Although Nedvěd kept trying to explain to referee Dilkes what had happened in the penalty area, the official shook his head and dismissed it. Referees do sometimes overturn their own decisions, but only with extreme caution. To reverse himself would be to undermine his own authority, and in English football that sort of self-denial was almost unthinkable. Authority, once questioned, was weakened.
Perhaps it was down to the conservative and stubborn character so typical of English referees, but in the end Dilkes insisted: Millwall were to take the penalty.
Arsenal's players were furious. Their anger was not directed at Millwall, their derby rivals, but at the referee. Still, there was nothing more they could do. Apart from Seaman standing in goal, the rest of the Arsenal players turned away.
The Millwall players, meanwhile, looked to the touchline, to Aldridge. What would he decide?
The team's regular penalty taker was Larsson. But from the sideline Aldridge pointed firmly towards Nedvěd. The Czech was to take it.
Larsson raised no objection. In fact, none of Millwall's players even moved into the area in case of a rebound. They stood back, well away, leaving the moment to Nedvěd.
Dilkes blew his whistle. Nedvěd walked slowly up to the spot. He let his toe brush lightly against the ball, then turned and jogged back.
Seaman stepped forward, collected the ball, and—realising what Nedvěd had done—clapped him in admiration. The stadium responded with warm applause.
As Nedvěd jogged back, Tony Adams passed him and muttered a quiet, "Sorry." Moments earlier he had been cursing him with every foul word he knew, but now his tone was sincere. Nedvěd didn't react, didn't even slow down, simply kept running.
Up in the commentary box, the broadcasters' tone changed.
"Andy, this might not be remembered as a glorious footballing moment," one remarked, "but it will go down as a classic example of sportsmanship. Nedvěd has shown the world that football should be won honestly, face to face. If Völler were watching this now, he ought to feel ashamed. Yes, he led Germany to the summit of world football, but his dive in the '90 World Cup final is admired by no one outside of Germany."
"All around the ground, fans are applauding Nedvěd's gesture. This is what we should be celebrating. Not every player who goes down in the box has been fouled, and referees do make mistakes. But today we've seen a player take the initiative to preserve fairness. Football is too often dragged down by cynicism, but Nedvěd has set an example. And Millwall coach Aldridge clearly approves—television replays showed him applauding too. Tomorrow, I expect many neutral fans will find themselves warming to Aldridge and his team."
English supporters, still scarred by Maradona's 'Hand of God', despised cheating above all. Even when English players, like Michael Owen, went down easily in international matches, it was mocked rather than celebrated. In 1990, when Beckenbauer's powerful Germany met Maradona's Argentina in the World Cup final, the match had been tense and goalless. A clear German penalty was denied, but minutes from the end Rudi Völler went down under the slightest contact. The referee pointed to the spot, and Brehme's penalty won Germany the title. The trophy returned to Berlin, but Völler's dive was condemned worldwide.
The half soon came to an end, and the players filed back to the dressing rooms.
Inside, Aldridge waited until everyone had sat down. He gave them a moment to wipe their boots, change shirts, or sip water, letting the tension ease before he spoke.
"Pavel," Aldridge said evenly, "you did the right thing."
Nedvěd raised his head but gave no nod, no gesture in reply.
Turning to the rest, Aldridge's tone stayed calm, measured.
"I am a coach who wants to win. You are players who want to win. But we cannot let that desire corrupt us. If we are weaker than our opponents, we will make up for it with hard work and sweat. If we lack their individual brilliance, we will compensate with spirit and unity. But we must never tarnish the meaning of victory. Do not debase the word 'win' with tricks or deception. Perhaps doing so might bring us a trophy or two, but in the long run, we would lose much more. Once you cross that line, there is no way back."
The dressing room was silent. One by one, the players nodded gravely, taking in the weight of his words.
After a moment of silence, Aldridge stepped to the tactical board and began outlining the plan for the second half. There were no sweeping changes—just a shift in rhythm and a few refinements in positioning and movement.
Before the restart, Aldridge's eyes drifted toward the Arsenal players warming up on the touchline. Their expressions told him enough. The slump from the first half was gone; their fighting spirit had returned, and in their eyes burned the hunger to turn the match around.
Bruce Rioch was no fool. Whatever his limitations, he was no incompetent. His words in the dressing room had clearly worked—Arsenal came out with renewed determination.
That was fine by Aldridge.
The crowd inside the Den remained feverish, a constant roar of noise. As the cheers thundered, the second half began.
Arsenal's shape was different. Rioch had pulled Adams into a covering role behind the other two centre-backs, forming something reminiscent of the Italian-style catenaccio. Winterburn and Dixon advanced cautiously down the flanks. Bergkamp dropped deeper, taking on more of the creative responsibility alongside Platt. It was still based on their 5-3-2, but the adjustments gave it a strange, improvised look.
The visitors mounted the first attack after the interval. Bergkamp dropped off, linked neatly with Platt, and slipped the ball into Wright's path. The striker turned sharply and lashed a shot from just outside the area. But from such a narrow angle, Keller gathered it comfortably into his chest.
Aldridge tilted his chin toward the opposite half. It was the signal. Millwall broke forward.
The counter began with Keller's throw to the right. Thuram, surprisingly high, surged forward with the ball. Arsenal had not expected him to join the attack and were caught unsettled. Even more shocking, aside from the two centre-backs and Makélélé, every Millwall player poured forward. It was a blue wave, rolling violently into Arsenal's half.
Thuram fed Schneider, who played a quick one-two with Nedvěd and was released down the wing. He drove to the byline, then cut a ball back toward the edge of the box.
Waiting there was Trezeguet, dragging defenders with him into the six-yard area. Larsson hovered just behind, timing his movement perfectly at the top of the penalty arc. Schneider's cut-back rolled straight into his stride.
Larsson struck through the ball first-time. Arsenal's back line had been retreating in a panic, and Bould lunged desperately to block. He was half a step late. The shot skimmed just over his shoulder with a sharp whistle.
Seaman launched himself at full stretch toward the top left corner, but the ball was already gone, buried in the netting beyond his fingertips.
Millwall 2–0 Arsenal!
"Larsson! He's unstoppable today! A thunderbolt from the edge of the area doubles Millwall's lead! And what a counterattack—direct from the goalkeeper. Let's watch the replay… from Keller's throw to Thuram, all the way through to the finish, it took just 13 seconds! Incredible speed!"
On the touchline, Aldridge closed his eyes and allowed himself the smallest grin. He pumped his fist once, sharply.
He knew Arsenal would push harder in the second half. That was inevitable. But Millwall's answer was not to retreat into a shell—it was to strike back instantly, to use Arsenal's aggression against them. Every attack Arsenal committed would leave space behind. And in that space, Millwall's counterattacks would deliver the killing blows.
Larsson, now with two goals, sprinted down the touchline, hand cupped to his ear as the South Stand erupted in adulation.
From the terraces came a new song, raw and booming:
"No one likes us, it doesn't matter—We've got Larsson!"
Rioch looked increasingly frustrated on the touchline. His reshaped Arsenal side had run headlong into a Millwall that was unshaken, confident, and merciless. The sharpness Arsenal had once been known for—the cutting edge dulled over the past few years—could not be restored in a single afternoon. Millwall, by contrast, were like a young lion, newly grown, ravenous, and eager for blood.
The spirit Arsenal had briefly found at half-time evaporated almost instantly. Players stood with hands on hips, gazing around in bewilderment, unable to muster a response.
Last season, they had lost to Millwall's second string. At the time they could excuse themselves: George Graham was on the brink of dismissal, the club's form collapsing, and the squad lacked unity. But today?
This time they faced Millwall's strongest XI, and the reality was brutal. Their attacks were disjointed, their once-proud defence riddled with gaps.
Where was the path to victory?
As Arsenal kicked off again, Aldridge noticed something that amused him.
They had abandoned ambition.
Arsenal sank back into their shell, defending deep in numbers—returning to habit. Like ostriches burying their heads at the first sign of danger, they pulled back, as if retreat itself could shield them from harm.
Rioch, resigned, retreated to the bench. Forty minutes still remained, but he no longer believed in a comeback. It was now about damage control.
It was, after all, still a derby. Not Arsenal's fiercest rivalry—Tottenham held that place—but one in which pride mattered. Losing narrowly was tolerable. A rout was not.
Rioch's current Arsenal side was at the beginning of a rebuilding process. Bergkamp and Platt could not simply transform the team's fortunes overnight. Every player Rioch could depend on was already on the pitch. Against a Millwall in full ascent, the pragmatic choice was to avoid humiliation.
But Millwall were not inclined to show mercy. Even against Arsenal's compact defence, they probed relentlessly. With ten minutes left, Aldridge made a small adjustment that Arsenal failed to anticipate: Trezeguet and Larsson switched roles.
This time Larsson drifted inside, lurking between the centre-backs, while Trezeguet pulled wider to occupy the flank. When Pires delivered a teasing cross from the left, Larsson darted in front of his marker, rose above the defence, and powered a header beyond Seaman's reach.
Hat-trick.
The Den erupted. Larsson, arms wide, ran toward the stands as scarves and fists waved in jubilation. His third goal sealed the result, and with it his place as man of the match.
Millwall 3–0 Arsenal.
...
Millwall's first Premier League London derby ended with a 3–0 victory over traditional giants Arsenal. In a box high above the Den, David Dein and Arsène Wenger had watched the entire match.
Dein tried hard to mask his fury, forcing a calm expression onto his face, but in truth he was close to exploding. Every time Millwall scored, Arthur, seated beside him, celebrated like a man possessed. When Larsson netted the third goal, the old rogue even uncorked a bottle of wine, poured out a glass, and handed it to Dein—not treating him as Arsenal's vice-chairman at all, but as though he were just another Millwall supporter.
Dein squeezed out a smile and declined the offer. Wenger, who had already reached the limits of his tolerance, also refused to drink. If the television cameras had caught Dein and Arthur toasting together, he would have returned to Highbury with no choice but to submit his resignation.
That night Dein resolved once more that, when the J-League season in Japan ended, he would invite Wenger to take charge of Arsenal. The only reason it had not happened yet was Wenger's contractual obligation to Nagoya Grampus Eight. Out of professional courtesy, Wenger could not abandon them after a single year.
What Dein did not expect was that Arsenal's humiliation at the Den would serve as a wake-up call. After this game, their performances under Rioch began to improve steadily. That upturn meant Dein had no chance of persuading the board to dismiss Rioch in mid-winter and turn to Wenger.
Meanwhile, Millwall's players did their usual lap, applauding their supporters. Aldridge walked back through the tunnel and stopped briefly in the mixed zone for an interview. He spoke modestly, saying only that the derby victory would boost the confidence of his young side. He deliberately avoided commenting on Arsenal's display.
In the past, whether winning or losing, Aldridge had always spoken respectfully of his opponents. But to praise Arsenal after such a collapse would have sounded insincere and artificial. Everyone in England had seen how poor Arsenal were that night. The media would rightly turn their fire on Bruce Rioch. Losing a derby to a newly promoted club was damaging enough; to lose 3–0 while showing no signs of recovery was unforgivable.
None of that concerned Aldridge. That evening he hosted the Spice Girls at the Leeds Hotel, one of London's historic establishments, over a century old.
The dinner was lively. Conversation bounced around the table, with Geri Halliwell especially curious about Aldridge, firing question after question.
When talk turned to money, Aldridge set down his fork, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and shrugged."No, you're completely wrong. In the Premier League, managers don't earn more than the players. Maybe there are one or two exceptions—Ferguson, perhaps—but I'd bet even his wages don't match Cantona's. I can save Millwall money as a coach, that's true. But the club itself is running in debt. I'm carrying thirty-five million pounds already, and on top of that the construction firms are at my door every day, reminding me of the new stadium contract. That project alone will top sixty million. So don't be fooled by appearances. Millwall may look beautiful now, but in reality I'm hundreds of millions of pounds in debt."
The five women froze in astonishment. A hundred million pounds of debt was beyond their imagination.
Halliwell pressed quickly: "But isn't it said the Hall family has assets of more than three hundred million? Even if the creditors came calling, surely that would be enough?"
Aldridge smiled faintly and shook his head."Even if the rumours are true, the Hall family doesn't hold three hundred million in cash. And if the time came where they had to bail me out, every rival in the business world would know we were desperate to liquidate. Assets worth ten million would be sold off for eight. And besides, it wouldn't happen. I am me. My brother is my brother. We're independent of each other."
"Then what do you do?" Halliwell asked again. "I mean, football is your only industry. How do you raise a hundred million? Will you take Millwall public? Other clubs are doing it—and they seem to be making a fortune."
The mid-1990s were the age of club flotations, though by the early 2000s the football bubble would burst.
Aldridge shook his head."No. The football bubble is too big already. All listed football clubs are junk stocks. It's nothing more than a trick—taking the supporters' hard-earned money and stuffing it into the pockets of shareholders. That's worse than the membership system in Spain. At least there, supporters willingly pay their dues to support their club. Once you float, the purpose is never pure. Millwall will make its money the proper way. In fact, this season we've already begun to turn a profit. The sponsorship contracts we signed are just the beginning."
The women exchanged looks. They had imagined they were dining with a young, charming manager, but in front of them sat a man burdened with colossal debt, speaking like a hardened businessman.
Melanie gently slipped her hand into Aldridge's. "When I start earning real money, I could invest in Millwall."
Aldridge chuckled. "And I'd refuse. Millwall is mine."
"You know that's not what I mean."
"I know," he replied. "That's why I refuse."
The others laughed, but Halliwell smirked and leaned in."Aldridge, plenty of girls like you. Even at the stadium today, I saw fans with signs saying they love you. What do you think about that?"
Aldridge paused, considering, then answered carefully."This is a serious topic. I want to be an outstanding coach. That means my private life cannot be the focus, and above all it cannot generate negative headlines. Scandal would be fatal."
Halliwell teased him further: "But The Sun this week ran a feature about a model who declared her love for you. She said knowing you would be happiness itself. Her name is Katie Price—stage name Jordan."
Aldridge frowned. The name "Jordan" sounded absurd. Not only was it shared with the American basketball legend, but in years to come it would be plastered across English tabloids.
"Happiness?" he said, his tone scathing. "For her, yes. Because being linked with me gives her exposure, raises her profile, keeps her cleavage in the spotlight every week. But for me, it's a disaster. My name would be splashed across the third page. Every hostile supporter would laugh, saying Aldridge has a 'Page Three girl'. They'd sneer and fantasise about her, while I became a target of ridicule. My private life would be turned into a stepping stone for someone else's career. And when I no longer satisfied their need for attention, they'd leave me for the next man who could. Football is the most scrutinised sport in Britain, part of the nation's daily entertainment. That's why players—and managers—are prey for tabloid girls. I won't let myself be dragged down into that swamp. If one day my player, or even an opponent's player, turns up with a woman who once shared my bed, what scene would that be? A catastrophe. I refuse to cheapen myself, to be plastered over the tabloids. That would be shameful."
His words were blunt, almost brutal, but grounded in reality. With the experience of two lives, Aldridge chose his path carefully. He would never entangle himself with women who traded on undressing for attention.
Emma struggled to accept it. "Aldridge, that's prejudice."
Before he could reply, Halliwell cut in sharply."Oh, Emma, don't be naive. You're nearly twenty. This world is filled with ruthless men and shameless women. Just because you don't strip for fruit photos doesn't mean others won't. Aldridge is right. If he weren't Millwall's coach, if he weren't a Hall, do you really think Jordan would be declaring her love in public?"
Halliwell, the oldest of the group, was also the most outspoken. Melanie, meanwhile, smiled quietly, chin resting on her hand, enjoying Aldridge's sharp words. She preferred his frankness to the shallow boasting of boys her own age.
As the evening drew to a close, a new figure appeared at their table. An elegant older gentleman, immaculately dressed, silver-haired but full of vigour, with a charming smile.
"Excuse me, are you Mr. Hall?" he asked politely.
Aldridge noticed the three Spice Girls sitting opposite him all suddenly widen their eyes, staring at the stranger beside him in disbelief.
He turned curiously, studying the man. He looked around, uncertain—he didn't recognise him at all.
"Yes, I am Mr. Hall," Aldridge answered cautiously. "But I am Aldridge Hall. Perhaps you've mistaken me for someone else?"
In his mind, he assumed the man must be looking for his elder brother Barnett, or his second brother Andrew.
The stranger simply smiled, extended his hand, and introduced himself."Giorgio Armani. Then I haven't made a mistake. May I sit down? I hope I'm not intruding on you and these beautiful young ladies at dinner."
Aldridge froze for a moment. He still didn't know him personally, but judging from the Spice Girls' astonished expressions—and from the name itself—he guessed immediately who this was.
It was Armani. The world-renowned designer, the man whom the fashion industry had hailed as defining the entire Armani era throughout the 1980s.