In the second half, the two teams changed ends and resumed play. Roy Evans remained seated on the Liverpool bench, his expression composed and even relaxed, as if he believed the match had already settled into his control.
On the opposite touchline, Aldridge stood with his usual cool detachment, arms folded, eyes fixed on the pitch. Behind him, the Anfield crowd jeered relentlessly. To them, he was still just a young upstart, a boy who looked more suited to fashion magazines than to the dugout of a top-flight match.
Liverpool continued with their traditional British approach after the restart. Their game was direct, disciplined, and predictable. There were few moments of surprise, and their attacking patterns could be read easily. Aldridge knew that provided Millwall avoided the lapses that had cost them in the first half, Liverpool would find little opportunity to punish them.
From the very first move of the half, Millwall struck with clarity and precision.
Makelele pressed tightly in midfield, dispossessing young Jamie Redknapp cleanly, then sliding the ball instantly into Nedved's path. Nedved, carrying momentum, drove forward and went past John Barnes—now in his thirties and unable to match the Czech's surge—with a crisp body feint before bursting into Liverpool's half.
At the top of the line, Larsson held position, occupying Scales and Jones, while Solskjaer hovered just outside the penalty area, ready to break in.
Liverpool responded by retreating rapidly into their box, forming a compact defensive wall. But Millwall's ball circulation was too sharp.
Nedved exchanged a quick one-two with Solskjaer on the edge of the area. Collecting the return, he pushed the ball inside, and Larsson, positioned cleverly at the back of the box, received it. With Scales closing him down, the Swede improvised brilliantly, flicking the ball diagonally behind him with the outside of his boot.
Solskjaer darted in on the diagonal run, slicing through the heart of Liverpool's defence. His timing split the line completely. David James sprang off his line, arms wide, trying to cut off every shooting angle.
But Solskjaer, calm and nimble, sidestepped James with a deft touch, accelerating past him. Yet his final push carried the ball a fraction too far, dragging him toward the byline and narrowing the angle almost to nothing.
He refused to panic. Instead of attempting the impossible shot, Solskjaer rolled the ball square across the face of goal. Larsson, having spun sharply after his initial flick, had continued his run. Arriving at full pace, he met the pass unopposed and lashed it into the empty net.
Anfield fell silent, stunned by the sheer fluency of the move.
The commentators erupted."What a breathtaking goal! That was classic Millwall—total teamwork from start to finish! It began with Nedved's surge, passed through Solskjaer, back to Nedved, then Larsson, Solskjaer again, and finally back to Larsson for the finish. Liverpool's back line stood rooted like statues while Millwall's combination play carved them apart. Their movement was almost telepathic!"
"Incredible! From Nedved's first touch near the box to the final strike, the ball travelled through six exchanges in barely ten seconds! And it ended in Liverpool's net. Martin, Millwall's football philosophy under Aldridge Hall is astonishing. Just how has he moulded them to play with this level of understanding?"
"We can't know exactly what methods he uses on the training ground, but his eye for talent is extraordinary. When people are still debating Larsson and Trezeguet, look at this Norwegian on the pitch—Solskjaer. The composure he showed to glide past James, the awareness to pick out Larsson—he's a revelation. He looks like a new Alan Shearer in the making. How many hidden gems are there at Millwall?"
After scoring, Larsson dashed into the net, scooped the ball up, and embraced Solskjaer as they ran back together, their celebration full of energy and defiance.
On the Liverpool bench, Roy Evans exploded with rage, charging to the touchline and berating his defenders for their collapse.
Meanwhile, Aldridge gestured furiously from the technical area, fanning his arms towards his own back line. His message was clear: retreat quickly, reset the shape, and do not lose focus.
To him, this was only the beginning. The real contest had just started.
Contemporary football still carried a strong streak of individual heroism. Many attacking players preferred to keep hold of the ball, lingering on possession rather than releasing it quickly. They often relied on feints and turns, trying to beat their man one-on-one or to force a breakthrough with individual skill. Such play still had its admirers and could find success, which explained why on English pitches strikers with both strength and technique—figures like Alan Shearer or Eric Cantona—were idolised by the public.
If Millwall's forwards were to adopt the same approach, showing off technical flourishes and relying on solo invention to create opportunities, it would not be impossible to find results. Yet the efficiency would drop sharply, and the tempo of attack would inevitably slow. Worse still, within the physical culture of English football—where referees allowed more contact—such hesitation would leave forwards vulnerable to aggressive challenges.
Take Larsson, for example. With his back to goal, if he hesitated and tried to turn on the ball, John Scales would instantly press tight from behind, giving him no room to manoeuvre. More likely, Larsson would be shoved or tackled before he even managed to spin.
Liverpool, for their part, continued pressing hard, but their deliveries from wide areas were increasingly ineffective. Thuram locked onto McManaman, forcing him into rushed crosses that lacked accuracy. Even when the ball did come in, Millwall's back line was well-set, and the danger was minimal.
Further upfield, young Neill surged forward from left-back, driving Jason McAteer deep into his own half. McAteer, forced onto the defensive, looked uncomfortable and uncertain, struggling to cope with the pressure.
Liverpool's play, for all its noise, produced little threat. Heavy in intent, light in execution. By contrast, Millwall's attacks, when they came, were incisive and lethal.
In the 69th minute, the visitors struck again.
On the left, Pires collected possession, drawing Robert Jones toward him. Neill overlapped immediately, sprinting for the byline. Jones, fearing the overlap, shifted his body in that direction, but Pires coolly cut inside instead. Mark Wright stepped out to confront him, leaving a gap. At that precise moment, Pires threaded the ball across the pitch.
Schneider, waiting centrally, took the pass under control. He lifted his head, scanning the penalty area, then rolled a diagonal pass—sharp as a surgeon's scalpel—straight through Liverpool's defensive line.
Wright, realising too late, glanced back in alarm. The space he had vacated was now Larsson's corridor. The Swede burst through, timing his run perfectly, and slid in to meet the ball as it whipped across the six-yard line. James scrambled laterally, throwing himself toward the ball, but Larsson stretched first, stabbing his toe to redirect it.
The ball skimmed off the inside of the post and trickled into the net.
"Larsson! Almighty Larsson! Superb finishing once again! That's six goals in three matches—Millwall's Swedish striker is in unstoppable form! Look at the structure of that attack—this is football of the highest order. Neill's overlapping run pulled Jones out, Pires used the decoy, then switched to Schneider. Schneider's diagonal pass was devastating. Liverpool's back line shifted left, only to be undone by a pass that went right through them. Millwall turned the pitch into a chessboard, and Liverpool's defenders were their pawns!"
"Unbelievable! This Millwall side isn't built on individual brilliance alone—they embody Aldridge Hall's tactical vision. Where Liverpool rely on individual sparks, Millwall thrive on collective movement. Why did they struggle to score in the first half? Because Trezeguet wasn't at his sharpest—he looked off, perhaps carrying a knock. But the moment Solskjaer came on, the entire picture changed. The pieces fit again, and their attack flowed seamlessly from start to finish."
Larsson sprinted toward Schneider, leapt onto his back, and celebrated with a clenched fist and a broad, defiant smile.
Anfield, in contrast, fell into a heavy silence. Only the small pocket of travelling Millwall fans, crammed into the corner, leapt up and down wildly, their cheers echoing against the roof.
On the Liverpool bench, Roy Evans sat stiffly, a forced smile masking his frustration. On the opposite side, Aldridge bared his teeth in a sneer. He pressed his finger against his lips, wagging it toward the crowd in a taunting shush.
"Boo? Why not boo louder?!" his body language seemed to say. "Whether you're the Kop or not, silence yourselves before the better team!"
The fourth official rushed across, sternly warning Aldridge to stop provoking the home support. But the damage was already done.
From the stands came an even louder wave of hostility—boos, insults, middle fingers. Angry fans near the away dugout hurled coins, lighters, anything they could throw within reach.
Aldridge, unbothered, spread his arms wide, meeting the fury with an arrogant grin.
"My team is better than yours," his posture declared. "Your rage changes nothing."
He did it deliberately. Millwall needed adversaries, needed enemies. In his mind, the stature of a team could be measured by the level of its opposition. And for Millwall to grow, they had to stand against the traditional giants—Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool. Whether those giants respected them or dismissed them, Aldridge was determined: anyone who looked down on Millwall would be crushed underfoot.
In the stands, the Melanie family looked on in disbelief. The four of them hadn't expected Aldridge to provoke Anfield so brazenly.
"Invite him home for dinner after the match," Melanie's brother muttered sarcastically.
"Never!" she snapped back.
"Then at least let me use your phone to call him over," her other brother teased. "I know some lads who'd be waiting for him at the door."
Melanie rolled her eyes, ignoring their bluster. Her brothers' outrage amused her, but she had no interest in joining in.
After repeated warnings from the fourth official, Aldridge finally complied and returned quietly to the dugout. He dropped onto his seat, resting his chin in his hand, and sat completely still. The apparent nonchalance only irritated Roy Evans further. The grey-haired Liverpool manager was on his feet again, bellowing instructions toward the pitch, urging his players forward with visible desperation.
The pressure was immense. Anfield's reputation as a fortress weighed heavily. The previous season, Liverpool had lost only three of their 21 home matches. One of those defeats had been an embarrassment—an unexpected stumble against Ipswich Town, who went on to be relegated. They didn't even lose at the hands of title contenders: Manchester United, Blackburn Rovers, and Nottingham Forest. Losing to established powers could be tolerated; losing to a newly promoted side was unacceptable. Anfield's faithful would not forgive such humiliation.
Driven on by Evans' fury, Liverpool threw more men forward, but the harder they pressed, the more exposed they became. Millwall's counterattacks grew sharper with every passing minute, the speed and precision of their breaks slicing through the gaps left behind.
Ten minutes later, Millwall struck again. Pires picked up the ball in space outside the penalty area. He steadied himself, let the ball roll across his body, and unleashed a fierce strike with his right foot. The ball bent and arrowed toward the top corner. David James, flat-footed, could do nothing but watch as it thundered past him into the net.
Millwall led 3–1. With the game drawing near the end, victory was within their grasp.
Aldridge remained outwardly composed, but frustration soon clouded his mind. The match was tilting decisively his way, yet trouble still found him.
In the 81st minute, just as he prepared to make a substitution, disaster struck. Southgate rose to contest a header with Stan Collymore. As their bodies clashed in mid-air, Southgate landed awkwardly, clutching his shoulder in pain. The grimace told the story—dislocation. He would play no further part.
Aldridge sighed heavily and made the change, sending on Dean Richards to shore up the back line. Moments later, he withdrew Schneider for Vieira, bolstering midfield solidity. The shape shifted into a more conservative 4-3-3, tightening the centre. Solskjaer was pushed wide, where he adapted smoothly and continued to look lively. He nearly capped his performance with a goal, beating his man on the wing and cutting inside, only for his shot to graze the outside of the post and ripple into the side netting.
At last, the final whistle blew. Anfield, so often a cauldron of noise, fell into a suffocating silence. The home supporters rose without a word, shuffling toward the exits in resignation.
On the touchline, Aldridge's expression was unreadable. He could not bring himself to celebrate. Yes, Millwall had secured a famous victory at Anfield, but the cost was steep. Two of his key players were now injured, casting a shadow over the three points gained.
He strode forward to exchange the customary handshake with Evans. Neither man spoke. Aldridge's grasp was brief, his eyes already fixed on the tunnel ahead. Without lingering, he turned and led his players down the narrow passageway, his thoughts clouded not with triumph, but with concern.
...
...
The post-match interview was conducted with unusual grandeur. Instead of the hurried, crowded exchanges of the mixed zone, Anfield set the stage in full press conference style.
When Aldridge appeared, the reporters immediately unleashed a barrage of flash photography. The lights were dazzling, so intense they made him squint. He raised a hand slightly, irritated by the assault.
"Gentlemen, that's quite enough," he said dryly. "I don't want to miss the team bus. If you have questions, make them quickly."
Among the crowd was a reporter from the Liverpool Echo. As Merseyside's most influential outlet, the paper rarely leaned decisively toward either Liverpool or Everton, yet both clubs often used it to float new policies or test fan reactions. Tonight, however, the Echo man radiated hostility toward Millwall's manager.
"Why did you do that?" he demanded. "Provoking the Anfield crowd like that? Yes, your team won, but shouldn't you have shown some dignity?"
Aldridge didn't flinch. "The stadium was noisy," he replied curtly. "Clearly, Liverpool don't welcome me. That's fine. When they come to London, no one will welcome them either. Next question."
The room stirred with murmurs and chuckles. The Echo reporter tried to press on, but his colleagues didn't grant him the courtesy. They were more interested in Aldridge's bluntness, recognising that his sharp tongue made for the best headlines. Right now, Aldridge was the story.
Before the season began, pundits had predicted Millwall would suffer in the Premier League, particularly with the so-called "devil's schedule" at the start. Yet of the first five daunting fixtures, three had now been played. Millwall had claimed two wins and a draw. Among England's established giants, only Manchester United—playing at the Den—had managed to scrape a point.
After wrapping up media duties, Aldridge travelled back to London with his squad. That night, at the club offices, he sat waiting grimly for the medical reports.
The news was crushing. Southgate's dislocated shoulder would keep him sidelined for five to seven weeks. Trezeguet's swollen ankle required six to eight weeks of rest and rehabilitation. Two pillars of his starting eleven were gone in one match.
Head pounding, Aldridge began sketching adjustments. Four days later, Millwall would have a League Cup tie. The opposition was not strong, but cup competitions had a reputation for unpredictable upsets, and Aldridge knew better than to underestimate them. Dean Richards would step into Southgate's role at centre-back, while Solskjaer would continue in place of Trezeguet up front. Yet even with such replacements, he knew the team's overall strength had diminished.
On Monday afternoon, after training concluded, Aldridge returned to his apartment. He showered, dressed, and changed into a sharp suit. That evening he was due at a private celebration. Earlier in the month it had been Geri Halliwell's birthday, but the Spice Girls—newly breaking into the public eye—had been tied up with promotional events. Tonight they were holding a belated party, one last moment of relaxation before diving into the recording of their first album.
Aldridge had been invited. Downstairs, Melanie was waiting on the sofa, casually spinning one of the group's debut singles on the record player. She listened with pride, smiling to herself.
When Aldridge appeared, suited and ready, she looked him up and down with a frown. "Isn't this a bit too formal?"
He gave a small shrug. "What else would you have me wear? Hip-hop gear? Don't be ridiculous. If I get photographed, how would that look for my work?"
She paused, considered, and then nodded. "Fair point."
Taking his arm, she followed him toward the door. But as they opened it, they were startled to find Andrew standing outside, hand raised, about to knock.
"Hi," Andrew said awkwardly, freezing in place.
Aldridge narrowed his eyes. "Something you need from me?"
Andrew lifted an envelope in his hand. "I'm heading home today. This came through the post—an international letter for you. Thought I'd drop it off. From a friend abroad?"
Aldridge accepted the envelope, glanced at the address, and his face immediately darkened. He turned back inside without another word. Melanie and Andrew followed anxiously as he tore it open. The deeper his eyes scanned the page, the grimmer his expression became. His jaw tightened, and the colour drained from his face.
"What is it?" Melanie asked nervously. His expression was as if the world itself had collapsed.
"Andrew," Aldridge said hoarsely, "I need a favour. I have to leave the country. Help me get a visa as quickly as possible. I need to go to Hungary."
His chest heaved, and both Melanie and Andrew saw the unmistakable glint of tears in his eyes. Turning to Melanie, he whispered, "I'm sorry. Tell Halliwell I can't make her party. Apologise for me."
"What on earth has happened?" she pressed, alarm rising in her voice.
"No time to explain. I need to pack."
"Then I'm coming with you," she insisted. "In your state, I don't trust you to go alone."
He paused, glanced at her, and after a few seconds' hesitation, nodded.
Andrew, still bewildered, spread his hands helplessly. As Aldridge sprinted upstairs, Andrew pulled out his phone, muttering under his breath, and began contacting friends across the city to help.
That night, Aldridge and Melanie boarded a British Airways flight to Budapest, capital of Hungary. Before leaving, Aldridge called Jenson, instructing him bluntly: "If I don't make it back by Wednesday, you take the team."
As the plane pierced the clouds, Melanie sat beside him, her eyes drifting toward his restless leg. His right knee bounced uncontrollably, betraying the anxiety he tried to mask. Gently, she laid her hand on his thigh. "It won't help to worry now," she murmured. "The plane is already in the air. We'll be in Budapest soon. Can you at least tell me what's going on?"
Aldridge closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and covered her hand with his own. His voice was low, weighted with memory. "Last summer, before I returned to London, I worked in Hungary—as a trainee coach with their national team. It was there I met my mentor, the man who taught me the soul of football."
...
By the 1990s, Budapest had become one of the largest black markets in the world. Since the disintegration of Eastern Europe, the city had been awash with illicit wealth—untraceable black gold, stolen artefacts, rare treasures. Criminal networks thrived, and the wealthy often sent agents to purchase items impossible to acquire through legitimate means.
But Aldridge had not come for commerce or curiosities. He had come for something far more personal.
After landing, he and Melanie took a taxi straight into the heart of the capital, heading for a hospital rather than the markets or boulevards. At the reception desk, Aldridge hastily asked for a ward number, then hurried upstairs.
In the corridor, he spotted a frail old woman with snow-white hair. Her expression was heavy with sorrow. When she heard footsteps and looked up to see Aldridge, she rose quickly, and the two embraced without hesitation.
"Erzsébet, how is he?" Aldridge's voice trembled.
"I don't know," she replied softly. "He collapsed at home so suddenly. Thank you for coming, Aldridge. Seeing you will make him very happy."
At that moment, a nurse stepped out of the ward. "He's awake now. Go in, he'll be glad to see you."
Aldridge nodded, steadied his emotions, and entered. Melanie, sensing the intimacy of the moment, slipped beside Erzsébet and gently held the old woman's arm. Together they remained by the doorway, watching quietly.
Inside, Aldridge forced a smile as he approached the bed. There lay an elderly man with thinning white hair, his face drawn, his eyes adjusting slowly to the light.
"Hm? Aldridge, what are you doing here? What happened to me?" His voice was weak but carried a note of surprise.
The old man tried to sit up, but Aldridge rushed forward, laying a hand on his chest. "No, no—lie down. You're unwell. Rest properly. You're not young anymore, so don't act tough. Just like you always told me on the training ground: I had to listen to you. Well, here in the hospital, you have to listen to the doctors."
The old man gave a weary sigh and settled back. "Aren't you in England now? Coaching?"
Aldridge sat down beside him, still smiling. "Yes, I'm coaching. My team is Millwall."
"Millwall?" The man frowned. "Never heard of them."
"Of course not," Aldridge chuckled. "They're no Real Madrid. But maybe one day…"
The old man gave a faint laugh. "You're confident. But remember, no team can ever surpass Real Madrid."
"Is that so?" Aldridge teased, his eyes glinting.
…
Outside the room, Melanie leaned close to Erzsébet and whispered, "They're very close."
Erzsébet's lips curved with a bittersweet smile. "Ferenc treats Aldridge like his own son. And Aldridge has often given him cause to be angry. He scolded him harshly in the past, but Aldridge never stopped listening."
Melanie hesitated. "What's wrong with him?"
"The doctors say it's Alzheimer's," Erzsébet answered simply.
Melanie didn't fully grasp the condition, but she could see enough. So she kept silent.
A strange, heartbreaking moment unfolded before their eyes.
The old man had turned his head to look at the window. When he looked back, confusion clouded his gaze. "Aldridge? What are you doing here?"
Aldridge froze, his smile stiffening painfully. "I came to see you."
"Have you achieved your dream yet? Has your hometown club invited you to coach? Those who don't will regret it, you know."
"I've found a job," Aldridge said softly. "I'm coaching a small team."
"What's it called? I know plenty of English sides."
"Millwall."
"Hmm. Never heard of them."
…
Melanie's eyes widened. She looked at Erzsébet, who simply nodded, her face lined with sadness. "That is Alzheimer's," she murmured.
Tears welled in Melanie's eyes. She covered her mouth with one hand, afraid her sobs might escape. Watching the same exchange repeat itself, watching Aldridge force himself to smile through the pain—it was almost unbearable.
Half an hour later, Aldridge sat slumped in a chair outside the ward. His head hung low, his hands resting heavily on his thighs. Drops of tears fell freely, leaving small dark spots on the tiled floor. Inside, he had just endured the same conversation three times with the man who had once been his guide, his inspiration.
Melanie approached hesitantly. "Aldridge… you and Ferenc, you're very close, aren't you?" Her voice was gentle, unsure.
She reached for his hand, and he did not resist. She squeezed it softly, trying to ease his anguish. To her, he did not appear fragile in that moment, but achingly human.
Aldridge finally straightened, eyes closed as he struggled to contain his emotions. His words came out choked. "His name is Ferenc. His surname is… Puskás."