Manchester United had been struck hard. Just as they looked poised to control the game, Millwall had equalised with a thunderbolt. The blow rattled them deeply, and in the aftermath they failed to slow things down.
Instead of dictating rhythm, United lost their grip on the midfield entirely.
With Trezeguet withdrawn, Ole Gunnar Solskjær entered as second striker—but he didn't push high alongside Larsson. Instead, he hovered between the lines, leaving Larsson as the lone front man. Behind him, Makelele, Nedvěd, and Solskjær himself rotated cleverly, weaving together sequences of play that suffocated United's midfield.
Schneider received on the flank and whipped in a cross. Larsson darted in, rising above Pallister to meet it, his header arrowing towards the top corner—but Schmeichel, at full stretch, clawed it away with a breathtaking save.
From the ensuing corner, Pallister headed clear, only for Solskjær to collect at the edge of the box. He struck first time, his shot skimming just wide of the post.
Millwall were relentless. United's defence scrambled, Schmeichel the only barrier holding them together.
Ferguson could no longer remain seated. He rose from the bench and marched to the touchline, bellowing orders, jabbing his finger furiously at his men.
But before United could reassert themselves, Millwall's storm broke again.
A simple combination through the centre cut them apart.
Nedvěd surged forward and slipped the ball to Pires, who immediately fed it into a retreating forward. But the man dropping deep was not Solskjær—it was Larsson.
Both Bruce and Pallister instinctively followed him. For the briefest moment, their concentration froze.
Larsson, back to goal, flicked the ball delicately with his heel. It slipped between the two centre-backs and rolled perfectly into space.
Solskjær, timing his run to perfection, burst through the gap. One stride, one strike—the ball flew low and true into the far corner. Schmeichel launched himself, but even his giant frame could not stretch across in time.
The net rippled. Old Trafford gasped.
Bruce clattered Solskjær as he struck, sending him sprawling. But the Norwegian was already celebrating as he scrambled to his feet, his face lit with a boyish grin, fists clenched high in triumph.
"My word, how many goals will we see today? In the 73rd minute, Millwall lead again! A moment of brilliance—Larsson's decoy run, Solskjær's late dash, the perfect finish! This is why they call him the 'Baby-faced Assassin'—calm, clinical, ruthless. The shot wasn't about power, it was about precision. Poor Schmeichel—he's been outstanding, but he can't be faulted here. That goal was pure quality."
On the sideline, Aldridge punched the air. The move had been executed exactly as designed.
Since introducing Solskjær, Millwall's shape had morphed from 4-4-2 into 4-2-3-1. Solskjær hovered as a shadow striker behind Larsson, the two switching roles fluidly, their interchange baffling United's defence.
Ferguson was seething. His face flushed green with rage as he stalked the touchline, gum grinding furiously. He waved his arms with wild urgency, his message unmistakable: Attack! Attack them now!
But time was against him. Earlier, when United had turned it around to lead 3–2, they had nearly eighty minutes to claw their way back. Now, with less than twenty minutes remaining, they were chasing again.
The daze was clear on several of his players' faces. They looked lost, unsure of what to do.
Only Ferguson's force of will pulled them out of the stupor. His roar lit the fire again. The blood of the Red Devils began to boil, and Old Trafford rose once more.
But Millwall's fans were louder still, voices ringing defiantly from the East Stand.
Who dares underestimate us?What of Manchester United?The Red Lion can still step on the Crazy Lion? Not today!
Aldridge's instructions to his team were as uncompromising as Ferguson's: keep attacking.
The situation was clear. At this point, there was no room for retreat.
When United had stepped back after taking the 3–2 lead, they had been punished and now trailed again. Aldridge knew he could not make the same mistake.
This was not the Den. This was Old Trafford—the Theatre of Dreams. Here, the Red Devils were kings.
And kings could not be beaten by fear. They could only be slain by courage.
Without the will to kill the king, victory would never be won.
The rhythm of the match grew even faster, both sides now trading punches with abandon. Attacks came in waves, almost every minute producing a shot. It was not that either team had stopped defending, but at such blistering pace—with the technical quality of both midfields—the time needed to build an attack shrank to mere seconds.
Giggs surged forward, only to be dispossessed. Nedvěd immediately lifted a long pass into space. Larsson latched onto it and unleashed a strike from just outside the penalty area, but Schmeichel flew across, fingertips stretching to push the ball wide. Another world-class save.
United came right back. Beckham crossed from the right, Cole dropped off to cushion the ball, laying it back into Keane's path. The captain drove through it with power, his shot swerving just over the crossbar.
Back and forth they went, the audience holding their breath, afraid even to blink lest they miss the next goal.
Beckham's influence had waned. Pressed tightly, he found himself reduced to hopeful crosses, none of which reached their mark. Andy Cole, isolated, was forced into awkward positions, never able to face the goal properly.
On the opposite side, Giggs remained locked in battle with Thuram. Finally, he changed tack. Dropping deeper, he collected a pass from Butt, then accelerated with the ball, dribbling at full tilt. Schneider shadowed him closely, but Giggs cut inside, releasing the ball to Keane, who had pushed forward.
Thuram blocked the channel, forcing Giggs wide again. He adjusted quickly, folding back towards the byline. Keane overlapped, Giggs fed him, and Keane instantly returned the pass. Thuram recovered in time to close, body braced to shoulder Giggs off balance. But the Welshman's footwork was too sharp—he cut with his left and whipped in a cross before contact arrived.
Millwall's defence wasn't troubled by aerial duels in the six-yard box. United lacked a classic target man. But Giggs' cross wasn't aimed at the penalty spot.
It was cut back to the arc.
Claude Makelele's eyes tracked Roy Keane, but the pass never came his way. Instead, another figure stepped into view at the top of the box—Paul Scholes.
He didn't wait for the ball to drop. Meeting it in stride, Scholes smashed a volley.
The shot tore towards goal, bouncing just before the keeper. The angle wasn't especially cunning, but the sheer force unsettled Keller. He dropped late, his arms collapsing under the bounce, and the ball burst through him, nestling in the net.
"Scholes! Paul Scholes rescues Manchester United! In the 81st minute, the score is level again—4–4! Both managers' substitutions have been decisive. Scholes may have been quiet since his introduction, but replacing McClair with him has paid off. One chance, one strike, and he proves his value!"
Old Trafford erupted. The roar shook the rafters, the players in red racing back to the centre circle. A draw wasn't enough. The Red Devils were hungry for more.
On the sideline, Aldridge scratched his head, half-smiling, half-helpless.
The game had reached a fever pitch. At such speed, it was impossible to predict where the next goal would come from. Millwall had carved out several clear openings, only to see Schmeichel deny them. United had taken their chance on the counter, and the scoreboard told the story.
Both teams were drenched in sweat. Players bent over, hands on knees, gasping for air. But Millwall's resolve did not falter. They wiped their brows, jogged back into position, and re-formed their shape.
Being pegged back meant nothing. They would go again.
Aldridge didn't bother barking defensive orders. He knew his men. They wouldn't hesitate. They believed in themselves—there was still time to strike once more.
The two sides clashed fiercely after the restart, trading blows in a relentless rhythm. Every player was tense, not daring to relax for even a moment.
The clock ticked on—eighty-eight, eighty-nine minutes. The score remained locked at 4–4. Even Manchester United supporters, who had expected victory, were forced to admit a draw might not be the worst outcome. Millwall's performance had been nothing short of top-class. If they could sustain this level across a season, who knew how far they could go?
Then Millwall mounted one last attack.
Thuram stepped forward, threading a pass into Nedvěd. The Czech gathered, turned sharply, and found himself hemmed in by Butt on one side and Keane on the other.
Where would he go? Pires? Schneider? Or a direct ball into Larsson? Both United midfielders anticipated a pass.
Instead, Nedvěd exploded. With a sudden burst of pace, he surged straight between them.
Butt and Keane had braced for a pass, not for Nedvěd's sheer audacity. Keane yanked at his shirt, Butt slid desperately across—but Nedvěd, wild and unstoppable, powered through both challenges like a stallion breaking free.
So late in the match—how is he still running like this? they thought, stunned.
Nedvěd thundered forward, straight into the heart of Old Trafford. Four United defenders retreated into the box as Millwall's forwards poured in alongside him.
He never slowed. Just outside the area he released the ball, slipping it to Pires. Pires clipped an immediate chip into the danger zone, lofting it just over Bruce's head.
United's defenders braced, tracking Larsson, Solskjær, and Schneider. But they forgot the man who had started the move.
Nedvěd kept running. His blonde mane streaming, he sliced through the defence like a blade. Pallister tried to step across but lost his footing and tumbled. Bruce reached an arm out in desperation, but Nedvěd surged past him.
Leaping, he met the dropping ball with a thundering header.
The stadium seemed to freeze. Schmeichel flung himself at the near post, but his hand swiped at air. The ball rocketed past him into the net.
For a split second, silence. Then, from the East Stand, an eruption:
"Nedvěd! Nedvěd! Our Lion King, Nedvěd!"
The chant rolled like thunder. Millwall's mad lions had struck again—at the Theatre of Dreams, no less.
Nedvěd, the steel lion, had trampled the Red Devils and announced himself to Europe.
The scoreboard clicked to 90 minutes. Old Trafford, usually a theatre of glory for United, had turned into a nightmare stage for the home crowd.
"It's a last-minute winner! Millwall take the lead again, five to four in the 90th minute! What a moment from Pavel Nedvěd! He carried the ball from midfield, shredded United's defensive line, shrugged off both Keane and Butt, then after combining with Pires, charged into the box to finish it himself. A breathtaking run, capped with a powerful header past Schmeichel! Andy, this is world-class!"
"Martin, you're right. World-class football brings world-class joy. And even if the final whistle has yet to blow, if Millwall hold on, their victory will be utterly deserved. Aldridge and his players are heroes tonight. Even in defeat, they would have earned the highest praise—but with this? With this, they've written history."
The cameras cut back: Nedvěd wasn't celebrating with his teammates. He was charging straight toward the dugout.
This night was special: Millwall's very first match in the Premier League. This victory—if it held—would belong to the entire club.
Tears welled in the eyes of Millwall fans. The coaching staff and substitutes flooded the pitch in uncontainable joy.
Aldridge was trembling, barely able to compose himself. When he saw Nedvěd sprinting his way, instinct took over. He too burst forward.
Blonde hair met blonde hair. Commander and soldier, master and disciple.
Nedvěd launched into a knee slide before the technical area. Aldridge, suit and shoes be damned, dropped to his knees too.
The Old Trafford turf, usually the pride of the Red Devils, bore witness to Millwall's ecstasy. Sliding on it felt like flying.
When the two rose from their knees, they collided in a fierce embrace.
It became an immortal image: a young coach and his lion-hearted general, celebrating together on the biggest stage.
For Aldridge, there was nothing complicated in his feelings for Nedvěd. No grudges, no doubts—only love and respect. Off the pitch, Nedvěd was humble and disciplined; on it, he was iron and fire. How could anyone not love such a player?
And for Nedvěd, after a year under Aldridge, the feeling was simple too: admiration.
No one had ever called him a genius. He had built his career on sweat, effort, persistence. Yet Aldridge told him plainly: You are a genius.
Aldridge had always been dissatisfied with how Pavel Nedvěd was described in his past life. Too many fans, pundits, and commentators had painted him as merely a hard worker who compensated for a lack of talent. To Aldridge, that was nothing but slander.
Nedvěd was an iron man, yes—tireless, disciplined, relentless. That was his great quality. But to claim he had no talent? Utter nonsense.
How many players could break through with the ball as he did? How many could keep their play so simple, effective, and purposeful?
The problem was that the football world had become too intoxicated with flair. People equated "talent" with juggling, tricks, and endless stepovers. They mistook circus acts for footballing genius.
Take Roberto Baggio, for example. He was Italy's true genius of the 1990s—vision, touch, elegance, artistry. That was talent. But because of Baggio's image, the world began projecting the same label onto anyone who looked flashy, even if they lacked consistency.
At the 1998 World Cup, four young stars were touted as the heirs to football's future: Alessandro Del Piero, Raúl, Denílson, and Ariel Ortega, the so-called "new Maradona." Yet how many truly delivered?
Del Piero, burdened with expectation, failed to carry Italy's attack. Spain collapsed early with Raúl. Denílson's tricks dazzled, but in the final he was completely nullified by Lilian Thuram. Ortega's tournament ended in disgrace with a red card, his reputation as Maradona's heir vanishing in that moment.
Nedvěd needed no such empty labels. His talent was enough to make him famous without anyone preaching it. His tireless running, his endless battles, the countless times he was knocked down and rose again—these were not proof of shortcomings. They were proof of perfection. His iron will did not cover up a lack of ability; it enhanced his already immense skill.
It was the same as Xavi would later be. Nobody called Xavi "gorgeous." Yet no one could deny his genius.
Nedvěd was the same. He was a talent, and a warrior. A true God of War.
On the pitch, players, coaches, and Millwall fans embraced wildly, their ecstasy filling Old Trafford. The scoreboard read: 5–4.
A crazy scoreline, but the victory was Millwall's.
Referee Paul Durkin rushed over, waving for the celebrations to end. The match wasn't finished yet.
Aldridge ignored his chatter at first, still roaring instructions to his men. "The rest of the time—defend! Everyone defend!"
Regular time was gone. There was no need to think about counterattacking now. The priority was clear: protect the lead at all costs.
Every Millwall player nodded, eyes wide with determination.
As they jogged back, Aldridge patted down his trousers, trying to calm his heartbeat. He turned to Durkin with a forced smile. "I understand. I'll go back to the bench."
But Durkin raised his hand and pointed. "No, Mr. Hall. To the stands. You've interfered with the match."
Aldridge blinked, surprised. Sent to the stands—for celebrating?
It didn't matter. He didn't argue. A further confrontation could bring a red card. At least this way he would still be available next match.
So he climbed the steps into the stand behind the Millwall dugout. United supporters surrounded him, staring with curiosity. To them, he was just a boy, barely older than some of his players. How could someone so young command this team? How could he hold the respect of hardened professionals?
Because of their doubt, Aldridge only appeared more mysterious.
He settled into the seat staff had cleared for him. To his right sat a father and son, both in Manchester United shirts. The father, heavyset, had the typical paunch of middle-aged Britain. The boy, no more than six or seven, stared at Aldridge with innocent eyes.
"Can I have your autograph?" he asked.
Aldridge chuckled. "I'm Millwall's coach, lad. You've got the wrong man. Manchester United's manager is over there."
"I know," the boy replied earnestly. "But you're really handsome. Can't you sign anyway?"
Aldridge laughed softly. "Alright. After the match."
In the East Stand, Millwall's fans were still delirious. They bounced on shoulders, arms raised in carnival, singing until their throats were hoarse. Any doubts from pre-season had been obliterated tonight.
Based on this performance, Millwall wouldn't just avoid relegation. Some dared to dream—they might even fight for something greater.
In the VIP section, Melanie and Victoria Beckham rose to their feet. They were not fanatics, but tonight's game had shaken even them.
"Is he always like this?" Victoria asked, her eyes fixed on Aldridge. She had noticed how often the cameras found him—on the touchline, in celebrations, always at the heart of the story. Every goal, for either side, seemed to feature his reaction.
Aldridge, in his slim-cut suit, carried an undeniable charisma. His synchronized knee-slide with Nedvěd was unlike anything she had ever seen from a manager. A coach celebrating like a player—it was unique, unforgettable.
Melanie grinned mischievously, bouncing along with the Millwall fans. "Always! I even dug up old photos. There's one of him kneeling on the sideline—women go crazy over it! Aldridge, Aldridge, I love him! Kill United, hah! Manchester United losing to a newly promoted team—this is priceless!"
As a Liverpool supporter, she was in heaven, relishing United's misery while joining Millwall's jubilation.
Victoria glanced sideways at her friend, envy flickering in her eyes.
Old Trafford was going mad.
Or rather—it was the Red Devils' fury boiling over.
Four minutes of stoppage time were shown—reasonable, given five goals and two substitutions in the second half. There had been no major delays otherwise.
For those four minutes, Manchester United threw everything forward. They swarmed around Millwall's box, wave after wave, but Millwall built a steel wall in front of Keller. Most of United's efforts smacked into blue shirts and were cleared away.
Even Pallister came up. A volley of his cannoned off Jaap Stam and spun behind for a corner.
The clock ticked past 95 minutes and 42 seconds. Nearly two minutes beyond the allotted added time. Still, referee Durkin did not blow for full-time. Perhaps because Nedvěd's goal celebration had consumed so much time, he allowed the attack to continue.
From his seat in the stands, Aldridge tensed as he saw Schmeichel jogging forward to join the attack. And then, like a knife in the chest, a thought struck him.
Damn it. I forgot to make my last substitutions.
Two changes unused. Two golden chances to eat away precious seconds, to let his men breathe and reorganize. United had no need for changes—no one to bring on, and no desire to waste time. But Millwall could have slowed everything, disrupted United's rhythm, made them restart from scratch.
He had forgotten. In the thrill and fury of a match like this, his inexperience showed.
Now, it was too late.
He stood, along with nearly everyone in Old Trafford. The stadium was a wall of sound. This would be the final play.
Bodies crammed the penalty area, blue against red. With Schmeichel forward, it was almost man for man. Beckham placed the ball for the corner, brushing his hair back, eyes narrowing.
Throughout the night, Steve Bruce's performance had been a nightmare. The veteran captain, 34 now, was being shown up by Millwall's young lions. But with the armband on his sleeve, he carried United's pride. His round face, flushed with rage and determination, told the story: he would not surrender.
The corner arced in. Amid the chaos, Bruce launched himself. Somehow, through the crush of bodies, he found the ball first.
Anger, defiance, and raw will exploded as he rose above Claude Makelele, knocking him aside with his leap.
Even if I were eighty years old—no one runs riot at Old Trafford!
Boom!
His header crashed through, arrowing past Keller into the net.
Keller pounded the ground in anguish, his fists slamming the turf as the ball nestled in the back of the goal.
Millwall's players dropped their heads, eyes shut in despair.
The Red Devils had done it—snatched a last-gasp equaliser.
Old Trafford erupted in thunder.
The scoreboard showing an unbelievable score:
Manchester United 5–5 Millwall.