesitated, then clenched his teeth. "No more wavering. If we miss him, we miss him forever. Even if it costs blood, he must come."
Andrew stood, eyeing him seriously. "Are you certain? This is two million pounds."
Who would not flinch at such a figure?
Aldridge remained silent, then gave a single firm nod.
That was enough. Andrew took out his phone and began arranging matters.
The plan was simple but costly. The family would not receive a fortune in cash. Instead, around a million pounds would be tied up in relocation—housing, legal retainers, and immigration guarantees. The rest would go into securing jobs, schooling, and savings in Britain. On paper, it was only respectability and stability. But to a family from the slums of Porto Alegre, it was a miracle. To leave the gunfire behind, to step into London—that was salvation.
The process would take six months at the fastest. Aldridge was in no rush. Ronaldinho was only fifteen. Time was on his side. If everything went to plan, Millwall would one day have a jewel in their youth ranks. If not—if Ronaldinho grew up and refused to sign professionally with Millwall—then Aldridge would simply accept it as fate.
But he was convinced: this gamble was worth the risk.
From the end of May through June, Aldridge barely rested. For a full month he rushed from city to city, completing Millwall's summer recruitment drive with the speed and precision of a thunderbolt.
When the transfer window officially opened, the announcements followed in quick succession. The Villa family moved from Spain to London, and their fourteen-year-old son David Villa entered Millwall's youth academy.
By mid-July, after the FA hearing concluded, Andriy Shevchenko's transfer was finally ratified. The long pursuit was over.
While other clubs still hovered nervously in the market, Aldridge struck first. He called an official press conference at The Den, unveiling his new arrivals. Four players—Joe Cole, Ashley Cole, Joan Capdevila, and David Villa—were placed directly into Millwall's youth ranks. Six more, Ivan Helguera, Danny Mills, Rio Ferdinand, Frank Lampard, Andrea Pirlo, and Shevchenko, were promoted straight into the first team.
That made ten new signings in total. The squad for the new season now stood at thirty men.
Some observers muttered that the roster was overcrowded. Aldridge thought differently. Players like Lampard, Ferdinand, and Shevchenko were all under twenty. If each gained twenty senior appearances across the season, that was more than enough to accelerate their growth. For youngsters, too many matches risked harm as much as it promised experience.
At The Den, the six new first-team recruits donned Millwall shirts for the first time, showing off their footwork before the cameras. Reporters' eyes were drawn immediately to Pirlo and Shevchenko—their composure on the ball stood out, their touch carrying a maturity beyond their years.
But Aldridge had no interest in turning the event into a circus. For him, it was a straightforward introduction. After the short demonstration, he sat at the press table, smiling calmly as questions were fired in his direction.
The skepticism was predictable. In London alone, Chelsea had unveiled Ruud Gullit, the Dutchman twice crowned World Player of the Year. Arsenal had shattered their transfer record to bring Dennis Bergkamp from Inter Milan. Against such headlines, Millwall's list of "unknowns" looked pale.
Why, the reporters demanded, had last season's biggest spenders chosen to fill their ranks with children? Who, outside of the football obsessives, had ever seen Pirlo or Shevchenko play? Why bring in Helguera from Spain, or Mills from relegated Norwich? Was this really the ambition of a Premier League side?
One question rang out above the rest: "Weak recruitment?"
Aldridge folded his arms across the desk and smiled.
What, he thought, did they truly believe they had in Gullit? A thirty-three-year-old, a glorious name of the past, to open a nursing home in midfield? And Bergkamp—yes, Aldridge had wanted him too. But Arsenal had smashed the fee barrier with more than £7 million to tempt him from Italy. Even if Millwall could have matched that price, would Bergkamp really have come? Would he have left Milan with the same eagerness he showed when Arsenal called?
His smile turned sly as he leaned into the microphone.
"Last summer," he said, "I remember The Times describing Millwall's transfer window as a disaster. This summer, you can write the same if you like. It doesn't matter. One year from now, let's meet again and discuss whether this summer was a success or a failure."
He pushed back his chair, still smiling, and left the room without another word.
The six new players, seated together in their fresh blue shirts, watched their manager's back as he walked out. They could not help but smile themselves.
Such a leader, they thought, carried something rare.
A personal authority.
A conviction that could make others believe.