It was hardly surprising that prominent names often drifted in and out of the Leeds Hotel. So it was not unusual that Aldridge might encounter someone like the Italian designer Armani here.
After clasping Aldridge's hand, Armani settled into the empty seat beside him. Across the table, the three Spice Girls — Victoria, Geri Halliwell, and Emma — lowered their heads together, then gasped in unison:
"Armani! Oh, my god!"
"Are you here on holiday?" Aldridge asked, his expression calm.
In truth, celebrities were no rarity in London. If he wished, Aldridge could accompany his elder brothers to any number of parties, dinners, or galas, mingling daily with people from the entertainment industry, politics, and business.
Armani shook his head. "No, I'm preparing for the autumn fashion show. Tonight, I came for dinner with a few of my models."
Following Armani's glance, Aldridge noticed a group of stunning young women seated at a nearby table. A few looked over, flashing smiles and batting their eyes, though Aldridge could not tell if they were hoping to please their boss or to attract his own attention.
He quickly looked away and nodded. "Understood. Mr. Armani, then what brings you to me? Are you trying to make them models?"
Armani chuckled. "I could never afford them. Their appearance fee alone could cover the annual budget of an entire football club. No, I'm here for you, Mr. Hall. Since arriving in London I've picked up several newspapers, and your face appears constantly. Some men are born models, and I believe you are one of them. Standing on the touchline, head held high, you lack the arrogance of youth yet radiate confidence and restraint. There's a quality about you that draws the eye. Most men would want to imitate you, knowing it makes them more appealing to women."
The girls across the table let out another squeal of excitement. To them, it was astonishing that even someone as influential as Armani had taken notice.
Aldridge, however, only smiled faintly and pressed the point: "Mr. Armani, thank you for the compliment, but you still haven't answered my question."
Armani leaned forward slightly. "How would you feel about wearing Armani menswear?"
"I don't have time to shoot commercials," Aldridge replied evenly. "And outside of winter, I rarely wear anything heavier than a coat."
"There's no need for advertising," Armani explained smoothly. "If you wear Armani suits on matchdays, you'll be photographed every weekend. In winter, the same goes for coats. And, of course, if you wish, we can provide casual wear free of charge. In your private life, wear what you like. But with the British paparazzi, you'll still end up in the gossip columns now and then."
Aldridge smiled but remained silent.
Endorsement fees for footballers were climbing year after year, driven by television's rapid expansion and football's unmatched popularity. Unlike film stars, whose exposure was inconsistent, athletes appeared in front of cameras every single week. A footballer, whether brilliant or poor, was always a focal point.
Actors and actresses could not compare: television dramas had limited runs, films took months or years between releases, and variety shows were hit or miss. But football, in Britain, was the most universal form of entertainment — watched by men, women, and children alike.
Aldridge finally lifted a hand and pointed to the upper left corner of his current suit jacket, where the Millwall club crest was sewn. "There's only one condition. Any suit or coat made for me must carry Millwall's badge."
Armani paused for a moment's thought, then nodded. "That can be arranged. It will make your attire distinctive and attract even more attention."
The Millwall crest symbolised a football club, not a competing clothing brand, so there was no conflict of interest. In fact, Armani found the idea clever: a head coach in an Armani suit bearing his club's emblem would stand out even more — stylish yet unmistakably rooted in football.
Aldridge took a pen from his pocket, scribbled a number on a napkin, and handed it to Armani. "Discuss the endorsement fee with my brother, Andrew Hall."
"Very well. Goodbye for now." Armani slipped the napkin into his pocket, rose, and departed.
No sooner had he left than Emma burst out excitedly: "Aldridge, why aren't you thrilled? That was Armani. Giorgio Armani!"
Aldridge sipped his drink and answered calmly: "If I treated him with overblown respect, he wouldn't have spoken to me. What he values is confidence and composure. Besides, I've never been one to care about fashion. If I happened to run into Maradona here, then yes, I might be excited. But celebrities? I've seen plenty. They don't impress me."
"You're so boring!" Emma pouted.
"Thank you. I prefer not to play the clown for others' amusement."
Her eyes widened. "Are you calling me a clown?"
"No. I'm just saying I've grown past the age of chasing stars."
"You're younger than me!"
"Yes," Aldridge said evenly, "but my outlook is more mature."
"You—!" Emma ground her teeth, but Victoria interjected with a laugh: "Aldridge, if you keep sparring with her like this, your supposed maturity will vanish."
He nodded in agreement. "You're right. If I keep arguing, I'll only drag myself to her level. Ladies, it's late. I should head home and rest. Let me call a car for you."
Outside the Leeds Hotel, he said his goodbyes one by one. Before parting, Melanie gave him a mischievous smile. "I'll be waiting for you in Liverpool."
"Best forget it. Your whole family would be furious."
"Hmph. Don't be so proud. Liverpool isn't Arsenal. Do you think Anfield is so easy a place to conquer?"
"Wait and see."
After sending the five women on their way, Aldridge returned to his car and drove home.
The next day, Aldridge received a call at home from his brother Andrew. The Armani deal had been concluded: a one-year contract with an endorsement fee of £500,000. For this era, it was by no means a modest figure. Aldridge agreed without hesitation. Two days later, Armani sent a tailor to take Aldridge's measurements, and then left him waiting for the delivery of his custom-made suits.
In the second round of the Premier League, Millwall's 3–0 win over Arsenal was not the only shock. Liverpool lost 1–0 away at Leeds United, while defending champions Blackburn were beaten 2–1 by Sheffield Wednesday. These two results caught the headlines as well. Meanwhile, Manchester United defeated West Ham United 2–1, finding their rhythm again, and Newcastle United, with back-to-back victories, sat top of the table.
Looking ahead, Millwall were scheduled to play away in the League Cup next week against First Division side Grimsby Town. With that in mind, Aldridge planned to rotate heavily for the fourth round league match against Blackburn. But the third round fixture at Anfield, against Liverpool, was one he marked with the highest priority.
From midweek onwards, he immersed himself in preparation. He reviewed Liverpool's opening two games again and again, breaking down their patterns of play, and then drew up counter-strategies.
His young Millwall players, though crowned First Division champions only a few months earlier, knew that medals alone meant little in the Premier League. After drawing with Manchester United and dismantling Arsenal, they trained with even greater intensity, eager to prove that they belonged at this level.
At the weekend, Aldridge led his squad north to Merseyside.
Liverpool, the great port city, had its own unique character. But Millwall had no time for sightseeing. Their coach pulled up at Anfield; they filed off, warmed up on the pitch, and returned to the dressing room to prepare. Aldridge, characteristically, remained silent.
In the tunnel, the Reds stood waiting in their iconic all-red kit. When Millwall emerged, Aldridge followed behind his players. He stopped at the top of the steps before the famous sign mounted on the wall.
He tilted his head up at it, then beckoned Henrik Larsson closer. In a quiet voice, he asked: "Henrik, what does it say?"
Larsson looked at the plaque, adorned with the Liverpool crest. Around them, the Liverpool players stood with visible pride, their expressions almost mocking: What sort of villager doesn't know this?
"This is Anfield," Larsson said evenly.
Aldridge cupped his ear, pretending not to hear. "What was that?"
Larsson raised his voice: "Boss, this is Anfield!"
The players behind craned their necks to see the sign, murmuring to each other.
Aldridge's tone deepened. "Yes. This is Anfield. A great stadium, built on the legacy of the great Bill Shankly. Here Liverpool have raised four European Cups. They still hold the record for league titles in England. Henrik—tell me, how would it feel to win here?"
Larsson broke into a grin. "Wonderful!" he answered loudly.
The Millwall squad burst out laughing.
"Wonderful, incredible! And in ninety minutes, we'll take that feeling home with us. This is Anfield — I love it. Liverpool have built the stage, and now Millwall, tell me: what do we do?"
"Attack! Attack! Attack! Millwall!" the players roared in unison, their familiar training-ground slogan echoing down the tunnel.
Aldridge strode down the steps past the bemused Liverpool players. He stopped beside Jamie Redknapp, clapped him on the shoulder, and said with a grin:"Jamie, play well today. And if you speak to your father, tell him to watch closely. He'll see what Millwall are about now — we play nothing like his West Ham."
Jamie stared at him, speechless.
His father, Harry Redknapp, was now West Ham's manager. To distinguish father from son, people referred to him as "Old Redknapp," and Jamie as "Little Redknapp."
Among the Liverpool players, glances were exchanged. The fire in Millwall's eyes, their swagger, their defiance — it reminded them of another London club: Wimbledon. That had been the notorious "Crazy Gang." Millwall, in reputation, were no less rough, no less defiant.
Bloody London teams! one or two muttered under their breath.
...
From the Kop, the voices rose in unison, powerful and unwavering:
"When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high,and don't be afraid of the dark.At the end of the storm, there's a golden sky,and the sweet silver song of a lark…"
Then, louder and louder, the refrain thundered through Anfield, scarves held high:
"Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart…and you'll never walk alone,you'll never walk alone…"
English football hooligans had long been infamous, but their country also produced the most stirring image of loyalty the game could show. Even in years of decline, English football still had clubs whose supporters lived and died with their team.
At Anfield, the stands were a sea of red. Scarves were raised high, and the Liverpool faithful sang in unison: You'll Never Walk Alone.
In his previous life, Aldridge had only seen this scene on television. He remembered the Chinese commentator introducing the song as "You Will Never Be Alone." The translation was serviceable, but to Aldridge it missed the soul of the anthem. Never being alone implied simple company, as though someone were there to keep you from loneliness. But You'll Never Walk Alone carried weight and defiance: whatever storms came, you would keep moving forward, shoulder to shoulder. That, he felt, was loyalty given voice.
When he stepped out from the players' tunnel, he didn't head immediately to the away dugout. Instead, he walked to the touchline level with the halfway line, where the fourth official usually stood. Planting his feet there, hands on his hips, he surveyed the stadium with a stern expression, as though determined to etch into memory every supporter singing with scarf aloft.
"Where's the camera? What the hell's the camera? Get it on him!"
In the Sky Sports broadcast truck, the director bellowed into his headset. "If Aldridge Hall's standing there and you don't have him on screen within ten seconds, you're finished tomorrow!"
Up in the gantry, commentators Andy Gray and Martin Tyler were watching the feed as the cameras finally cut to Aldridge.
"Martin, what's he doing?" Gray asked.
"I'd say he's soaking in the atmosphere," Tyler replied.
"Maybe. But this isn't Old Trafford. This is Anfield. No giggling girls leaning in for a kiss here — only thousands of hostile fans glaring like fighters. Let's see how he handles it."
"I don't think he's intimidated. It's probably his first time here. A ground like this is worth remembering."
Gray shifted, then said, "So what do you think Millwall can take today? A draw? Victory? Surely not all three points."
"Why not? Of course Aldridge will play for a win. He needs victories to command this squad. He's so young — if he can't deliver results, how many of those boys will keep following him? Wins are his authority. That's why they'll follow him anywhere."
...
In the stands, the Melanie family were singing as well, scarves raised high with the rest of the Kop. When the anthem ended, thunderous applause rolled around the stadium.
Melanie's younger brother pointed towards the touchline and laughed: "Sis, your boyfriend looks scared!"
Melanie pressed her lips together in a smile. "Let him feel Liverpool's power. He must be trembling, silly man!" she said, chuckling.
The Kop roared with fervour, and from the opposite end came the answering chants of Millwall's travelling support. Though far fewer in number, they clapped and sang their club's name with equal defiance. The noise was unequal, but no less fierce. The battle in the stands would never cease.
On the touchline, Aldridge drew in a deep breath as he surveyed Anfield. He closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them with a faint smile.
Anfield. At last, I'm here!
Not as a tourist on a stadium tour, but as a coach ready to fight.
A great stadium, a grand stage, the cradle of countless unforgettable matches.
With quiet respect for the legends who had built this place, Aldridge walked slowly towards the visitors' dugout.
In years past, Wimbledon's players, notorious for their irreverence, had made a habit of spitting on the "This is Anfield" plaque in the tunnel as an act of defiance. Aldridge despised such behaviour.
Football could be ruthless, yes, but he had his own bottom line. He wanted his players to understand that to win here, at Anfield, was glorious — something to be cherished, not mocked. To pretend contempt was to cheapen victory itself.
The plaque itself had been commissioned by none other than Bill Shankly, the legendary Liverpool manager. To Aldridge, Shankly embodied not only success but also the soul of the Reds. Many fans remembered him for a famous quote often misrepresented: "Football is not a matter of life and death; it's more important than that."
In reality, in its original context, Shankly had been responding to those who trivialised the sport. His words had been about passion and commitment, not a cold dismissal of life.
Shankly had built Liverpool's identity. His philosophy was gentlemanly yet uncompromising. He was a master of psychological battles — famously greeting visiting teams himself at the gates of Anfield, a show of confidence meant to unsettle opponents. Yet he drew a firm line: no underhanded tricks, no cheating. He loathed cynicism on the pitch, which was why he had such disdain for Helenio Herrera, architect of Inter's defensive "catenaccio" era.
Shankly created the Boot Room tradition, instilling a culture that produced generation after generation of leaders. He was simple, passionate, tough, and even a little romantic in his love for the game.
In his years of study, Aldridge had always admired Shankly deeply. He sometimes wondered — had he lived in the 1960s, would he have followed the charm of Shankly's Liverpool, or been swept away by the magic of Busby's Manchester United? It was impossible for an English fan to support both.
The players' entrance snapped him out of his reflections.
As Liverpool lined up, Aldridge felt a twinge of envy. This squad brimmed with talent.
There was 22-year-old Jamie Redknapp, already an England international and rated above Manchester United's emerging Paul Scholes.
There was 23-year-old Steve McManaman, a dazzling winger whose only misfortune was that he was English, while Ryan Giggs — his closest contemporary in style — was Welsh and unavailable to the national side.
And there was Robbie Fowler, just 20 years old, already hailed as Liverpool's "God." The Golden Boy of Anfield had risen so fast that Ian Rush now sat on the bench.
Even goalkeeper David James, though short of world-class standing, had the potential to become England's number one.
Then Aldridge spotted a familiar figure: Neil "Razor" Ruddock. Once a Millwall youth product, Ruddock had joined their academy at fifteen and impressed quickly, only to be snapped up by Tottenham. After drifting between Spurs and Southampton, he had now landed at Liverpool. Stocky, fierce, and uncompromising, he was the type of defender who left an impression.
Aldridge tore his gaze away. Envy, he reminded himself, was endless. He thought instead of Liverpool as a club — one of the three traditional giants of England, yet stubbornly old-fashioned.
Even as modern sports medicine was being introduced at clubs like West Ham to protect players' health, Liverpool remained sceptical, clinging to outdated methods. That short-sightedness had damaged the careers of several gifted players. Jamie Redknapp himself would later recall being misdiagnosed and told to train on a fractured foot until it became a comminuted break. Others — Robbie Fowler, Rob Jones, and more — would lose years of their careers due to poor medical support.
In Aldridge's eyes, this was one reason Liverpool failed to reclaim the league title. Injuries were one enemy of a footballer's career. The other was indulgence. Too many Liverpool talents of the era lived carelessly off the pitch. Their nickname in the press — "the Spice Boys" — reflected their frivolous private lives.
At Manchester United, Ferguson had shown no hesitation in shipping out players like Lee Sharpe when their discipline slipped, no matter how talented they were, to preserve the collective. Liverpool, by contrast, allowed a culture of indulgence to fester.
For Aldridge, this was a lesson. His philosophy of team building revolved around neutralising those two enemies: injuries and decadence. That meant investing in advanced medical care, enforcing strict discipline, and ensuring that his captains led by example off the pitch. Even a fiery character like Materazzi could serve as vice-captain on the pitch, so long as off it he remained a gentleman.
Now, as the referee signalled the start, both teams prepared to kick off.
"Good afternoon, and welcome to Anfield for our live coverage of the third round of the Premier League. Today it's Liverpool against Millwall.
Millwall may not be one of the league's traditional powers, but in their first-ever season in the Premier League they've already shown they can fight. A 5–5 thriller away at Manchester United on opening day, followed by a resounding 3–0 win at home to Arsenal — two results that certainly made people sit up and take notice.
Before the season, most critics had them down as relegation candidates, worried they'd struggle to adapt to the pace of the top flight. But Aldridge Hall's team have answered those doubts in style. Two matches in, they already look strong and fearless.
Liverpool, on the other hand, have looked uncertain. A narrow win against Sheffield Wednesday in the opener, then a defeat away at Leeds United. The question today is whether they can tame these Lions of South London over ninety minutes. If not, we could be in for a very surprising result.
Let's run through the teams. Millwall are unchanged for the third match running — Aldridge keeping faith with the same eleven that carried them through the first two rounds.
For Liverpool: in goal, David James. The back four: Rob Jones, Mark Wright, John Scales, and Neil Ruddock. Midfield: Jason McAteer, John Barnes, Jamie Redknapp, and Steve McManaman. And up front, Robbie Fowler alongside Stan Collymore.
There's plenty of quality in that line-up, but questions remain. At the back, 32-year-old Mark Wright could be vulnerable. Remember, against Manchester United, Steve Bruce struggled badly under Millwall's relentless pressing. And in attack, Stan Collymore — an £8.5 million summer signing from Nottingham Forest after scoring 24 goals last season — has yet to click with Fowler. The partnership hasn't sparked.
Meanwhile, Millwall's striker has been the revelation of the league so far. Henrik Larsson — four goals in two games — already looks like a genuine Golden Boot contender. Manchester United failed with a £7 million bid for him, and if he continues in this form, his value is only going to rise.
Well, we're set to go. Robbie Fowler stands over the ball, and there's the whistle. Liverpool kick off, and the red and blue war begins here at Anfield!"