The most intimidating home atmosphere in the Premier League could always be found at Anfield. Arsenal's supporters had long been called "quiet," Manchester United's following was increasingly global thanks to their commercial appeal, and elsewhere the noise rarely matched that of the traditional giants. Smaller grounds lacked volume, while clubs outside the elite didn't always inspire the same devotion in adversity.
At Anfield, however, the passion was unmatched.
From the opening whistle, Liverpool surged forward, spurred on by the endless roar of the Kop.
Roy Evans's side, for all their flaws, had built a formidable reputation at home. Their fighting spirit at Anfield could not be dismissed. The first round may have brought only a narrow win, but as the team settled, their attacking firepower was among the best in the division.
On the touchline, Aldridge paced restlessly, watching Liverpool's smooth attacks repeatedly threaten Millwall's goal. Jamie Redknapp let fly from distance and nearly broke the deadlock, drawing gasps from the crowd.
Yet Aldridge remained calm. Both Liverpool and Manchester United boasted top-class attacking units. The difference was in midfield: United's was built on steel with Roy Keane, while Liverpool's was built for flair with Redknapp and Barnes.
Against such offensive talent, Aldridge saw two possible approaches. He could set up as Arsenal had, dropping two holding midfielders to slow Liverpool's rhythm and sit deep — or he could take them head-on.
Conventional wisdom said that away at Anfield, you chose the first option, kept things tight, tried to nick a result. But Aldridge had chosen the latter.
If he sat back, his players would only feel the weight of Liverpool's attack more heavily. It would be like admitting from the start: Liverpool are stronger than us. That message would embolden the home side and drain his own team.
Instead, Millwall would meet fire with fire.
Every tactical plan, Aldridge knew, was a gamble. If it succeeded, you were hailed as a visionary. If it failed, you were called naive. Each match felt like walking on thin ice. Today, more than anything, he wanted his team to impose their style. The defensive approach against Arsenal had been a one-off, a targeted ploy. Millwall would not survive in the Premier League by hiding behind their own penalty box.
The league was accelerating towards a faster, more dynamic future. Millwall intended to be its pioneers.
Stan Collymore broke into the box, only to see his shot blocked by Southgate. Makelele darted in, stole the loose ball from Redknapp, and quickly shifted it left to Neal. Neal advanced a couple of steps before threading it inside to Nedved, then surged forward to overlap. Nedved instantly swept it out to Schneider on the right and drove forward himself.
From left to right, the ball zipped across Millwall's attack. It wasn't the old-fashioned long ball, but crisp, precise passing on the ground, harder to defend and far more efficient.
Schneider took two touches before laying it into Larsson's feet. With John Scales tight on his back, Larsson cushioned the ball perfectly into Nedved's path, then spun and sprinted towards the box, dragging his marker with him.
Nedved clipped it on to Pirès, who faced down Rob Jones. A deft drag back, a quick shift, and suddenly Neal was free on the overlap. Racing onto the ball, Neal steadied himself at the byline before whipping in a cross.
At the near post, Trezeguet had the better position on Mark Wright. He leaned into the defender, ready to rise.
But just as he seemed poised to leap, his body stiffened. He never left the ground. Wright sprang up behind him and cleared.
Trezeguet's face darkened. He dropped his head and jogged away, as though nothing had happened. Nobody noticed the way he clenched his teeth, as if enduring something unseen.
Aldridge had expected more. The move had been flawless, the positioning perfect. Even if Wright had outmuscled him, even if the header had gone astray, that was understandable. But Trezeguet hadn't even contested it.
On the touchline, Aldridge turned to his staff, arms spread in exasperation. The assistants, who had leaned forward to watch the attack, could only shrug and sink back into their seats. Nobody had an explanation.
It made no sense. This was the same striker who had flung himself into a fearless diving header at Old Trafford. That fearless energy was the reason Aldridge had kept faith with him. Now, at Anfield, he looked frozen.
The match itself was electric, end to end, much like Millwall's opening clash with Manchester United. Neither side sought to slow the tempo; both attacked relentlessly.
Up in the commentary box, the broadcasters could feel it too.
"This is a game that won't let the fans take their eyes off it. Both sides are going forward, but Liverpool's attacks look a little one-dimensional — crosses into the box, or bursts of individual skill. Millwall's football is more fluid, their combinations sharper, though they're still missing the killer finish."
"And that's because Trezeguet isn't at it today. He's struggling in the air, barely winning any headers. Even when he tries to link play, it looks laboured. To me he looks unwell — weak, tentative, not running with the same aggression."
On the touchline, Aldridge's frown deepened. What was wrong with Trezeguet?
He'd shown no signs of illness before the match. His energy had looked fine. So why now, under the lights of Anfield, had his performance fallen three levels at once?
Just as Aldridge's eyes were still fixed on Trezeguet, Liverpool launched a classic wide attack.
McManaman drove down the flank and swung in a curling cross. The ball arced toward the far post. Keller came charging out, leaping to claim it — but misjudged the flight completely. To Aldridge's dismay, the keeper came up empty, leaving the goal gaping.
At the back post, Robbie Fowler arrived like a predator. He stretched to meet the ball and all but bundled it over the line. Only the proximity of the post forced him to twist mid-air and avoid a collision, sending him tumbling beyond the byline.
"Goal! Robbie Fowler!" the commentator's voice rang. "Liverpool's Golden Boy links up with McManaman. A textbook British goal: wide delivery, striker lurking in the box, and a simple finish. Millwall's goalkeeper Keller made the mistake, misjudging the ball completely. His charge left the goal wide open, and Fowler needed no second invitation. Liverpool lead at Anfield!"
The roar from the Kop was deafening, Fowler's name chanted to the skies.
On the touchline, Aldridge closed his eyes in helpless frustration.
What is this? Striker malfunctioning, keeper making blunders — did they arrange to test me all at once today?
Still, he forced himself to remain rational. Keeper errors were a matter of ability, not malice. Keller had never convinced him as Millwall's long-term number one anyway. In his mind, he already considered alternatives: if Keller's season proved unstable, he would give German keeper Butt a chance. And if Butt couldn't handle the role either, then recruitment would be the only solution.
But for now, he had to be fair. A coach could not strip a player of his place after a single mistake. Performance across a season would determine the hierarchy.
What worried him far more was Trezeguet.
The players had noticed too. As they regrouped for the restart, Larsson glanced at his strike partner, sweat dripping from his brow. He leaned in and asked quietly: "Hey, you alright?"
Trezeguet only shook his head, lips sealed, waiting for the referee to blow the whistle.
Aldridge thought of calling him over, desperate for answers. Five minutes after the kick-off, Trezeguet still looked sluggish, every movement laboured. Then came the 40th minute.
Larsson dropped off and slipped him a perfectly weighted pass. Trezeguet surged forward into the box, stepped past Wright — and suddenly collapsed, sprawling on the turf.
Wright threw both hands up, protesting innocence. He hadn't touched him.
The referee jogged over, initially pulling a yellow card from his pocket, prepared to book Trezeguet for diving. But he stopped himself. After a pause, he waved urgently to the sideline.
The signal was clear: team doctors on the pitch.
Hands on his hips, Aldridge stared, his suspicion hardening.
On the grass, Trezeguet cried out in pain, clutching his right foot. Then he lay back, covering his face with one hand, broken in spirit.
He had been Millwall's bright young forward, impressive the previous season, rewarded with a pay rise and a contract extension. He was trusted, valued, central to Aldridge's plans. Life at the Den had been good.
But that summer, intoxicated by his own progress, he had allowed himself indulgence. Rare French delicacies, rich food, nights without discipline. He returned heavier, slower. Even though he scored in the season opener, his stamina had been poor, forcing an early substitution. He knew it, and so he pushed himself harder than anyone else in the gym to make up the gap.
Then, yesterday, the disaster. A training ground mishap, a twisted ankle. Panic set in. He feared losing his starting role if he admitted it, so he kept quiet, hoping to grit his teeth and endure.
But in a match of this intensity, the pain consumed him. Every sprint, every touch, his focus broke on the stabbing throb in his right foot.
When Larsson slid that perfect ball through, he forgot himself. For one glorious second he burst past Wright, thinking only of the chance to equalise, to silence Anfield. Then he planted his foot, overloading the injury — and down he went.
Now it was over. He knew it.
The young Trezeguet lay there with his hand over his eyes, ashamed to look at his teammates, his coach, even the medical staff.
It's finished. I've ruined everything.
In English football there had long been an impersonal tradition when dealing with injured players. Once a man went down, it was as if he vanished. From the manager to his teammates, direct acknowledgement was rare. Communication was filtered through others, a superstition as old as the terraces themselves.
Football in England had been treated like a battlefield. The one who could not rise after a fall was branded weak, a loser. This culture persisted for decades until the Premier League began to internationalise and outside influences gradually softened such attitudes.
Aldridge took a more rational view of traditions. Some were worth preserving — the sanctity of the dressing room, for instance. But others, like treating injured players as invisible, he rejected outright. To him, it only piled psychological pressure on a player already in pain.
When Trezeguet hobbled to the touchline, carried by two physios, Aldridge was already waiting. The Frenchman slipped off his boot; his ankle, grotesquely swollen, resembled a bloated pig's trotter.
"When did this happen?" Aldridge asked quietly.
Trezeguet kept his eyes down. "Yesterday," he whispered, voice full of fear. He dreaded losing his manager's trust.
But Aldridge simply patted his shoulder. "David, injuries happen. Concealing them is the real mistake. Recover properly. The team will wait for you."
Trezeguet, who had endured the pain without tears, suddenly felt his eyes burn. He choked out: "Sorry… sorry."
"You're not apologising to me," Aldridge replied calmly. "This is your body. Learn to protect it. Health comes first."
"Thank you, boss."
The doctors led him down the tunnel.
By then Solskjær was already warming up. Aldridge waited for the right moment, then made the switch.
"Ole," he said softly as the Norwegian jogged over, eyes still on the pitch, "do you know what's needed?"
"I do," Solskjær answered instantly. "Wright's slow, Scales covers too small an area, and there's space between their midfield and defence."
Aldridge nodded. Solskjær's focus from the bench was unmatched; his reading of the game was sharper than anyone else's.
"Good. Swap with Henrik often. Liverpool's back line can't deal with you two when you move. Take the ball, be direct, shake them up."
"I understand, boss."
Three minutes before the break, Solskjær came on for the stricken Trezeguet. Liverpool carried their 1–0 lead into the interval, and Anfield exhaled with relief.
For all of Millwall's sharp attacking play, the scoreboard read in the Reds' favour. Fans muttered among themselves: perhaps Millwall's five goals at Old Trafford said more about Manchester United's weakness than Millwall's strength. Arsenal? Distracted, disorganised, hardly themselves. But here at Anfield, surely Millwall would be shown up.
A name is just a name. Millwall are no giants.
Aldridge was the last to leave the pitch. In the tunnel, Liverpool's players strutted with pride. Jamie Redknapp couldn't resist.
"Oi, boy!" he jeered. "What was it you said before kick-off? Best go home and cry to your dad. Oh, wait — your dad's no coach. No arms to run to? Poor little Aldridge, all tears now, eh?"
He was still seething over Aldridge's pre-match provocation. With Liverpool ahead, he took his chance to sneer.
"Fuck off, what did you say?" Southgate, normally reserved, snapped. Rage poured out of him as he surged forward, teammates close behind. But Aldridge stepped sideways and blocked the narrow tunnel himself, arms out, halting them all.
The Liverpool players rallied behind Redknapp, voices rising, tension ready to spill into a brawl.
Aldridge only smiled faintly. "Jamie," he said evenly, "so long as your father manages West Ham, I'll be his enemy. You don't understand East London, so I don't blame you. But take a bit of advice: don't celebrate before a match is over. And for Liverpool's sake, I feel disappointed. Millwall beating Arsenal might be dismissed, but your joy at leading now? You don't deserve the shirt. Behind me stand players who fight to the end. You? You're just playing at it."
He turned, waved his men towards the away dressing room, and left the Liverpool players shouting abuse behind him.
"Swear all you like," Aldridge called over his shoulder. "I've seen enough playboys in my time."
The away-room door slammed shut.
Inside, his players sat quietly, eyes on him.
Aldridge didn't reach for the tactics board. He simply crossed his arms and asked: "Well? Do you feel pressure out there?"
They exchanged glances. One by one, they shook their heads.
Perhaps it was because they had seen him on the sideline throughout, upright, unflinching, refusing to bow to Anfield's noise. His calm had become theirs.
Aldridge gave a small shrug. "Good. Rest up and be ready for the second half."
"Boss," Southgate spoke up, "no tactical changes?"
The others looked on expectantly. They were used to his halftime adjustments sharpening their play.
Aldridge chuckled. "Play as you did in the first half and we'll win. We created more chances than they did — luck hasn't fallen our way yet, that's all. But since you want a lesson, I'll give you one."
They leaned in.
"The stronger the team, the greater the home advantage, right? United, Liverpool — their records at home are incredible. Do you know how many goals United conceded here last season?"
Blank faces.
Aldridge raised four fingers, smiling. "Just four. In 21 league matches."
The number drew gasps. Four in 21?
"But do you know how many they conceded away from Old Trafford?" he continued.
Again, silence.
Aldridge lifted Makelele's hand, held up his own, then pointed at his feet. "Twenty-four. Six times as many."
The contrast struck them.
"Understand? It's not only the crowd that makes the difference. Too many teams come to Old Trafford already beaten in their heads. At home, pride forces them to fight, and suddenly they discover United aren't invincible. It's the same here. Forget the noise, forget that the shirts are red. Treat Liverpool as any other opponent.
We scored five at Old Trafford. Do you think it's harder to score at Anfield? Honestly, their defence is weaker than United's. Pavel, you know that better than anyone."
Nedvěd nodded. The difference between Roy Keane's steel and Jamie Redknapp's softness needed no explanation.
England had once produced Herbert Chapman, whose WM formation shaped football worldwide. But after that, English tactics stagnated. The 4-4-2 became dogma: wingers ran to the byline and crossed, strikers waited in the middle, midfielders did not defend, defenders did not attack. Other nations innovated; England hibernated.
Millwall under Aldridge were something else. Technical, fluid, tactical. They had pressed Manchester United into chaos, torn Arsenal apart. Now, even a goal down at Anfield, he brimmed with belief.
No goals in the first half? Trezeguet injured? A single mistake from Keller? None of it was fatal. In football, goals could arrive in the blink of an eye.
Sometimes, a mistimed substitution could ruin an entire plan. Better patience than panic.
Clapping his hands, Aldridge smiled. "Come on. They're not stronger than us. We're stronger than them. That's the truth. In an hour, we walk out of here with the win."
The roar shook the room as the players leapt to their feet, shirts straightened, faces alight with belief.
Together, they followed Aldridge out.
And the manager smiled to himself. His team's spirit was forged.