Steve Bruce's buzzer-beating goal finally sealed the score between the Red Devils and the Lions at 5–5.
It could not erase his poor performance throughout the match, but at least it was a form of self-redemption.
Manchester United's players surrounded Bruce in excitement, celebrating both the goal itself and the draw they had salvaged at the very last moment.
Millwall's players, on the other hand, were heartbroken. Schneider dropped to his knees, gritted his teeth, and shut his eyes in anguish.
Why hadn't they won?!
A firm hand pressed down on his shoulder. Schneider opened his eyes and saw the calm expression of captain Gareth Southgate. Southgate leaned closer and said softly:"Stand up. Keep your head high. We should be thanking our fans for coming to support us."
Schneider stood up slowly, forcing his emotions back down. He glanced around and saw his teammates recovering from the disappointment, one by one. Together, they turned towards the East Stand and applauded the fans who had sung for them all match.
"An incredible game, Andy. I think this is the most exciting match I have ever commentated on. From the first minute—no, from the very first whistle—all the way to the final one, it was breathtaking. This game will live in the memory."
"This is the Premier League! The league we're most proud of, the one we love. The speed, the intensity, the fierce duels. And the quality—tactically and technically it was brilliant. Yes, ten goals were scored, but the overall standard of play was outstanding. Every single goal was thrilling. Close your eyes and the images of the players come to mind immediately. Millwall's youngsters were unforgettable, and Manchester United's new generation showed they are worthy of the red shirt. Martin, this was a football feast. Maybe only a few are known European names now, but with the performances we saw today, I am certain they'll shine on bigger stages in the years ahead. We were fortunate to witness such a game."
"I couldn't agree more. If I were to give ratings, most players would deserve high marks. Ferguson may feel unsettled—Cantona was missing, and his young side still dropped points at the end. Hall too will regret it, because his team was seconds away from victory. But to both managers I say: thank you. This was a Premier League classic. Fans who missed it live will never know what they lost, because from first second to last, this was football at its purest. That's all from Old Trafford: Manchester United against Millwall ends 5–5. We'll see you next time."
At Old Trafford, as referee Durkin blew the final whistle, the fans rose and applauded. The clapping echoed and lasted for a long time.
United supporters might always expect the Red Devils to win. But when the final moment came, what they felt was not anger at a draw, but regret that the match had ended at all. The rollercoaster had stopped.
On the pitch, players mingled, many of them exchanging jerseys.
Peter Schmeichel walked over to Henrik Larsson. Though not from the same country, they were fellow Nordics, and both smiled as they stripped off their shirts.
"Hey, you should come to Manchester United," Schmeichel said with a grin. "You score goals, I save them—we'll win a lot of trophies."
It was shameless poaching, but also genuine admiration. Larsson laughed lightly and gave no reply.
Nearby, Roy Keane sought out Pavel Nedvěd. The two warriors faced each other, both mud-splattered, shirts soaked in sweat. Without a word, they took off their jerseys and handed them over. Each slung the other's shirt across a shoulder, shook hands firmly, then turned and walked away in silence.
In the stands, Aldridge closed his eyes briefly, blaming himself. Yet this was not the time for frustration. He turned to keep his promise to a young United fan. But before he could speak, the boy's father gave him a thumbs up.
"Your team is amazing."
Aldridge smiled faintly.
To say Millwall were amazing was true. But at Old Trafford, a draw still meant the subtext remained: Manchester United are strong, and Millwall proved only that they were not weak.
Aldridge accepted the marker, signed his name on the boy's cap, and left with a smile.
Below, Ferguson was waiting. Before the match his face had been flushed red with temper; now he looked calmer.
"Aldridge, Manchester United may just have lost the two points that decide the title!" Ferguson's tone was half-joking, half-serious.
The painful memory of last season's title race slipping away was still fresh. Who knew how this year would end?
Aldridge shook his head and replied lightly:"Alex, maybe Millwall just earned the point that keeps us from relegation."
Ferguson widened his eyes and pointed at him."If you say Millwall are a relegation team, I'd think you're mocking Manchester United!"
After all, United had not been able to beat Millwall at home. If Millwall were a relegation side, then what did that say about Manchester United's title challenge?
And deep down, Ferguson had to admit that in certain periods of the game, Millwall had played the better football.
Aldridge only smiled, unwilling to prolong the argument.
"I'll be in my office. Today's worth keeping for my collection."
"Alright, see you later."
They shook hands, went their separate ways, and Aldridge returned to the dressing room. He spoke briefly with his players before preparing for the long coach ride back to London.
At the press conference after the game, the reporters could barely wait to begin.
Those who had witnessed the entire ninety minutes in person were still buzzing with questions, many struggling to calm themselves after such a spectacle.
What kind of match had they just seen?
The reigning champions, the Premier League overlords, the traditional giants Manchester United—at Old Trafford, against the newly promoted Millwall—had produced a game that no one could have predicted.
United fell behind, conceding twice in succession, then struck back with two of their own before halftime. At the start of the second half, they turned the score around, only to be pegged back again. Then they fell behind once more, equalised, conceded yet again in the dying moments, and finally drew level deep into injury time.
Millwall led, were overturned, fought back, led again, were equalised. They surged ahead once more before the end—only to be denied at the very last second.
Bloody hell.
It wasn't just the scoreline. The ebb and flow, the sheer passion of it all, had left Old Trafford breathless.
When Sir Alex Ferguson appeared, the old Scot's expression was calm, almost unreadable.
A reporter asked:"Manchester United seemed to lose their usual dominance today, failing to impose themselves as the Old Trafford protagonists. As manager, what do you think was the reason?"
Ferguson shrugged, smiling faintly."The reason is simple—this is the Premier League. Everyone who watched knows that neither side wanted to feel the other out. From the very first second, Millwall came at us hard. If anyone thought they were relegation fodder, they're fools. They set a furious tempo. At first, we were uncomfortable, but soon realised we couldn't slow it down. In the end, it was simply about who scored more. That's why it became such a classic."
"So, do you think Millwall can be a genuine title contender this season?"
Ferguson nodded seriously."Of course. Can any of you tell me the last time Manchester United conceded five goals at home? They've been champions twice and runners-up once in the past three years. If that record doesn't suggest they can challenge, then what does?"
When Aldridge entered for his interview, the press room chuckled.
He looked puzzled, then sat down and asked:"Any questions?"
Richard from the Daily Mail, an old acquaintance of his, raised his hand first.
"Mr. Hall, just now Mr. Ferguson said Millwall are one of the league's title contenders. Do you agree?"
Aldridge shook his head without hesitation."Of course not. Millwall are still very young. Just getting promoted to the Premier League this season already feels fortunate enough."
He had no desire to paint a target on his team's back.
"But you scored five goals at Old Trafford and were minutes away from winning. United trailed for much of the match."
Aldridge leaned forward and answered with deliberate exaggeration."Of course! This is the Theatre of Dreams. Which team doesn't want to shine here? To play at Old Trafford is to cherish the chance. I think Middlesbrough, Southampton, Queens Park Rangers—any side that comes here will give 200% and leave with their heads held high."
The room of reporters laughed aloud.
Between Ferguson and Aldridge, there were blades hidden behind the smiles. Ferguson was trying to thrust Millwall into the spotlight; Aldridge deflected by praising United and shifting the challenge to the rest of the league.
Perhaps the Premier League had found a new rivalry.
"Millwall were equalised at the last minute. How do you feel? Are you disappointed with your players?"
Aldridge paused briefly, then said:"I am sad, and I am disappointed—but only because I failed my players. They were impeccable. I wasn't able to help them secure the win."
Reporters perked up at first, expecting him to blame his squad, but instead he took the weight himself.
It was unusual. Millwall being pegged back at the death was hardly a disaster. Exceeding expectations at Old Trafford, surely he should have been delighted?
"Mr. Hall, can you explain why you blame yourself?"
Aldridge was frank."I should have used my last two substitutions to break Manchester United's late momentum. But after being sent to the stands, I forgot to remind my assistants. That's on me. The players were excellent—I was the weak link."
The journalists were left speechless. They knew he was playing a card to win the dressing room, but to say it so openly in front of more than forty media outlets? It would only deepen the players' loyalty to him. Few could doubt its worth.
In the first round of the 1995/96 Premier League season, Manchester United hosted Millwall at Old Trafford. The match was later hailed as the greatest since the Premier League's creation.
In official retrospective lists for the league's 10th and 20th anniversaries, it still ranked among the very best—not only for the relentless drama and tactical brilliance, but also for its historical significance. It marked the rise of a new generation, with several young stars from both clubs stepping into the spotlight. The game became a symbol of a new era beginning.
...
...
Millwall's squad—players, coaches, doctors, managers—had already set off back to London. Only the head coach stayed behind.
Ferguson's office was not large, but it carried the air of a reception room. A transparent coffee table stood in the centre, leather sofas set against three walls around it. Photographs and meaningful paintings hung neatly above.
Aldridge stood as a guest. While Ferguson poured wine, he lingered by one of the photographs: Lunch Atop a Skyscraper (1932), taken during the construction of New York's Rockefeller Center.
The image showed eleven construction workers perched on a steel beam high above the city, eating lunch as Manhattan's skyline sprawled hundreds of metres below.
In Aldridge's mind, it perfectly reflected the essence of eleven footballers on the pitch—the risks, the courage, the trust in one another, the need for balance and professionalism. Just as those workers embodied the spirit of building America's iconic landmark, so did players on the pitch embody the spirit of a club like Manchester United.
"Aldridge, you nearly gave me a heart attack today."
Turning, Aldridge saw Ferguson seated on the sofa with a glass of red wine. Another glass, poured for Aldridge, rested on the table.
He sat opposite, lifted the glass, and took a sip. Nothing special lingered in the aftertaste.
"Why? Don't like it?"
Ferguson smiled faintly. The battle was over. Now, an old master and a young challenger could share a drink, the kind of small joy football life occasionally allowed.
Aldridge shook his head and smiled honestly."My father was a street brawler when he was young. My elder brother grew up working glass. Cheers—red wine or beer, it makes no difference to me. Not about like or dislike. But it doesn't make me happy. If Millwall had won today, I'd have invited you for barbecue and beer instead."
Ferguson chuckled and raised his glass."This is port wine, from Portugal. In Britain, it carries a sense of ceremony. I didn't know your tastes, so I thought: students drink it, soldiers drink it, nobles drink it—it should suit anyone. Seems I was wrong. Then tell me—what's the best red wine you've ever tasted?"
Aldridge thought for a moment."'82 Lafite. Though to be honest, I'm a layman. I only drank it to see what the fuss was about."
In truth, Lafite was far from the absolute pinnacle among Europe's great wineries. In Aldridge's previous life, its fame in China had been inflated as a status symbol for the nouveau riche. When he'd finally earned money, he'd bought a bottle in the 1990s—back when it was far cheaper than it would become a decade later. After drinking, he had found it hardly worth the legend.
Ferguson nodded knowingly."Yes, the 1982 vintage was one of the best in decades. That year's grape harvest was exceptional."
"Grapes matter that much?"
"Of course. Grapes are the heart of wine. Good wine isn't only about technique—it depends on the mood of nature. If the weather blesses the harvest, you get greatness. If not, you get ordinary fruit, and no skill can make it legendary. It's the same with football. Classic matches are born by chance, not by planning."
Aldridge nodded seriously.
Ferguson leaned back, curious."Aldridge, tell me—what's your secret? You've never played professionally, yet your grasp of tactics is remarkable. Millwall's football today was outstanding—so fluid, yet that doesn't happen without training. Even the best drills don't guarantee it translates to a match. And beyond tactics, your players—my scouts tell me many have real star potential. How did you find them? Where do you get your information?"
Aldridge agreed with Ferguson's point. Football was not a sport of fixed patterns. Unlike basketball or American football, no coach could draw up precise movement paths on a whiteboard and expect players to follow them step by step.
"I left London before I was thirteen and travelled across Europe. Spain, Italy, the Netherlands, France, Germany, Portugal—even the north and the east. I studied football culture in each place and kept it all in my head. To be honest, I'm not a tactical madman. I don't sit over a board all day trying to script movements. Have you heard of Laconic thinking?"
Ferguson shook his head. He might be a connoisseur of wine and a master of football management, but beyond that his learning was ordinary. It was why he later often bristled with Arsène Wenger—Wenger was a scholar, cultured and articulate. Next to him, Ferguson sometimes felt again like the dockworker's son from Glasgow.
"Laconic thinking means simplicity, conciseness. Stripping things down to their essence. Because only the simplest things endure and allow creativity to blossom. In training, I keep the ball simple and fast. I drill running, positioning, teamwork. Once those are second nature, the flow comes naturally. Same for defending—instil the simplest core awareness, and the players will do the rest themselves."
Ferguson listened carefully.
"Why so honest? No secret methods?" he asked with a half-smile.
Aldridge laughed."Secrets? There are none in football. Tactical frameworks are always simple. What matters is execution—and execution depends on players. Everyone in the league knows United attack through the wings, yet most still can't stop you. Why? Because the players are too good. Even if a team crowds one side to defend, that opens weaknesses elsewhere. Ability wins the duels.
"Even if United went back to the old English long-ball game, your results wouldn't collapse. Your passes would be more accurate, and you could buy the best centre-forward to finish them. Same tactic, different team, completely different effect. Real tactical revolutions have been rare in a hundred years—fewer than ten, even. With television and scouting today, there are no mysteries left. It's all about how players and tactics fit each other."
Ferguson exhaled deeply."You're right. The key is matching players to tactics. Put the right men in the right roles, and the system thrives. Force them elsewhere, and it's disaster."
This was the idea behind Aldridge's team-building. He needed a powerful striker—David Trezeguet fit the role perfectly. Ole Gunnar Solskjær was excellent in his own right, but he could not replace the young Frenchman. He needed a midfield commander. Ballack, Nedvěd, and Vieira were all fine candidates, but in his eyes, no one surpassed Andrea Pirlo. For an English defence, he required dominance in the air, and players like Jaap Stam met the standard. And so on—the foundation was clear: players whose natural strengths aligned with their tactical roles.
Yet tactical matchups and mutual restraints would always exist. Those were most clearly revealed in contests between the very best teams. When the gap in strength was vast, even the cleverest tactics could rarely overcome the disparity. Football's shocks did not come from paper logic, but from balance at the highest level.
Ferguson rose, topped up Aldridge's glass, and then leaned forward with another question."So, where did you discover all these players?"
Aldridge chuckled."Didn't I just say? I've travelled across Europe for years. I watched a match nearly every week, filling notebooks with players' names. And my second brother runs an agency. He has scouts placed all over the world."
Ferguson paused, then suddenly understood. After a long silence, he lifted his head and spoke with deliberate weight."Seven million pounds. Sell us Larsson. Or—five million, for that young Frenchman, Trezeguet."
Aldridge's pleasant mood vanished at once. The old fox had finally made his move.
Inside, unease flickered. This was not the first enquiry Ferguson had made—he had tested the waters three months earlier before letting the matter drop. But today's match had reignited his determination.
If Ferguson was speaking now, money would not be an obstacle. And with the performances Larsson and Trezeguet had just produced, no one at Old Trafford would question the wages required.
The transfer fees Ferguson named were far from derisory. Seven million pounds was serious money—half a million more than the record fee United had paid for Andy Cole earlier that spring, though half a million less than the £7.5 million Arsenal had just spent to bring Dennis Bergkamp from Inter Milan. It would make Larsson the second-most expensive signing in English football history.
And five million pounds for Trezeguet, still a teenager, was also a sincere offer.
Aldridge set down his glass and answered coolly."I'll need to think about it."
"Whether or not the deal happens," Ferguson replied, rising to shake hands firmly, "the next time you visit Manchester United, I'll open a bottle of '82 Lafite."
Aldridge smiled faintly and took his leave.