The Theatre of Dreams was stunned into silence.
Old Trafford, usually alive with the roar of the Red Devils, suddenly seemed lifeless. Manchester United fans stood frozen, many still in the aisles looking for their seats, staring blankly at the pitch as if they had mis-seen what had just happened.
Even Millwall's travelling supporters—just a few thousand tucked into the East Stand—were momentarily stunned. They blinked in disbelief, gripping scarves and flags mid-air.
Had we scored?So fast?Was it real, or just a dream?
The shock lasted only seconds.
In the commentary booth, Andy Gray and Martin Tyler had been about to pause for a sip of water after their introductions, never imagining the game would explode so quickly. The goal snapped them out of their calm rhythm, and both men burst back into their microphones.
Gray's voice was the first, urgent and breathless:
"Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable! Millwall score with their very first attack! Let's look again at the whole process—Nedvěd takes it centrally, then Schneider makes the run from the right. No need to dribble, no need to beat a man—Irwin doesn't step out, Bruce is sliding across to help cover—but Schneider just whips it early into the penalty area! Larsson's clever run drags Pallister away, and suddenly there's space everywhere in United's defence! Ohhh, Steve Bruce—he's been a magnificent captain, but he's old now, and too slow to turn! The ball's already in flight before he even realises. And there's Trezeguet, powering in with the diving header! Schmeichel—no chance from that range, the ball's past him before he can move. Millwall! Millwall, at Old Trafford! Who could believe this?"
Martin Tyler, more measured but no less astonished, added gravely:
"The official statistics aren't confirmed yet, but the replay shows it clearly: that goal came inside seven to eight seconds. That will go down as the fastest goal in Premier League history. David Trezeguet, just nineteen years of age, has announced himself on English football's biggest stage. Andy, Alan Hansen said Millwall's youngsters might be frightened by 'adult football.' But this is the opposite. They've shown no fear at all."
Gray almost laughed in his excitement. "Exactly, Martin. And let's be clear: this was no accident. Look at the movement, the timing—this was an attack rehearsed, deliberate. Fans of United will tell themselves it was a fluke, but it wasn't. This was Millwall's strength and their courage, pure and simple."
Down on the pitch, Trezeguet sprinted straight toward the visiting dugout, face blazing with joy. His teammates poured after him, arms raised, shouting at the top of their lungs.
Aldridge waved his arms wildly, nearly losing control of himself in his excitement, before forcing it back down. When Trezeguet leapt at him, Aldridge caught the striker in a rough embrace, stumbling backwards with the force. He would have gone down if not for Jenson and Babu, who braced him from behind.
Then the whole team arrived. Larsson, Nedvěd, Schneider, Pirès, Thuram—even Keller sprinted half the length of the pitch—all hurled themselves into the celebration, screaming, roaring, fists pumping.
This wasn't just a goal. It was Millwall's very first Premier League goal. And it had come in front of the Stretford End, against Manchester United, in only eight seconds.
Whether or not the record would stand forever did not matter. This moment was already carved into the memory of every Millwall supporter.
When the huddle finally broke apart, Aldridge's expression sharpened again. His voice cut through the noise as he called to his players:
"Now that we're ahead—what do we do? Remember what I said before the game!"
Trezeguet, Nedvěd, Larsson, Schneider and others shouted back in unison:"Remember!"
Never merciful. Crush Manchester United. Step on them without hesitation.
Aldridge nodded fiercely. "Good. Then don't stop! The game won't stop—and neither will we!"
The Lions jogged back toward halfway, their eyes alive with fire. Not one of them took Aldridge's words lightly. Last season had already proven his vision; every instruction carried weight. And in yesterday's pre-match meeting, his analysis had been crystal clear:
"Manchester United are two-time champions and one-time runners-up in the last three Premier League seasons. A powerhouse. Here, especially at Old Trafford, almost every visiting team begins by sitting deep, defending, allowing United to dictate the tempo. They're used to welcoming opponents from above, controlling the rhythm, dictating terms. But we—we must break them immediately. From the very first second we play at our tempo. They expect us to hesitate, to cower, to panic. Wrong! We will drag them down from their pedestal. We will make them chase us."
And so, from the first whistle, Millwall had launched forward with no hesitation. No probing, no testing—just pure conviction.
The reward was instant: an eight-second goal.
The Manchester United players gathered at the centre circle for the restart. Their faces remained composed, only a touch more serious than before.
They were Manchester United. If one early blow was enough to shatter their resolve, then they would not deserve to wear the red shirt.
On the bench, Ferguson didn't flinch. He stayed seated in the dugout, gum chewing steadily. Nine years in the job, now into his tenth—if he had panicked after every goal conceded, he'd have been dismissed long ago. His United were not built only on talent; they were built on mentality. The Red Devils' strength lay in their resilience, in their capacity to adjust instantly, to turn setbacks into fuel.
The ball was rolled back into play. United quickly pushed forward, abandoning any cautious probing. They went straight to their strength: the wings, flying in tandem.
On the right, Beckham angled himself for the long pass. In the middle, Keane pressed higher, directing traffic. And on the left—Ryan Giggs, twenty-one years old, the new Welsh wizard, sprang into life.
Facing him was Lilian Thuram. The French defender, confident, had dismissed Giggs as just another youngster. That complacency lasted barely a second.
With a sudden burst, Giggs feinted inside and snapped back to the outside, the ball glued to his boots as his acceleration left Thuram half a step behind. The Frenchman cursed himself immediately. Aldridge had warned him about Giggs in the pre-match briefing: never give him room to accelerate.
Thuram reacted quickly, lunging across to recover. He slid at full stretch, cutting across Giggs' run, and poked the ball clear. Not elegant, but effective.
On the sideline, Aldridge said nothing. Normally Thuram preferred to use his body strength, staying tight and forcing attackers off balance. That would have been safer. But at least the full-back had adjusted quickly, retreating from his moment of arrogance.
United pressed on. Their midfield rhythm began to show its quality, the pace unlike anything Millwall had faced in the First Division. Beckham sprayed wide passes from the right; Keane drove relentlessly in the middle, linking with Nicky Butt; Giggs surged down the flank again and again.
Their approach was mature, relentless: long switches, vertical thrusts, using the full 70-yard width of the pitch. Every time the ball shifted side to side, Millwall's formation was forced to tilt, opening tiny gaps. United were trying to prise them apart by sheer tempo.
Millwall's response was disciplined. Pirès and Schneider both dropped deep to protect the flanks. Nedvěd and Makélélé sat in front of the defence, screening every channel. Makelele, darting back and forth, covered passing lanes, snapping at heels.
But it was a draining task. No single line of defence could span the entire width of Old Trafford. To plug the spaces, Millwall had to drop almost their whole midfield.
Still, United's final delivery faltered. Giggs and Beckham crossed often, but Southgate and Stam dominated the aerial duels. Cole, dropping short, was suffocated by Makélélé's pressure—unable to turn, unable to shoot. The attacks fizzled out.
When Millwall regained the ball, Nedvěd tried to spark counterattacks. But Keane's presence was suffocating, pressing him instantly. And Nicky Butt, fearless, snapped into tackles to win the ball back before Millwall could transition.
Ten minutes in, Millwall were gasping at the true pace of Premier League football. Nedvěd found himself marked out—every attempt to turn in midfield was smothered before it began.
Then came a break.
Makelele intercepted Giggs as the winger cut inside. He looked up, ready to pass to Nedvěd, but saw Keane lurking just behind, waiting to pounce. Instead, Makelele shifted the ball left.
Young Lucas Neill received it. Calmly, he recognised the moment. If the ball had bypassed Nedvěd, then Millwall's counter must flow through him instead.
Before Beckham could close him, Neill slipped it forward to Pirès and immediately sprinted on.
Beckham chased, but was outplayed by a simple one-two. Pirès cushioned the ball back into Neill's path. Suddenly the Australian full-back was racing down the flank. Keane had to abandon Nedvěd to cover, sprinting across. But Neill and Pirès exchanged another quick pass, neat and sharp. Keane lunged, missed, and Pirès surged forward into United's half.
Gary Neville stepped across to block. Pirès calmly rolled the ball inside for Neill, still galloping forward. Keane launched into a sliding challenge, but Neill dummied, letting the ball run on. Pavel Nedvěd arrived at full tilt, taking it cleanly in stride.
Before Nicky Butt could clamp down, Nedvěd released the killer pass: a perfectly timed through ball straight into the penalty area.
Steve Bruce, humiliated once already, stayed tight to Trezeguet this time, never letting him free. But it was Larsson who made the decisive move. He peeled off Pallister's shoulder, ghosting diagonally into the box.
Bruce instinctively followed Trezeguet, only to see the ball slide past him into the space behind. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of blue—Larsson was there.
The Swede was ruthless. He didn't bother cushioning the pass. One swing of his right boot, first time, and the ball rocketed toward the bottom corner.
Pallister lunged, Schmeichel hurled himself full-length, stretching every inch of his frame. His fingertips brushed air.
The net bulged.
For a moment Schmeichel lay staring at the ball resting against the back of the net, disbelief on his face.
Old Trafford was stunned again.
Twelve minutes gone.Millwall 2, Manchester United 0.
...
Whether you asked Millwall supporters or Manchester United fans before kick-off, no one would have predicted this. Not like this.
Twelve minutes in, Millwall were two goals ahead at Old Trafford.
After Larsson's volley rippled the net, he ran with a relaxed swagger toward the East Stand. The Millwall fans rose as one, waving arms and scarves, shouting until their voices broke. Their joy was almost beyond words.
Two goals! Two goals! We're two up on Manchester United—at Old Trafford!
The teammates poured in behind him. Larsson pointed straight to Nedvěd, embracing the Czech in recognition of the assist. Pirès, pumping his fist toward the blue corner of the stand, shouted with defiance: This is Millwall's strength!
Up in the gantry, Andy Gray could hardly contain himself.
"Andy, are we dreaming?" Martin Tyler asked, his voice carrying both disbelief and gravitas. "The most successful team since the Premier League began—two-time champions, one-time runners-up—against a newly promoted side making their very first appearance in this league… and Manchester United are two goals down inside twelve minutes. Andy, is this United? Or are we watching two teams wearing the wrong shirts?"
Gray burst out, almost laughing with the energy of the moment.
"Wonderful goal, Martin, just wonderful! Look at Millwall's play. It starts with Makélélé stealing possession, then it's Neill, Pirès, Nedvěd, Larsson—five players linking in perfect rhythm. Nobody taking too many touches, every pass timed just right. United's defenders didn't even have a chance to foul! And watch Trezeguet—he doesn't score this time, but his run drags Bruce with him, gives Larsson the space. Brilliant movement. And Larsson—he doesn't hesitate, doesn't think twice, he just strikes it first time. That's top class. And I'll say it, Martin—United were sniffing around him in the summer. Why the hesitation? Isn't this exactly the kind of striker Ferguson needs?"
Tyler chuckled softly. "But with Cantona returning soon, wouldn't that leave £6.5 million worth of Andy Cole on the bench?"
"Oh, Ferguson won't like that question!" Gray replied quickly. "And look at him—he's out of his seat already. He doesn't look happy, Martin. Not at all."
On the touchline, Aldridge and his staff embraced, but the young manager forced himself to calm. He stood still, hands briefly clenched, then released them, allowing himself only a controlled smile.
In the stands, more than 60,000 Manchester United fans were silent. That, in itself, was an achievement. To quiet Old Trafford was a feat very few teams had managed.
Aldridge glanced across at Ferguson. The old Scotsman stood at the edge of his technical area, jaw set, chewing gum harder than before, his eyes like steel.
The Millwall manager looked back to the pitch, his posture relaxed, hands tucked in his pockets. But inside, he sneered.
Old fox. Don't think you can sit there for ninety minutes, chewing gum, and stroll away with three points. You underestimated us. That has a price.
Ferguson's expression was dark, but his mind was already moving. He studied Aldridge—young, fashionable in his slim suit, but undeniably dangerous. Tactical intelligence radiated from him. Behind that calm exterior, Ferguson recognised the threat.
He hadn't underestimated Millwall's players. Nedvěd especially had caught his eye. If United didn't already have Keane and Butt anchoring midfield, with Scholes waiting on the bench, Ferguson would have asked the board about Nedvěd's availability long ago.
Last season, Millwall's attacking quintet had revolved around the Czech. The bridge between midfield and attack was always Nedvěd. That's why Ferguson had instructed Keane to shadow him today, to choke Millwall's rhythm at its source.
But in just twelve minutes, Ferguson saw something new. Millwall's danger didn't come only through Nedvěd.
It came from the full-backs.
Lucas Neill's surge down the left had been decisive—linking with Pirès, drawing Keane out of position, and opening the lane for Nedvěd to thread the final ball. Without Neill's bold run forward, that attack would never have materialised.
This was not last year's Millwall. Aldridge had given his team a new weapon.
Millwall were no longer just a five-man attacking unit in the front third. They had evolved, adding the full-backs into the offensive structure, creating variety and unpredictability.
Ferguson narrowed his eyes. Behind Aldridge's polite smile lay something sharp. A dagger, aimed straight at United's heart.
Football, at its highest level, was always a duel of hidden weapons. Attack and defence, move and countermove. The pieces on the board were the same for everyone—only those who concealed their blade the longest, and revealed it at the decisive moment, would triumph.
Aldridge had seen it clearly. With two United holding midfielders pinning Nedvěd, Millwall could not rely only on their playmaker. In the future, even more opponents would target him. So Aldridge had spent the summer developing a new pattern: full-backs bombing forward to overload the flanks and create breakthroughs.
The young manager's vision stretched beyond this single match. He knew the game's direction. As defences tightened around midfield maestros and strikers, the full-backs would inherit the space, the time, the freedom. They would become the new creators, the irreplaceable assets of modern football.
Ferguson finally rose to the edge of his technical area. His players were suffocating under the weight of the two early blows, and no one more than Steve Bruce. The United captain carried at least half the blame for both goals conceded, and the responsibility pressed visibly on his shoulders.
As play resumed, Ferguson's sharp eyes noticed the pattern. Every time Millwall pushed forward, their attacks leaned left, directly at Bruce.
On the opposite touchline, Aldridge watched Robert Pirès collect the ball, cut inside, and drive a shot just wide of the far post. It had brushed Bruce aside too easily. The ball missed, but Aldridge nodded all the same.
Target the weakness. Strike at the heart.Bruce, thirty-four years old, couldn't turn quickly, couldn't match the pace. His feet moved slower now, and even his decision-making had lost a step. The pre-match plan had been precise: expose the axis between young Gary Neville and ageing Steve Bruce.
Compared to them, Pallister was steadier, and Irwin remained as reliable as ever. Millwall had no reason to batter against those walls.
Up two goals, Millwall did not sit back. On the contrary, their attacks grew bolder. Again and again, they stormed down the left, prying open the same seam.
Lucas Neill surged forward tirelessly, Nedvěd drifted across to overload, and Pirès orchestrated combinations between them. Short passes, neat triangles, quick changes of direction — the young Lions cut patterns through United's right.
Pirès twice drove infield to shoot. By the third time, Neville anticipated it, shifting inside to block the angle. But Pirès remained calm. With a sudden swivel, he rolled the ball wide instead, releasing Neill into space.
Neill galloped to the byline, touched it past the last defender, and whipped a cross into the area.
Trezeguet timed his leap, darting across Bruce once more. He met the delivery, but from a tight angle the header flew across goal and out over the line.
Neill wasted no time. He turned immediately, sprinting back to his defensive position. That was the standard Aldridge had demanded.
Before the season, Aldridge had spoken plainly to his young full-backs — Neill, Zambrotta, and Capdevila, who would join in the second half of the year. They would all share minutes, and with youth came expectation: endless running, up and down, no pause for breath. Rotation was possible, but every match demanded total effort.
As Millwall pressed through the left again, Aldridge's gaze shifted to United's right. Beckham was stationed there, hovering wide, waiting for the ball.
This is the future, Aldridge thought. Football belongs to those who run the flank both ways. Defend and attack. Full-backs can't just sit anymore.
He smirked inwardly. Beckham, can you keep up with Neill's rhythm? If you can, you'll not only cover Neville's inexperience but prove yourself more than a luxury player. Technique is beautiful, but the dirty work — nobody escapes that.
On the other side, Ferguson had seen enough. For ten minutes he had studied Millwall's recurring pattern, his jaw tightening with each attack. At the next stoppage, he strode to the edge of his area, barking instructions.
Risks and opportunities came together. Beckham wasn't the type to track all the way back, and Ferguson knew shouting a few words wouldn't magically turn him into a defender. Instead, he would plug the hole with midfield muscle.
Makélélé rarely ventured forward. That gave Ferguson an option. He gestured: Nicky Butt to shadow Nedvěd tightly, Roy Keane to drift right, covering for Beckham and shoring up the flank.
Lucas Neill surged forward again, combining neatly with Pirès. But this time his final touch was too heavy. Roy Keane pounced, sliding in decisively to win the ball cleanly. Without hesitation, he rose and clipped a pass out wide to Beckham.
"What are you waiting for, lad? Go on!" Keane barked furiously.
Beckham hesitated. Two goals down, the young midfielder looked rattled. He had struggled to track back, and when he attacked, the space behind him was exposed. Yet when the ball reached his feet now, a flash of opportunity lit his face.
Neill was still upfield. Millwall's left was wide open.
Spurred by Keane's roar, Beckham pushed forward. He was no Giggs, no lightning burst, but he had space, and he could run.
Makélélé read the danger instantly. With Nedvěd already retreating alongside Keane, the Frenchman sprinted across to cover the flank, closing on Beckham.
Beckham checked his stride. He remembered last season at Millwall: Makélélé's timing, his ability to dispossess with the simplest of pokes. The smart option was clear—release the ball before the tackle came.
But to whom? Keane was marked. A pass straight into the penalty area would be wasted. Then he saw movement in the middle—Nicky Butt signalling with a hand. Beckham whipped in a half-height ball.
Butt charged through midfield, surging beyond his marker. He brought the ball under control in stride, advancing toward Millwall's box.
Now United had numbers: Giggs wide left, Cole and McClair in the middle, Butt driving through. Four against three.
This was the risk of full-backs pushing on. When Neill lost it high up, Millwall's shape broke. In a blink, the counterattack was at their throat.
Butt reached the edge of the area with time to scan. Giggs was locked in a duel with Thuram; the two cancelled each other out. That left the centre—three United attackers against Southgate and Stam.
McClair, quiet for thirty minutes, peeled off to the left, offering a passing option. Stam followed him. Butt shaped as though to slip it that way, dragging Millwall's line across, then suddenly drove forward himself.
Cole, back to goal, wrestled with Southgate. Butt threaded the ball into him, then sprinted on, feinting the one-two. Southgate turned desperately to block the return pass.
But Butt was clever. Instead of taking it back, he knocked it straight again into Cole's path.
For the first time, Andy Cole was free. Southgate was off balance, Stam was dragged wide, and the striker had room. One touch, pivot, strike.
He lashed it hard and low. The ball skimmed across the turf like a cannon shot. Keller sprawled full length but was too slow.
The net bulged.
Old Trafford erupted.
"Beautiful finish! Andy Cole pulls one back for Manchester United!" Martin Tyler's voice rose above the roar. "Cool, clinical, and United are back in it."
Andy Gray was equally animated. "And give the credit to Nicky Butt! That run tore Millwall apart. The one-two with Cole—perfect timing. That's the danger, Martin. When your full-backs bomb forward, you're open to exactly this kind of counter. Neill lost it, and United punished them ruthlessly."
"Should Millwall rein him in?" Tyler asked. "Neill's forward runs have been dangerous, but they've just cost a goal."
Gray shook his head, his tone sharp. "I don't know, Martin. That's the dilemma. If he stops going, Millwall lose their edge. But if he keeps at it, they risk being exposed. That's the balance Aldridge has to find. Either way—it makes for a brilliant contest."
Down on the pitch, Cole scooped the ball from the net and sprinted back to halfway. No celebration, no smile—just urgency. His teammates followed, intent only on restarting. Two-one down was no time for relief.
Ferguson's face eased, the scowl replaced with determination. Across the line, Aldridge stood impassive. His expression betrayed nothing, though he knew the truth: it had been Neill's mistake.
But this was inevitable.
Tactics cannot be perfected without scars, Aldridge thought. Maturity only comes through trial and error.
That was why he never imposed radical changes at once. The full-backs' advance was a new weapon, but also a lesson. Neill had to learn when to go, when to hold, and how teammates must rotate behind him. That sense of timing only came with experience.
The safer option after Ferguson shifted his midfield was to swing play to the opposite flank, test Schneider and Thuram against United's right. That would stretch Keane and Butt vertically, tire them, and open space in the middle.
But Aldridge hesitated to do so. Pirès cutting inside from the left was a genuine threat—he could score, he could create. Schneider, by contrast, was more a provider than a finisher. Near the box, his danger waned. His crossing was excellent, but he was not the kind of winger to drive inside and frighten defenders.
Trying to mirror the left on the right would be forcing the wrong player into the wrong role. Confusion would follow, and Millwall's rhythm would collapse. Aldridge would not demand the impossible.
Instead, he accepted the risk. The full-backs would continue to go, even if mistakes came. In time, the balance would be found.
At Old Trafford, applause rolled around the stands as the fans roared their side forward. Manchester United were alive again.
Neill was frustrated, but he quickly lifted his head. He was a tough guy; a mistake was a mistake, and there was no point in feeling guilty. The boss had said it in training: boldly push up to assist—don't be afraid of mistakes.
Failure is the mother of success. For a young player, making a mistake is no big deal.
After conceding the goal, Neill settled himself on the flank and focused on his defensive work, locking onto Beckham. Though younger than Beckham, he was a fighter on the pitch—aggressive in the challenge and physically strong. After one heavy shoulder-to-shoulder clash, he held his ground; Beckham couldn't.
The rhythm was fast from the first minute—not only because Millwall attacked quickly, but because they threw themselves into defending. They forced Manchester United's players to release the ball early; dwell too long and you got swallowed by two men pressing at once.
With United's right-side threat eased, Keane and Nedvěd picked up their duel again, crashing into each other in midfield again and again.
Nedvěd fell, climbed up, fell down, climbed up. Keane barged into him and stumbled himself, then got up as well. Keane took the ball; Nedvěd went to nick it. Keane was knocked over; he climbed up without hesitation—fell down, climbed up, fell down, climbed up…
Their shirts were the dirtiest on the pitch, as if they'd wrestled in a mud pit.
After so many collisions, Keane couldn't help glancing at Nedvěd—silent, focused, relentless—and thinking: Is this man even human?
Keane was a butcher and an iron man; if he floored an opponent and saw him roll on the grass, he'd spit a few contemptuous words and move on. He'd even admit openly: I want to break your leg. But against Nedvěd—an opponent who hit the ground and sprang back up to fight again—Keane felt a prick of respect.
He'd finally met a real man.
Respect or not, the intensity never dropped.
Hard against hard—see who is harder.
Because the flanks were conservative and Nedvěd was entangled by Keane in the middle, Pirès and Schneider struggled when they dropped to receive. As the first half drew to a close, Manchester United established a spell of front‑foot pressure. They knew this ground, they understood its angles, and with three crisp passes they could keep the ball moving.
Nicky Butt fed Giggs, who had come inside. Giggs did not go wide after taking the ball—he wasn't interested in a straight duel with Thuram. He had the speed, yes, but Thuram's defending relied on body position without giving space; even if the ball got by, the man would not.
So Giggs carried it into the middle and slipped it to Beckham, who had also drifted central, about thirty‑five yards from goal. The two members of the Class of '92 produced a neat exchange. Beckham, opening up his body, chose the pass without hesitation, guiding the ball lightly into Millwall's penalty area.
To whom did it go?
Stam rose to clear with his head, but McClair used his body to block him and tugged his shirt. Stam still forced a jump, but couldn't get highest and never touched it. The ball skimmed just ten centimetres above his head and drifted diagonally beyond him.
After releasing the pass, Giggs sprinted into the box. His pace was electric. Thuram had tracked him and arrived from the side. Giggs cushioned the ball on his chest; before it dropped, he toppled heavily in the area, while Thuram hooked the ball away from the side of his body and cleared it out of the box.
Unexpectedly, referee Paul Durkin blew his whistle—then pointed to the spot.
Thuram clutched his head in disbelief and pleaded his innocence.
"Penalty! Durkin has awarded a penalty—Manchester United with a chance to equalise in first‑half stoppage time! From the slow‑motion replay it looks like Thuram clips Giggs from the side and behind—this one won't be without controversy."
On the touchline, Aldridge appealed furiously to the fourth official.
"Hey! Keane's knocked my player over countless times in midfield—once, twice—the referee didn't blow a single one! I didn't complain; fine, Premier League standard. But my defender's clearly playing the ball—what's United's striker doing? He doesn't even jump; he's interfering with my lad's leap—he's pulling his shirt! Isn't that a foul? The referee should be giving McClair's foul in the area, not the penalty that comes after!"
Aldridge argued with one hand on his hip, voice raised, but the fourth official didn't want to hear it.
Millwall's players surrounded Durkin as well. It was obvious Stam had been impeded on his jump, and McClair hadn't hidden it. Without the interference, Stam would have headed clear with ease.
Durkin shook his head, unmoved, and waved them away.
Southgate pulled teammates back and tried speaking calmly to the referee one‑to‑one, but Durkin kept shaking his head—and finally showed Southgate a yellow card.
Seeing it, Aldridge shouted at the fourth official, fury boiling over: "What is this—some fascist dictator routine? You won't even give me a word?"
"Mr Hall, mind your language. I'll be noting all of this in the match report."
"You'd better note every last word. I'll write my report too: you gave Manchester United a penalty!"
Aldridge snorted and turned away—he'd already seen Durkin striding toward him.
Durkin issued a warning. Aldridge said nothing in reply, staring coldly through the laughter of the Manchester United fans.
In the stands, Melanie joined the Millwall end with a full‑throated boo at Durkin. She pressed her lips together, feeling a stab of distress for Aldridge—but more than that, she thought he looked every inch a real man, standing tall on the touchline.
Andy Cole took the penalty and scored. Immediately after, the referee blew for half‑time.
After forty‑five minutes, Manchester United had dragged the match back to level. 2–2.