At the end of the first half, the players walked towards the tunnel. The expressions on both sides were mostly calm; only Millwall's squad showed a hint of frustration.
As Aldridge headed down the touchline towards the players' tunnel, the stands around Old Trafford came alive. Fans stood up, gesturing at him in every possible way.
There was booing, mocking applause, sarcastic cheering, abuse, jeers—and shouts hurled in his direction:
"London boy, celebrating too early? You think two goals ahead will be enough? When the match ends, you'll be crying all the way back to London!"
Aldridge kept walking, expressionless. He didn't waste energy trading with the crowd. Competing with supporters was the most foolish thing a coach could do.
Back in the dressing room, he immediately scanned his players. Their spirit was intact. Nobody had wilted under United's pressure. It was clear now—they were capable of competing with a side of Manchester United's calibre.
Only David Trezeguet showed visible strain. His breathing was heavier than the rest, his fitness not quite at peak despite the pre-season program. The indulgence of his summer holiday still lingered in his body.
Aldridge picked up a marker and sketched a simple matchup on the tactical board. He circled Neill's position, then turned to him.
"Forget the first half. In the second, keep pushing forward to assist. Don't carry any psychological burden."
Neill nodded firmly. At the close of the half he had already hesitated, worried about making another mistake, and had stayed deeper than he should have.
Aldridge didn't voice everything on his mind. In truth, he considered himself partly responsible for the goal they had conceded after Neill's error.
He turned to Claude Makelele. "Claude, if the same situation arises in the second half, don't rush to intercept the counter at once. Fall back, track the run, even drop all the way to the edge of the box. We need to make sure that in front of goal we aren't outnumbered. That will close down the most dangerous spaces before they reach the area."
The players lifted their heads, watching him closely. Aldridge gave only a faint smile, but for some reason his presence seemed to radiate more strongly than ever.
Previously, his setup had required Makelele to step out immediately and challenge any counterattack on the flanks. In practice, it had backfired. With United's full-backs and wingers flying forward together, the width was too great for one man to cover. Makelele couldn't possibly match their pace across open ground. That flaw in the system had been Aldridge's mistake: when Makelele chased Beckham wide, the centre opened, allowing Nicky Butt to drive through.
Now he scrapped that idea completely. There was no shame in admitting mistakes. Everyone makes them; what mattered was correcting them. Stubborn pride destroyed more managers than defeat ever did.
By drawing Makelele back closer to the penalty area, even if United surged forward with numbers, Millwall's back line wouldn't be stretched across too much space. The compact shape would shrink the vertical channels United relied on, cutting off their most dangerous options.
After laying out these adjustments, Aldridge lifted the players again with praise. He reminded them of the fight they had shown in the first forty-five minutes and demanded the same intensity after the restart.
The break passed quickly. Soon the players walked out of the dressing room once more.
Aldridge returned to the touchline, hands in his pockets, jacket slightly unbuttoned, chin raised. The stance radiated calm assurance, giving his men confidence through his very posture.
Within a year, his presence alone had begun to influence the team profoundly.
A coach who arrived at Old Trafford already beaten in his mind—retreating into defense, showing no courage to challenge—would lose heavily, no matter how many stars he commanded, whether Matthäus, Baggio, or Maldini.
On the opposite bench, Ferguson sat back, chewing gum, restoring the calmness he had shown before kick-off.
Referee Paul Durkin's whistle pierced the night air, echoing around Old Trafford. The second half was underway, Manchester United kicking off.
Although the score was level, United had only forty-five minutes to avoid embarrassment. They would not want to drop points at home, not in the opening round of the league, and certainly not against a newly promoted side.
Their intent was obvious immediately: United threw themselves forward, attacking fiercely. Millwall, caught under pressure, had little choice but to pull back and defend.
From the touchline, Aldridge narrowed his eyes. Something about United's shape felt different. The red shirts were arranged oddly compared to the first half. At first, it seemed a trick of the eye: when he fixed on the midfield battles, the wide players and full-backs became blurred figures in the periphery, the contest reduced to red and blue shirts clashing in equal numbers. Yet gradually he sensed an imbalance.
United had more men committed forward.
But who was the extra?
Aldridge focused intently and spotted it—one of Ferguson's changes. A silent, creeping threat had joined the attack.
Left-back Denis Irwin.
The moment Aldridge realised, Schneider was already clattering into Giggs, Thuram tight at his side. Giggs had just received the ball when, with perfect timing, Irwin darted up the line. A neat pass from Giggs rolled five metres ahead of him, and Irwin powered onto it in stride.
"Intercept him!" Aldridge roared instinctively.
But in the frenzy of the match, his voice vanished into the noise. Even if the players heard, reacting instantly was nearly impossible.
Still, Schneider and Thuram reacted as one. Thuram abandoned Giggs and surged across, while Schneider tucked in, covering the gap left behind. That meant Giggs, having released the pass, was momentarily unmarked, but Thuram had calculated the risk. He accelerated, lunged in front of Irwin, swung a long leg across and nicked the ball clear. Irwin crashed to the turf.
Durkin's whistle cut through the roar: foul, Thuram.
Thuram bent over, furious, clutching the ball in both hands before slamming it back to the ground.
The referee brandished a yellow card.
On the sideline, Aldridge laughed bitterly, clapping in sarcastic approval.
"Oh, come on," he muttered. "That's a booking? And Keane's hack on Nedvěd wasn't?"
The location was dangerous: directly in front of Millwall's box, about thirty yards out.
David Beckham stood over the ball.
Aldridge felt his scalp prickle. Against a free-kick specialist, a manager could do little. Build the wall taller? Instruct the keeper where to stand? At some point, it was in fate's hands.
Back at Millwall, Beckham's free-kick ability had been promising but inconsistent. In Aldridge's memory, he knew what the future would bring—this boy would become one of the greatest dead-ball strikers in the game. But how far along that path was he now?
Millwall's wall lined up, covering the near post. The keeper, Kasey Keller, crouched slightly, eyes fixed on the far corner. It was standard defensive procedure: the wall guarded the shortest, most direct path to goal, while the keeper prepared for the longer flight to the far side.
Beckham studied the wall. Every face was familiar—men he had trained alongside for half a season. He remembered Millwall fondly enough, but one thing lingered like a thorn: Aldridge's voice barking at him in the dressing room.
Beckham, groomed at United since boyhood, carried himself with natural pride. Aldridge had been the only one to ever scold him so harshly, and the sting had never faded. Now he wanted to answer that voice.
He would prove himself here, in front of his old coach.
Durkin's whistle shrilled. The stadium hushed.
Beckham began his run-up, his left foot planting cleanly as his body leaned dramatically to the side, his left arm arcing out to balance. His right foot struck through the ball with perfect technique, carving across it to generate vicious spin.
The ball leapt high, curling away. Southgate jumped in the wall, stretching every sinew—but it sailed over him. Then the spin bit, dragging the ball down in a sharp, dipping arc, like a rainbow slicing across the night.
Keller turned his head desperately, but too late. The net rippled.
Old Trafford erupted. A tidal wave of red surged up from the stands, the roar crashing like thunder.
A masterpiece.
"The score is 3–2! Manchester United have turned it around, erasing Millwall's two-goal lead right after the restart! What a stunning free kick—Beckham's strike is sheer beauty, the ball's trajectory a work of art!"
"It's simply extraordinary! David Beckham—still so young, yet already a starter at Manchester United—has just demonstrated his value on the grandest stage. Alan Hansen, you underestimated these youngsters. Beckham's free kick will be remembered for years!"
Beckham spread his arms wide, smiling broadly, basking in the adulation of the Stretford End.
On the sideline, Ferguson applauded too, gum rolling in his mouth as he grinned. The theatre of Old Trafford had restored its familiar script, and Manchester United were back in command.
United's free-kick goal had flipped the game on its head. From two down, they now led 3–2 with nearly forty minutes still to play. Ferguson made the first move from the bench.
In the first half, he had deployed Brian McClair as a shadow striker. Now, he withdrew him and sent on Paul Scholes.
From the sideline, Aldridge immediately understood. Ferguson wanted to slow the tempo, bring stability, and strangle Millwall's rhythm.
With United ahead, it was the natural choice. Millwall would be chasing the game; Scholes, with his crisp passing and clever runs from deep, could dictate the midfield and arrive late to punish on the counter.
At this stage of his career, Scholes' role was still fluid. He wasn't yet the deep-lying controller he would become. Instead, he often played high up, close to the penalty area. In fact, in the two years before Dwight Yorke's arrival, Scholes frequently operated as a second striker. Among the Old Trafford faithful, there were even voices calling for him to start ahead of Andy Cole, whose finishing divided opinion.
The blow of conceding three straight goals would have crushed many sides. But Millwall's heads didn't drop. They regrouped at the halfway line, immediately reshaping into their formation, waiting calmly for the restart.
Aldridge was quietly satisfied. In the First Division last year, this team's greatest strength had been their belief in scoring. One hundred and twenty-seven league goals, more than one hundred and forty in all competitions. For Millwall, chasing a game was never impossible.
We're still in this. One goal down is nothing.
In the stands, United's supporters roared into full voice, songs echoing from all sides of Old Trafford. Their dominance felt restored.
In the East Stand, the Millwall section sat in stunned silence. Their team's two-goal cushion had vanished, leaving them winded.
Then, one man rose. Brady clenched his fists and sang at the top of his lungs:
"No one likes us, we don't care! No one likes us, we don't care!"
He repeated the refrain, louder each time. Heads turned, voices joined, and soon the East Stand thundered with Millwall's anthem, defiant against the tidal wave of red.
The United fans ignored them. In their eyes, Millwall's followers were beneath notice—beggars shouting in the street, while aristocrats feasted inside their mansion. To them, even acknowledging Millwall would sully their hands and cheapen their status.
On the touchline, Aldridge smirked as he watched Scholes trying to steady United's passing. Ferguson wanted control. But to Aldridge, that was the first misstep of an old fox who thought the fight was already won.
"Think it's over, do you?" he muttered. You've left a door open.
United began working the ball around the middle third, attempting to slow the game. But Millwall's press surged again—furious yet disciplined. They refused to give United even sixty seconds of calm possession.
Scholes, newly on, collected a pass and looked to return it safely to Keane. But Makelele's telescopic leg poked it away, diverting it left. Beckham tried to collect, only for Neill to crash in and steal it cleanly. Beckham stumbled, unable to recover.
Neill surged forward, carrying the ball upfield without losing momentum.
Butt tracked Nedvěd tightly. Keane sprinted back. With Pires dropping deep to combine, Neill played a quick one-two with him and kept going, surging into the left channel near the box. Gary Neville stood waiting, squared up, trying to block both Neill's path and Pires' run into the area.
Millwall had attacked down this side throughout the first half, dragging United's back line into a constant lean. Now, again, Neville's eyes darted between Neill and Pires, stretched to breaking point.
In the middle, Bruce and Pallister stayed locked on Trezeguet and Larsson. The two strikers had cleverly drifted left as well, forcing United's centre-backs to shuffle across, further loading the flank.
Neville readied himself to step in, certain Neill had run out of room. But instead of forcing the ball, Neill slid it square, across the edge of the box.
United's defence jolted in surprise. To Nedvěd?
They turned their heads—yet Nedvěd had held back, dragging Butt with him.
The ball rolled on… and another blue shirt came storming into the space.
Bernd Schneider!
The young German, quiet since his early assist in the eighth seconds goal, had ghosted forward into the most dangerous pocket of the pitch.
Ferguson had gambled by unleashing Irwin forward earlier, which had helped United's comeback. But in doing so, he had loosened the grip on Schneider.
Now, with United's shape tilted right and their centre-backs dragged left, Schneider arrived completely unmarked at the top of the D.
Irwin scrambled to recover, sprinting desperately back.
But Schneider's mind was clear. Aldridge's instructions echoed: When United overload the right, space will open centrally. Don't hesitate. From there, you decide—link play, or take it yourself. But don't freeze.
The United defence had left the centre exposed. Schneider's eyes hardened—he had read the picture before arriving at the top of the box. He saw Trezeguet and Larsson dragging the centre-backs to the left, Pallister even stepping out towards him.
Slip it to Larsson?
No—the gap was too tight.
Schneider made his choice in an instant. He would shoot.
Aldridge had called this match against Manchester United a benchmark—a test of whether Millwall truly belonged at this level. To take his place here, Schneider had to prove himself worthy.
He knew he lacked Pires' ability to weave inside, to dribble deep into the area. But he possessed something else: conviction, and a relentless will.
Boss, watch closely. I won't let you down.
He adjusted his stride as the ball rolled into his path, planted firmly, and let fly with his right foot.
His body hung in perfect balance, frozen in that one heroic moment as he struck.
Inside, he screamed: Damn it, ball—fly! Roll into Manchester United's net! I don't care if the man in goal is named Schmeichel or even a god himself—you will not stop Millwall from stamping on Manchester United tonight!
Boom!
The ball shot forward like a cannon shell. No dip, no spin, just a ferocious straight line ripping through the air, arrowing into the top-left corner.
Schmeichel flung himself at full stretch. The angle was too sharp; he was never reaching it.
The thud of ball on woodwork echoed through the stadium—then it ricocheted down off the underside of the bar and into the net.
Schneider clenched his fists and roared. The moment it crossed the line, he spread his arms wide and sprinted straight towards the dugout, his face lit with triumph.
Old Trafford fell silent, the Red Devils' faithful stunned.
It was unstoppable. A goal to envy.
In the East Stand, Millwall's travelling fans erupted. Thousands of arms waved, their voices booming out in celebration.
"An unbelievable strike! An absolute thunderbolt! Remember his name—Bernd Schneider! Another German gem stepping onto the world stage! And what magic does Aldridge possess, that every player of his seems to shine? What matters even more is the mentality: after conceding three straight goals, Millwall's spirit never broke. They regrouped, they attacked with purpose—and they've drawn level again!"
"You're right, Martin! At first, I thought Schneider's early assist was a fluke. But no, this is deliberate, this is drilled. Look at their tactics: they keep hammering at United's weak spot. Bruce can no longer contain these powerful forwards. Once United adjusted, Millwall shifted—Neill played the perfect square ball, bypassing the flank and exposing the space in the middle. That pass wasn't chance, it was planned. Schneider's finish was the product of fifty-five minutes of relentless work."
"Exactly! United wanted to slow it down, to smother the game. But Millwall refused. They wouldn't be dragged into United's rhythm—they imposed their own!"
On the touchline, Aldridge allowed himself a grin. His assistants and substitutes surged onto the pitch to embrace Schneider, roaring with joy.
As the chaos subsided, Aldridge straightened his suit jacket, his expression set with fierce resolve.
Half of United's downfall, he thought, was their own doing. They had chosen to ease off, to slow down. In this cauldron, that was suicide.
He had seen it in Beckham's sluggish touch before Neill's steal—United's tempo had dropped a gear. Even Keane and the retreating defenders had been half a step slower than Millwall's surging attack. Against a side that thrived on relentless running, that hesitation was fatal.
And Schneider's thunderbolt? That was no accident.
Millwall's attacking patterns had been honed all through the First Division. Their wings had become lethal weapons, their left side especially sharp. But today against Manchester United, the left wasn't just a feint—it was a hammer. United bent under the pressure, and when they shifted to cover, the opening appeared in the centre. Schneider struck it perfectly.
Ignoring Ferguson's tight jaw and clenched gum on the opposite bench, Aldridge acted quickly. Time for his own adjustment.
All through half-time and into the second half, Solskjær, Ballack, and Vieira had been warming up. Now, he made his first change.
Trezeguet's number went up.
The Frenchman lowered his head as he trotted off. Aldridge met him with a smile and a pat on the shoulder.
"Do you know why I'm taking you off?"
Trezeguet nodded, shame in his eyes. "Boss… I know."
He had been struggling, his defensive pressing losing bite, his movement dulled by fatigue. Aldridge had planned to substitute him at the hour mark; he did it three minutes early.
"It's good you understand," Aldridge said warmly.
Trezeguet high-fived his teammates, pulled on a jacket, and sat down quietly, determination etched on his face.
This match had taught him a harsh truth. The pace, the ferocity, the relentlessness of a contest against England's elite—this was nothing like last year's battles with Middlesbrough.
He would have to work harder, or risk being left behind.