When the summer transfer market was in full swing, Millwall in East London remained unusually quiet.
Millwall supporters felt a touch of gloom. In North London, Arsenal had just unveiled the Dutch star Dennis Bergkamp, followed by the capture of England international David Platt—clear signs of intent to rebuild their dynasty. In West London, Chelsea trumpeted the arrival of Ruud Gullit, the first European Footballer of the Year and World Footballer of the Year ever to join an English club. It was a landmark signing that dominated the headlines.
Elsewhere across the capital, the picture was mixed. Crystal Palace, who had gone up last season only to be relegated immediately, were back in the First Division. West Ham United accused Millwall of shamelessly poaching their players. Charlton and Queens Park Rangers, meanwhile, carried on in their usual understated fashion, always present but rarely commanding attention. Wimbledon's flamboyant duo of Klinsmann and Popescu could not mask the club's financial strain, still struggling to pay rent for Selhurst Park, the ground they shared under Crystal Palace's roof.
London football bustled with stories every day that summer, yet Millwall's silence left their fans bewildered. Looking north or west, they saw their rivals growing in stature, while at home there was nothing to cheer. The contrast gave rise to a bitter joke among supporters: others feast on grand banquets at the New Year, while Millwall cannot even afford a plate of dumplings.
Still, Millwall fans were long used to a lack of big-name arrivals. Their expectations had already adjusted. In a street survey conducted by The Sun, over eighty-five percent of Millwall fans said they would be satisfied if the club could simply avoid relegation in their debut Premier League campaign.
As the date for pre-season training drew near, Aldridge settled into a new residential complex just a kilometre from the club. He had personally purchased the development and chosen one of the central apartments as his home. The other fifty units he sold at discounted prices to die-hard Millwall fans.
To carry this out, Aldridge asked Brady to work with the "Lion's Roar" supporters' association and draw up a list of one hundred loyal fans interested in buying property. After thorough background checks conducted by the club, fifty were selected. Each received the chance to purchase at a thirty percent discount off the market price.
There was purpose behind this arrangement. The complex was not only for supporters but also to provide accommodation for Millwall's youth players. Every day a team bus would collect the youngsters from the estate and take them to the new Leo Training Base. The remaining apartments were partly allocated to staff members and immigrant families, such as David Villa's household, easing practical concerns about housing.
That July, the Spice Girls released their debut single and officially broke into the British music scene. Melanie Chisholm, with time on her hands, cheerfully offered to help Aldridge move into his new home.
The apartment was bright and spacious. After arranging the sofa in the living room, Aldridge sank into it for a rest, gazing at the rows of cardboard boxes stacked around him.
"Aldridge, can I read your diary?"
Melanie sat on the stairs leading to the second floor, resting a suitcase on her lap. She had picked up a notebook while unpacking and realised it was his diary. She asked the question almost casually.
"Go ahead. There are no secrets in it," Aldridge replied without lifting his head.
Tucking her hair behind her ear, Melanie flipped open a page and began to read.
"I stayed in Portugal for twenty-eight days, determined to find Cristiano Ronaldo, still a child running around in shorts. But I lost my way five times in Lisbon, and in the end I abandoned the search and headed north to Porto.
A familiar figure from history was there too: the English coach Bobby Robson, newly appointed at Porto. I had no interest in Robson himself, but the club held another figure who caught my attention.
Before Porto's press conference, I hired a make-up artist to disguise me as a man in his late twenties. Andrew then sent a forged fax to the club from London, claiming I was a reporter for The Times. Armed with a fake press pass around my neck, I walked into the press room unnoticed.
Robson, unable to speak Portuguese, looked like a puppet as his every word was relayed through a translator. And that was the first time I saw José Mourinho. Young, meticulous, and sharp. You could tell from his translations that he studied Robson's tone and even imitated it.
Determined to make my presence known, I raised my hand when questions were invited. When the officer nodded at me, I stood and asked loudly: 'Mr. Mourinho, when do you plan to coach a team of your own?'
I already knew the answer, of course, but I wanted to see what he would say.
Mourinho froze. Instead of relaying the question to Robson, he asked me to repeat it.
I did so, adding: 'You clearly don't want to remain just an interpreter—or even an assistant. You're ambitious. Being a head coach is what you really want.'
To my surprise, Mourinho's face flushed with anger. He refused to translate, and within moments I was escorted out of the building.
Fuming outside, I was still pacing when Mourinho suddenly stormed out after me. He grabbed my collar and demanded to know if I was trying to get him sacked.
I snapped back, and in the heat of the moment I pinched his thin cheek hard before shouting in his ear. Then I bolted. Mourinho was too stunned to react immediately, and by the time he chased after me I had already sprinted several streets ahead. Ten minutes later, certain he had given up, I shed my disguise and boarded a train for Spain. A good day's work, I thought.
"Ha ha ha ha…"
Melanie couldn't contain her laughter by the end, her voice ringing through the apartment. The image of Aldridge, still a young man, disguised as a reporter and causing a scene at Porto, was simply too ridiculous.
Aldridge himself chuckled as the memory returned, lying back on the sofa with a faint smile.
He did not expect Mourinho's reaction to be so exciting at the time. If it were not for him to run fast, maybe the two would wrestle in the street.
Suddenly, Aldridge felt a warm body collapse into his arms. Melanie pressed herself against him, her smile teasing.
"Why were you so naughty when you were a kid? Your brother told me you used to smash people's windows. How could you be so lawless?"
Aldridge looked genuinely wronged. That glass incident hadn't even been his fault.
"Hey," she asked, tilting her head, "why did you choose to live here?"
"What's wrong with here?"
"I thought you'd move into some mansion in West London, like your elder brother."
"There are plenty of reasons I chose this place," Aldridge replied calmly. "But the most important is that I can keep an eye on the youngsters in the team. It stops them from wasting nights in clubs or getting into trouble with prostitutes."
Melanie pushed herself up, her shirt collar falling loose. Aldridge's eyes drifted instinctively—her figure framed by a simple black bra.
"And who," Melanie murmured playfully, "is going to keep an eye on you?"
Aldridge slid an arm around her back and brushed her cheek with his hand. Smiling faintly, he said, "I wouldn't cheapen myself like that. Why bother? I'm practically living like a monk already."
Her eyes softened, glistening, before she bent down and kissed him passionately.
After that brief warmth, the two returned to unpacking, working steadily until night fell. Slowly, the apartment began to take shape as a home.
At dinner time, Aldridge's phone rang. Brady had called: their friends were gathering for a meal. Without bothering to change clothes, Aldridge took Melanie by the hand, and they set off in the BMW Arthur had given him.
Brady was already waiting at the restaurant. When he spotted Aldridge and Melanie together, he grinned and waved. At the table sat Brady, Fred, and Eva. The moment Aldridge arrived, he noticed Eva's face—pale, unsettled.
Brady leaned forward with a mischievous smile. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"
"Melanie Chisholm," Aldridge said.
Melanie reached out gracefully, shaking hands with the three. But as soon as Eva's turn came, she stood, clutching her handbag. Her voice was quiet, heavy. "Sorry. I'm not feeling well. I'll head back first."
As she turned to go, Aldridge rose and asked gently, "Is it serious? I can drive you to the hospital if you'd like."
Eva paused, her eyes fixed on him for a few seconds, before shaking her head with calm restraint. "No. It's fine. I'll just rest." Then she walked out.
Watching her leave, Aldridge sighed. He hadn't seen her in over two months. Once a bright girl immersed in her IT studies, she now seemed distant, weighed down by something unspoken.
Brady and Fred exchanged a quiet, bitter smile. Even Melanie, though meeting Eva for the first time, seemed to sense what lay beneath the surface. She simply squeezed Aldridge's hand a little tighter.
The dinner itself was lively enough. Over food and wine, Aldridge spoke with Brady about the role of supporter groups. He hoped the Lion's Roar fans could stand firmly behind the team—shaping the atmosphere in matches, backing the younger players with patience and encouragement, giving the club a foundation for long-term growth.
But just before the night drew to a close, Brady leaned in, his tone dropping. "Aldridge, you'd better be prepared for this season."
Aldridge frowned. "What do you mean?"
"We'll face West Ham and Chelsea in the league, home and away. That's at least four matches. I can't control everyone, and some of the Bushwacker lot won't just vanish. The real battles might not be on the pitch, but outside it. You need to be ready."
Aldridge nodded gravely. He understood. For Millwall, the Premier League challenge wouldn't be confined to football alone.
...
...
The Leo Youth Training Base was officially put into operation.
At the same time, the new youth coaching staff gathered for a meeting to establish guidelines for training incoming players. The medical department was also expanded, strengthening its capacity to keep pace with modern demands.
That summer, Babu spent a month in the United States studying advancements in physical conditioning. He returned with valuable expertise in American sports science—an area in which the U.S. was then leading the world. There, physical training was already a specialised field in its own right, supported by rapid development in equipment and sports medicine. He now aimed to introduce these methods at Millwall, ensuring that players not only trained harder but also more efficiently, with their workload aligned to healthy physical development.
Piece by piece, Aldridge built the club's foundations. Millwall, long dismissed as outdated and provincial, could no longer afford to lag behind. From the bottom up, every structure had to be modernised. Only once the framework was stable could he relax and focus entirely on football.
By mid-to-late July, players began to return from their holidays. On the official day of assembly, Aldridge appeared in club tracksuit alongside his staff at the training ground. The players were clustered in groups, laughing and sharing stories from their summers.
Aldridge walked into the middle of them and suddenly stopped, laying a hand on the shoulder of a stocky young man.
"Hold on—who are you?"
Robert Pirès burst out laughing. "Boss, that's David!"
"David? David Trezeguet? No chance. What—did his older brother show up instead? Don't mess with me. Look at you! With that belly, you look like you've been leading the line at a bakery, not for Millwall."
Aldridge gave the lad's stomach a playful slap. It jiggled, drawing howls from the squad.
The other players whistled and jeered in mock approval, some shouting for Trezeguet to do a lap just to prove he could still run.
"I told you he was an imposter!" Schneider joined in with a grin.
Trezeguet scratched his shaved head, looking sheepish. He dared not meet Aldridge's eyes, muttering instead, "Boss… it's really me."
Of course, Aldridge knew it was him. He only wanted to make a point. Turning back to the group, he said:
"Today is the first day of training. The task is simple: head to the Leo Youth Training Base for medicals. I don't care what you got up to on holiday—so long as you didn't break the law, that's your business. But hear this clearly: if your fitness levels aren't up to standard before the season starts, you'll sit on the bench. No exceptions. David, can you still run?"
"Absolutely, boss!"
Determined to prove it, Trezeguet took off at once, jogging around the pitch. Yet compared with his sharp figure of last season, his heavier frame made his movements look awkward and even comical.
Aldridge spent the morning greeting each returning player. Some came bearing small gift boxes—souvenirs from their hometowns or trinkets picked up while travelling. By the time the players jogged off for their laps, Aldridge had an entire bag filled with them. Smiling, he stood watching as they ran past, nodding with approval.
A handful of players had clearly put on weight over the summer, though the older, more disciplined figures—Southgate, Nedvěd, Larsson—had maintained themselves well. Gym addicts like Gattuso and Ballack had even added visible muscle.
Leaving Craig in charge of taking the squad to the youth base for their tests, Aldridge led his senior coaching staff back to the hotel for a meeting.
In the conference room, he laid a copy of the new Premier League fixture list on the table. The coaches studied it carefully.
Once everyone had read through, Aldridge opened the discussion exactly as he had in last year's pre-season: first addressing squad depth. Were there any positions still requiring reinforcement?
On this point, consensus was clear. With thirty first-team players available, Millwall had enough depth—provided they avoided a major injury crisis.
Aldridge then shared his assessment, ranking the league's strengths and weaknesses from his scouting reports.
"Next season, at least five clubs can fight for the title," he said firmly. "The defending champions Blackburn, Manchester United, Liverpool, Newcastle, and Arsenal. Behind them, Nottingham Forest—who finished third last season—and Tottenham have shown stability at the top. And every year, as we know, one or two surprises always emerge."
He paused, then shifted the focus closer to home.
"Because we're in London, our derbies carry extra weight. The order is clear: West Ham, Chelsea, Wimbledon, Tottenham, Arsenal, and Queens Park Rangers. These games will mean more than points—they will shape how Millwall is seen across the city."
Finally, his tone sharpened. He looked around the table, meeting each coach's eyes.
"So here's the real question. We're not here just to survive. We're not here to make up the numbers. Can Millwall, in our first Premier League season, challenge for the title—and win it?"
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. For a moment, the room was stunned into silence.
All eyes turned instinctively to the young man at the head of the table.
Aldridge sat straight, his face cold, eyes sharp, as though enduring some private torment. He had deliberately raised a dangerous subject.
Setting a team's seasonal objective was never a casual decision. It shaped the plan for the entire year.
A side without clear ambition would inevitably lack motivation—drifting from match to match, lowering expectations each time results faltered, and excusing failure by adjusting the target downward. Such teams never became great.
Last season, Aldridge had set Millwall's objective as building the team. Results were secondary. Even when they unexpectedly surged ahead in the First Division, he did not shift focus to winning cups. He understood that a season was a continuous narrative. To overreach greedily—fighting on too many fronts—could undo months of progress. Football history was full of examples: promising teams that collapsed under the weight of unrealistic expectations, failing everywhere after chasing too much at once.
The coaches lowered their heads, considering his words.
Premier League champions?
Could Millwall, newly promoted, attempt to create another myth like Nottingham Forest had two decades earlier?
That miracle remained one of the most extraordinary in English football. In 1977–78, Nottingham Forest, in their first year after promotion, stormed the First Division and ended Liverpool's hopes of a third consecutive title, finishing seven points clear at the top. To this day, they are the only side in modern English history to have won the league immediately after promotion.
Elsewhere in Europe, such feats were not unheard of. In France, clubs like Saint-Étienne, Bordeaux, and Monaco had each managed to win Ligue 1 within a year of promotion. And in Germany, the famous "Kaiserslautern miracle" would not happen until 1998, when Otto Rehhagel's team, freshly promoted, shocked the Bundesliga by taking the title.
Aldridge possessed the ambition to challenge the Premier League crown, but he knew how difficult it would be. Forest's triumph had not come from superior players. Their squad was strong, but not unrivalled. The true difference had been Brian Clough's tactical genius.
At a time when most English sides relied on long balls and aerial duels, Clough's Forest pioneered a fluent passing game, building patiently from the ground. It was not a revolution in world football, but in late 1970s England, it was a storm. That storm tore through the league, toppling even Bob Paisley's Liverpool dynasty.
Millwall, by contrast, had no such clear tactical advantage over the Premier League elite. Aldridge's methods were progressive, yes, but the gap to the established powers was too wide to rely on shock value alone.
Still, he had thrown the question on the table. If his staff could give him good reason, he was willing to embrace their collective madness.
It was Jenson who broke the silence first. He cleared his throat.
"Aldridge, we have to approach this with reason. Yes, we have thirty first-team players, but half of them are under twenty. They are talented, they are growing, but they can't be expected to carry a full Premier League season consistently. The league is too demanding. The giants you listed—United, Liverpool, Arsenal—they will not underestimate us. Facing us, they will treat it as a must-win. And even against mid-table sides, we'll face battles. To them, Millwall are rivals for survival. To beat us is to take a step toward safety."
Aldridge closed his eyes, thinking it over. Jenson was right.
Nottingham Forest had enjoyed another advantage: they had few derbies to drain them. Millwall, by contrast, stood in London's cauldron. With West Ham, Chelsea, Tottenham, Arsenal, Wimbledon, and QPR all in the same city, every other week would feel like a cup final. Over a 38-game season, at least a third of Millwall's matches would be derbies, with intensity as fierce off the pitch as on it. The risk of fatigue and injuries would multiply.
The temptation of chasing the title was strong. But reality could not be ignored. This team was too young, too fragile still, to carry the burden of that expectation.
Aldridge exhaled slowly. The dream of a title charge would have to wait.
But his voice hardened as he looked around the room.
"Even so," he said, "Millwall must win a championship. Without silverware, we cannot hold this squad together. If we finish empty-handed across all four competitions, I won't have the confidence to keep players from leaving."
That was the truth. To inspire loyalty, to give his youngsters belief in Millwall's project, he needed a trophy they could touch and remember. Only then could he feed their hunger for greater ambitions.