August 18, 1995
Just after noon, the western side of Manchester was choked with traffic. Crowds surged through the streets, flowing steadily in one direction. From above, the lines of people all converged toward a single landmark: the modern colossus of English football.
Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams.
A bus bearing a blue lion insignia rolled slowly along the packed road, heading straight for the stadium. It was Millwall's team coach.
At the start of the new season, Aldridge had signed a deal with a car rental company. For every away trip outside London, Millwall would travel in a coach emblazoned with the club crest, loudly announcing their arrival wherever they went. The publicity was deliberate—vital for raising Millwall's profile—and the rental company, eager for exposure, was more than happy to provide. In cities like Manchester, such deals also helped them connect with local fan groups. Both sides benefited: Millwall gained recognition, the company gained visibility.
After more than three weeks of gruelling summer training, Aldridge's squad was ready for the campaign. The holidays had faded from memory; players were back in rhythm. In preparation, Millwall had played five warm-up matches against domestic opposition—three against clubs relegated from the Premier League the year before, and two against promotion hopefuls who had fallen short. All were away games. The results had been disappointing: four draws and a defeat.
The press seized on it. Across pre-season previews, journalists painted a bleak picture. A newly promoted Millwall, stumbling through friendlies, looked destined for a relegation fight. If they could not adapt quickly to the Premier League's pace, many predicted they would be cut adrift before Christmas.
Aldridge, however, was unmoved. He had not asked his team to chase victories in warm-ups. Their purpose was conditioning, not glory. In each match he rotated heavily: one full lineup in the first half, another in the second. Winning was never the goal—fitness and familiarity were.
Now, as the team bus drew close to Old Trafford, Aldridge's gaze joined the rest of the squad's at the window. Rising above the rooftops, the vast bowl of Manchester United's home gleamed under the midday light.
Crowds swirled around the stands. Red shirts everywhere—families, groups of friends, men clutching pints, children waving scarves. Some posed for photos, others laughed and joked as they ate and drank. There was no anxiety, no tension. These supporters radiated confidence, as if today's match was a routine celebration. Their pride in Manchester United was absolute; their contempt for visiting teams, instinctive.
Inside the bus, even the seasoned professionals were moved. Pavel Nedvěd leaned forward, eyes fixed on the stadium. Gareth Southgate's expression carried a quiet awe. More than one player muttered the same words under their breath.
"Old Trafford…"
The Theatre of Dreams. A fortress of legends.
Aldridge withdrew his gaze. To deny envy would be dishonest. Clubs across the world coveted what Manchester United had: prestige, history, glamour. Pretending otherwise was pointless. Millwall's own ground could not yet compare.
But one day, he told himself, it will. That thought was not bitterness. It was motivation. For him, and for his team.
Under the guidance of United's matchday officials, the Millwall staff disembarked and made their way into the visiting locker room. There was still time before kick-off. The players changed into training gear and went out for their warm-up. Aldridge strolled through the corridors, taking in the surroundings with quiet reflection.
When the warm-up ended and the team returned, the door to the dressing room closed against the roar outside. The noise seeped through regardless—a relentless wave of chants, cheers, and the rumble of the Old Trafford song. It was not the anthem itself that impressed, but the sheer force of thousands of voices united.
The room fell silent. Aldridge stepped forward to the tactical board. He rarely used it before a match, only at half-time if adjustments were needed. But today was different.
The starting eleven sat waiting in full kit. The substitutes, in their jackets, lined the benches. All eyes fixed on their manager.
"Where are we?" Aldridge asked, his chin raised slightly.
The players exchanged glances. Henrik Larsson gave the obvious answer."Old Trafford."
"Yes." Aldridge's voice was calm, but the weight behind it pressed into every word. "Old Trafford. Today we face the most watched team in England: Manchester United. They may not yet have more trophies than Liverpool, but here, in this country, they are treated like royalty. From the newspapers to the royal family itself, Manchester United are the darlings of England. Watch their players when they walk out—they carry themselves with pride, with dignity, with an arrogance born from history. And here, in this place, they are at their most dangerous."
He paused, his eyes burning.
"This is my first Premier League match as a manager. It is your first as Premier League players. Tell me—are we here just to visit? Are we the background in Manchester United's theatre? Are we to be dismissed, pitied, looked down upon?"
The rage in his voice was not wild shouting. It was controlled, measured, but it cut deep.
"NO!" the players roared, fists clenched.
Aldridge nodded firmly. "Remember who our opponent is. Remember where we stand. And remember this: today can be our day of fame. Tell these arrogant Red Devils that we love Old Trafford—because we will win here. This is your moment. My moment. The day we step forward together. Go, and show no mercy! Crush Manchester United beneath your boots! Millwall Lions—run!"
He flung his hand toward the door. The squad surged to their feet, energy coursing through them like fire.
Behind them, the staff exchanged knowing smiles. They had heard Aldridge like this before, yet each time the conviction struck anew, stirring the blood.
Old Trafford itself had evolved over nearly a century, reshaped again and again. Under Sir Alex Ferguson, the stadium's peculiar features had become weapons. The players' tunnel now emerged near the corner flag, forcing both sides—home and away—to walk the full stretch of the pitch before and after the match. It was no accident. Every step meant enduring the jeers and pressure of tens of thousands of United supporters. Even referees felt the weight.
Millwall's substitutes and staff headed out first. Then the starting eleven. Aldridge followed at the rear.
The two line-ups stood waiting in the tunnel. Millwall's young squad cast discreet glances at their opponents. Just as Aldridge had said, United's players stood with heads high, chests out, exuding a quiet certainty. Their expressions did not show nerves but entitlement, as if victory here was never in doubt.
This was the Red Devils' temperament—cultivated, not innate, but instilled so deeply that it became second nature. A mark of Manchester United, carried for life.
Sir Alex Ferguson's entrance was fashionably late. The two managers crossed paths in the tunnel, bypassing the lines of players before stepping out together toward the pitch.
Ferguson approached Aldridge with his trademark half-smile, the one that mixed warmth with a subtle edge. They walked side by side along the touchline.
"Your Millwall lads look fired up today," Ferguson remarked, glancing across at the blue-clad visitors.
Aldridge chuckled lightly. "They have to be. A newly promoted side with no strength and no spirit would be back in the First Division before they'd even unpacked their bags."
Ferguson laughed at the reply. The supporters closest to the dugouts had already spotted their manager and began chanting his name. Yet even as he acknowledged them with a nod, Ferguson turned back to Aldridge.
"I think Millwall can finish top ten this season," he said with surprising generosity. "You should have no trouble staying up."
Aldridge smiled faintly. "Let's hope you're right."
"A drink after the match?" Ferguson offered casually.
"That depends," Aldridge said, keeping his tone light. "If United show us no mercy, I'll be paying with defeat—and I can't promise the wine will be worth it."
"Hahaha!" Ferguson's laugh carried over the noise of the crowd. "Aldridge, has anyone told you you're a little fox?"
Aldridge raised his brow, smirking without answering. He knew the remark was half compliment, half warning.
Ferguson gave his shoulder a friendly pat, then turned toward the home dugout. Raising both arms, he applauded the fans, drinking in their adoration as he ascended into the peculiar coach's seat at Old Trafford. Unlike most grounds, the benches here were built into the stands themselves, not placed beside the touchline. It gave the home manager a throne-like vantage point.
Aldridge chose differently. He ignored the visitors' bench and remained on the touchline, hands slipped into his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the pitch. From there, he could feel the atmosphere pressing in from three sides of the stadium: south, west, and north—all a surging ocean of red.
The away fans had been placed on the east side, opposite the Stretford End. Safety demanded it; the most passionate supporters of both clubs were kept apart, as far as possible. Still, Millwall's contingent had made themselves seen and heard. Over a thousand had travelled north, their dark blue shirts bunched together to form a bold image against the sea of red. From a distance, the pattern resembled a lion—the very emblem of Millwall. It was small compared to the home crowd, but it carried weight. It was defiance.
In that section, two young women had found their seats near the pitch. Melanie, binoculars in hand, was focused entirely on Aldridge. She caught sight of him standing motionless on the sideline, calm and composed, hands tucked neatly in his pockets.
"So cool," she muttered with a teasing curl of her lips.
Beside her, Victoria shifted in her seat, distracted and restless. Football did not hold her attention. Only when Melanie leaned in to speak about her encounters with Aldridge did she perk up, half-listening with mild interest.
...
...
Old Trafford's South Stand housed the broadcast booths. It was the section with the most executive boxes, and directly beneath them, the gantry where commentators from television and radio described the action to the nation.
In the Sky Sports room sat Martin Tyler and Andy Gray. Though their reputations would grow even larger in the years ahead, even now they were already recognised as one of the finest commentary pairings in the game. Their professionalism and chemistry had made them fan favourites across the country.
Yet today, neither man looked particularly pleased.
As part of Sky's new broadcast plan, one club had been given unprecedented exposure: Millwall. Alongside giants like Manchester United, Liverpool, and Arsenal, the newly promoted Lions had been guaranteed live coverage throughout the season—and not just any coverage. Every match would be called by Sky's top team: Martin Tyler and Andy Gray.
The decision had not been theirs. It came from above, driven by Millwall's investor Barnett, who had leaned on his stake in Sky to demand premium treatment for his club. Rupert Murdoch had argued, but Barnett, an Englishman on an English board, had played his hand ruthlessly. In the end, Sky caved. Millwall would receive top billing, top commentators, and therefore top exposure.
For Aldridge, it was a gift. Broadcast revenue was vital, but the real prize was national visibility. Television built reputations faster than any other medium, and he knew his team's style of football would win admiration once people saw it.
As the two lineups emerged onto the pitch, the broadcast began.
"Hello everyone, and welcome to Old Trafford," Martin Tyler's familiar, steady voice filled living rooms across the country. "It's the opening day of the new Premier League season, and what a fixture to begin with: Manchester United against newly promoted Millwall. Alongside me, as always, is Andy Gray. Good afternoon, Andy."
"Good afternoon, Martin. What a game we've got here. United, who missed out on the title to Blackburn Rovers on the very last day last season, and Millwall—well, they were a sensation in the First Division. No one expected them to storm through the league like that, but here they are, and now they've got to show they can do it at this level."
Tyler continued smoothly, setting the stage. "Sir Alex Ferguson has refreshed his side over the summer. A younger look to Manchester United. Some say it's a gamble, Andy."
Gray seized on it immediately. "Aye, we've all heard Alan Hansen's famous words—'you can't win anything with kids.' And it's true, there are plenty of youngsters here at Old Trafford. But let's not forget—Millwall's starting eleven today is even younger than United's. Hansen even had a dig at them, saying he hoped Millwall's kids wouldn't be scared of playing 'adult football.' Well, we'll find out soon enough. What we do know is that both these sides are full of energy, and both managers are building for the future. It should be fascinating."
"Let's take you through the teams," Tyler said, as the camera panned across the lineups. "Manchester United, in their famous red shirts and white shorts, line up with Peter Schmeichel in goal. Gary Neville is at right-back, with Steve Bruce and Gary Pallister the centre-halves, Denis Irwin on the left. In midfield, David Beckham starts wide on the right, Ryan Giggs on the left, with Roy Keane and Nicky Butt patrolling the middle. And up front, Andy Cole is partnered by Brian McClair, given the nod today with Eric Cantona suspended and Mark Hughes having left for Chelsea in the summer. It's the tried and trusted 4-4-2 for Sir Alex Ferguson."
Gray added the bite. "The worry here is McClair. He's been struggling for goals—only five last season from over forty games. Compare that to three years ago when he was scoring twenty-plus. Cole needs a reliable partner, and right now, that's the question mark hanging over United."
"Now to the visitors," Tyler went on, a faint note of intrigue in his voice. "Millwall, in their traditional dark blue, with American international Kasey Keller in goal. A back four of Lilian Thuram at right-back, Jaap Stam alongside Gareth Southgate in the middle, and Lucas Neill at left-back. Across midfield: Bernd Schneider on the right, Claude Makélélé and Pavel Nedvěd in the centre, Robert Pirès on the left. And up front, the strike partnership that terrorised the First Division last season—Henrik Larsson and David Trezeguet. Between them, sixty-six goals in all competitions last year."
Gray's tone rose with excitement. "That's the one to watch, Martin. Larsson and Trezeguet. Two young lads, but they linked brilliantly in the First Division. The big question: can they do it against Premier League defences? If they can, then Millwall are going to cause problems."
"Here we go then," Tyler concluded, as the players shook hands at the centre circle. "The first round of the Premier League season, Manchester United against Millwall. Our referee today is Paul Durkin, one of the most respected officials in the game. It'll be Millwall to get us underway, attacking from left to right on your screens."
Players from both sides moved into position, ready for kick-off.
On the touchline, Aldridge stood firm, hands in his pockets, his eyes locked on the centre circle. Under his breath he muttered, almost to himself:
"Come on, boys."
Though only three months past his nineteenth birthday, Aldridge carried the weight of two lifetimes. With all he had lived—before and after being thrown back into the past—he looked at the Millwall squad not as peers but as lads entrusted to him.
The referee in charge was Paul Durkin, a respected figure who had been officiating in English football since 1974. His reputation for authority and fairness was well established, and today he held the whistle at Old Trafford.
With a sharp blast, Durkin set the game in motion. The clash between Manchester United and Millwall—the opening act of the 1995/96 Premier League season—had begun.
...
From the kick-off, Millwall moved with confidence.
David Trezeguet cushioned the ball under his boots and nudged it back. Henrik Larsson immediately laid it off again, and both strikers sprinted forward, dragging Manchester United's back line with them. The ball found Pavel Nedvěd in midfield, but the press came quickly—Andy Cole and Brian McClair snapping at his heels.
Nedvěd, calm under pressure, rolled the ball back to Claude Makélélé. The Frenchman took one touch, then with a clipped pass fed it forward again, bypassing the press with ease. Nedvěd spun away, but Roy Keane was already closing in, forcing him to angle a quick ball out to the right.
Bernd Schneider pulled wide to receive. Ryan Giggs was slow to get tight, and Schneider took full advantage, bringing the ball under control and stepping forward into space.
Denis Irwin crouched low, body ready to block the touchline run, expecting a dribble. But Schneider had other ideas. With barely two strides he shaped his body and whipped a diagonal delivery into the area.
It was the kind of early cross that catches defenders cold.
Larsson darted toward the near side, tugging Gary Pallister with him. The ball arced beyond them, sailing toward the far post.
And there was Trezeguet. The understanding between the two forwards was instant, instinctive. While Larsson dragged the defence, Trezeguet ghosted in behind. Steve Bruce, thirty-five and slower to react these days, had stood flat-footed. By the time he realised, Trezeguet was already thundering past him.
The French striker launched himself, leaping high above the turf.
Boom!
His shaved head met it cleanly, eyes open, expression fierce, a predator loosed from its cage.
This was Old Trafford—the Theatre of Dreams. But Trezeguet had no intention of playing a supporting role. In his heart, the roar was deafening: What of Manchester United? I am David Trezeguet, and I will be the best striker in the world. Remember my name.
The header flew like a strike off the boot—direct, brutal, unstoppable. Schmeichel reacted too late. The ball flashed above him, struck the net, and spun back to the turf, even brushing the keeper's head as he stumbled across the line.
Trezeguet crashed to the grass, rolling from the force of his leap. He stared at the goal, saw the ball resting inside, and scrambled to his feet. The first attempt failed—he slipped in his excitement—but then he rose again, roaring, and charged toward the dugout, fists pumping.
The young Frenchman bellowed to the cameras, to the stands, to the world:"Look at me—I am the protagonist of the Theatre of Dreams!"