"Puskás?! The Puskás of Real Madrid?!"
As a football fan, Melanie had of course heard the name. She never imagined that the frail, half-conscious old man lying in the hospital bed was once the brightest star in world football.
Aldridge nodded with a heavy heart and began to tell her the old man's story.
When Aldridge had first set out across Europe to study football, he was devout and humble. But after years of travelling, watching countless matches, and absorbing tactical knowledge, he made the same mistake many ambitious men make: pride and complacency.
By 1993, Aldridge was overflowing with ideas. He had studied the tactics of every major footballing nation and, with the benefit of his future knowledge, understood trends that would shape the game in the coming decades. He thought he had mastered enough to stand on his own, and he was eager—too eager—to test himself.
Hungary seemed a fitting place. Hungarian football had once been the envy of the world, its tactical culture studied by scholars and coaches everywhere. Nearly half a century earlier, after the Second World War, Hungary had joined the socialist bloc and built football under a "national system." Out of it emerged one of the greatest teams the world has ever seen: the Golden Team.
There have been many so-called golden generations, but very few sides truly worthy of the name. The Hungary of the early 1950s was one of them. Whenever debates arise over the greatest teams in history, that Hungarian national side always makes the list.
At the time, their tactical sophistication was unrivalled. In Budapest cafés, football intellectuals—men who treated the game like science—studied formations, movements, and positional play. They built upon the WM formation pioneered by Arsenal's legendary manager Herbert Chapman. From this foundation, they experimented with fluid attacking systems, forwards interchanging with wingers, and defenders stepping into midfield. Their innovations eventually influenced Brazil, where Hungarian coaches helped shape the classic 4-2-4 formation that would dominate world football in the 1950s and 60s.
Alongside this tactical revolution, the Hungarian state poured resources into building a team that symbolised national strength. Ferenc Puskás, a stocky forward with a cannon of a left foot, was the brightest star of all. Nicknamed "The Galloping Major," he was not only a footballer but also an actual officer in the Hungarian army. Most of his teammates also came from military or state institutions; it was truly a team built by the nation.
In those Cold War years, football became a matter of pride and politics. England, still clinging to its self-image as the birthplace and master of the game, invited Hungary to Wembley for what was billed as the "Match of the Century." Hungary were respected, but few in England expected anything other than a home victory.
What followed was a humiliation. Hungary tore England apart with movement, passing, and tactical fluidity never seen before. The final score was 6–3 to the visitors, the first time England had ever been beaten on home soil by a team from outside the British Isles. The English press and public were stunned. Six months later, England travelled to Budapest for a rematch, hoping to restore pride. Instead, Hungary annihilated them 7–1.
That was the English disease: early success followed by complacency, a refusal to evolve until reality delivered a slap to the face.
Meanwhile, Hungary swept all before them. By the time of the 1954 World Cup in Switzerland, they had gone four years unbeaten. They destroyed South Korea 9–0 in the group stage and thrashed West Germany 8–3. But in that same match, Puskás was brutally hacked down by a German defender, suffering an ankle injury that would plague him throughout the tournament.
Still, Hungary marched on. They defeated Brazil 4–2 in a brutal quarter-final, and then overcame defending champions Uruguay 4–2 after extra time in a pulsating semi-final. Everything seemed set for glory.
But fate had other plans. In the final, they faced none other than West Germany—the team they had humiliated in the group stage.
For Hungary, it was supposed to be destiny. For Germany, it was an opportunity to rebuild national pride in the shadow of war and defeat.
The match began as expected: Hungary surged into a 2–0 lead within ten minutes. But heavy rain turned the pitch into a bog, and the Germans unveiled a secret weapon: specially made screw-in studs, giving them grip on the sodden grass. The Hungarians, slipping and stumbling, could not match them. Germany fought back to 2–2, and in the second half, they scored the winner.
Near the end, Puskás, hobbling through the pain, thought he had equalised. But the English referee disallowed the goal for offside. Final whistle: West Germany 3, Hungary 2.
It became known as the Miracle of Bern. Even German players later admitted it felt like divine intervention. For Germany, the victory ignited a national rebirth and inspired future generations. For Hungary, it was tragedy. Their four-year unbeaten run had ended in the cruelest way, and the greatest team never to win the World Cup was broken.
Back home, in a country already torn by political turmoil, the players were treated as criminals rather than heroes. With the Soviet tanks rolling into Budapest two years later, many of them fled or were silenced. Goalkeeper Gyula Grosics was accused of treason for conceding goals in the final and narrowly escaped exile.
The Golden Team collapsed. Puskás himself was branded a defector. Yet even in exile, he rose again. At 31, when most strikers are finished, he joined Real Madrid and became a legend, scoring goals by the hundred and winning multiple European Cups.
After retirement, Puskás turned to coaching, leading clubs across Europe and even guiding Panathinaikos of Greece to the European Cup final in 1971—an achievement that remains one of the greatest in Greek football history.
By 1993, he had returned to Hungary as national team coach, hoping to revive a fallen giant. It was then that Aldridge arrived.
The country was fragile, only four years removed from the fall of communism. Hungarian football, once mighty, was a shadow of itself. Aldridge came with forged documents claiming he was twenty years old and applied for a position as assistant coach.
When he first stood before the national team coach, the great Ferenc Puskás himself, Aldridge had only one thought in his mind: Let the old man see my ability.
In a training match, Aldridge arranged for a group of reserve players to face the main squad. He set them up in an ultra-defensive, counterattacking formation: a system of strict Italian-style chain defense combined with the fast, direct wing counters typical of English football. To everyone's surprise, the reserves executed the plan flawlessly and came away with a 3–1 victory.
Aldridge was pleased with himself, even a little proud. But when he glanced at Puskás, the old man's face was expressionless.
"He was angry—I could feel it," Aldridge recalled. "But I stubbornly believed I was right. I thought he was out of touch, that he belonged to the past and not the future. He was once a king, but in my mind, he had no place in the modern game. Yet he didn't scold me. Instead, he took me out of the national team training base and led me to a small stadium in the city. There, a group of schoolboys were playing. When they saw him, they rushed over, thrilled to meet their hero. Puskás told me to go and play with them. I asked him why, but he gave no explanation—just insisted that I join in."
At the time, Aldridge had been baffled. "I thought to myself: what's the point? These kids don't know anything about tactics. Playing with them would be like playing the piano for cattle. But I did as he asked. And when the sun finally went down, I walked back to the stands, drenched in sweat, shirt clinging to me. The old man smiled at me for the first time that day. Then he asked me one simple question—one that completely changed me."
Melanie leaned forward. "What did he ask?"
"He asked, 'Are you happy?'"
"Happy?"
"Yes. That was all. And suddenly, I understood. I had just spent the whole afternoon playing with children. There was no concern about winning or losing. Every goal we scored, we laughed and celebrated together. When we conceded, we were disappointed, but then we started again, full of energy. That day I realised something: I had been so buried in tactics, in systems, in numbers and lines, that I had forgotten the essence of football. The essence is joy. Utilitarian football has a single purpose: winning. But if the people on the pitch aren't happy, if they feel no passion, then what is the point of victory? Of course, in professional football, this utilitarianism is inevitable—it will always be the mainstream, because livelihoods depend on results. Coaches who don't win are quickly unemployed. But Puskás taught me to think beyond results. He made me realise that failure is not what we should fear. The true danger is when you lose the joy of football. And as a head coach, I have a responsibility to ensure my players never lose that joy."
As Aldridge spoke, he sighed heavily. He admitted that he had once mapped out his career carefully. His plan was to begin conservatively, to build solid defensive systems, to prioritise results above all else, and in that way to collect trophies quickly. But in Hungary, that idea was reshaped. He no longer wished to suppress his players' talent or make them slaves to a rigid structure. He didn't want them to become numb or dull in their performances. Instead, he wanted them to create, to feel, to experience the beauty of football itself when scoring goals or winning games.
Tactically, Puskás had not taught Aldridge much—his systems belonged to another era. But as a mentor, he gave Aldridge something infinitely more valuable: a moment of epiphany. Everyone's growth requires accumulation, but also a spark, a turning point. For Aldridge, that spark came from Puskás.
Puskás himself had once been a symbol of glory, worshipped as the pride of an entire nation, before being cast down in disgrace. Perhaps it was precisely because of that journey—from the altar to the abyss—that he was able, later in life, to return to football with a purer heart. To forget the weight of fame and politics, and to rediscover the simplest, most beautiful joy of the game.
Aldridge felt blessed by fate. He had been granted a second life, and along the way he had encountered a mentor who awakened him. In those six months in Hungary, he began to organize all the tactical knowledge he had collected, and from it he forged something new: his own football philosophy He could not claim to establish an entirely new school of thought, but he could draw from many traditions, combining their strengths and compensating for their weaknesses.
He never forgot the lesson Puskás gave him—not through lectures or tactical diagrams, but through a smile and a simple question.
Now, however, his old mentor was under siege from illness, his body failing, his life entering a darker chapter.
That night, Aldridge and Melanie sat together on the chairs outside the hospital ward. Neither of them slept.
The next morning, Aldridge found a doctor at the hospital, paid for an inpatient ward, and carried Melanie—who had fallen asleep on his shoulder at dawn—inside. He gently laid her down under the quilt, then stepped back outside. Leaning against the wall of the street, he lit a cigarette, exhaustion written on his face.
After a short while, Melanie appeared at the entrance. She spotted him smoking and slowed her hurried pace before approaching softly.
"I'll buy breakfast," she offered.
"No," Aldridge replied, shaking his head. "Let me do it. You don't know the language here."
He was about to head toward a nearby restaurant when he noticed Puskás's wife, Erzsébet, walking anxiously down the street. She clutched her handbag tightly, her face tense and alert, as though bracing herself against pickpockets or worse. Budapest in the 1990s was notorious for its crime; with the collapse of Eastern Europe, it had become a chaotic hub where the black market thrived, and both petty thieves and hardened criminals mingled in the shadows.
Aldridge greeted her warmly, and her expression softened with relief.
"Erzsébet, there's money in your purse, isn't there?" he asked gently.
She nodded.
"Keep it safe," Aldridge said firmly. "As for Ferenc's medical expenses, I'll cover everything."
There was no cure for Puskás's illness, only treatments that could slow its progress. Around-the-clock care was essential, but expensive.
Erzsébet shook her head immediately.
Aldridge's face darkened with sorrow. He spoke in a low, earnest voice: "Erzsébet, don't refuse me. If you truly think of me as a son, then let me do this. Your health is not good. Do you want me to just stand by and watch you suffer as well?"
She hesitated, embarrassed. She herself was struggling with diabetes, and caring for Ferenc drained what strength she had left. "Aldridge, you are a good boy," she said softly, "but we cannot accept your help."
He met her eyes. "Do you remember what Ferenc once said about me? That I am stubborn. So let me be stubborn now."
Erzsébet looked at the young man who had not slept all night. After a long pause, she sighed heavily and gave up her protest. She turned back inside to see her husband, while Aldridge took Melanie by the hand and led her toward a small, ordinary restaurant for breakfast.
As they sat at a simple wooden table, Melanie broke the silence. "Puskás used to be a superstar."
Aldridge understood her meaning and replied evenly: "Yes, he was world-famous. But in those days, playing football brought you glory, not wealth. The money they earned was little more than what a miner or factory worker made."
Melanie's eyes widened with surprise. "If you told that to Real Madrid…"
Aldridge cut her off sharply, his tone laced with disdain. "Don't mention Real Madrid."
Realising the harshness of his words, he closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry. It's not you. I'm just… in a bad mood."
The truth was deeper. Aldridge despised many things he had witnessed in football: Millwall's hooligans brawling in the streets, the disgrace of English terraces in the 1980s, the cold hypocrisy of institutions that wrapped themselves in glory while discarding those who built it. Real Madrid stirred no warmth in him either. If anything, his contempt for the Spanish giants burned hotter because of Puskás.
He remembered all too clearly. Years later, when Puskás was gravely ill and his family struggled to afford treatment, they had been forced to sell some of his cherished medals. Only then did Real Madrid appear. Not quietly, not privately, but with spectacle. They sent their Galácticos to Budapest for a charity match, basked in the headlines and applause, and then flew away. The funds raised were substantial, but the portion that actually reached the Puskás household was meagre compared to what was needed.
To Aldridge, the truth was obvious: Madrid's tribute was for show. How could a club that spent tens of millions every summer on transfers not cover the medical expenses of a man who had given them so much?
Madrid's nobility had been built on shoulders like his. Puskás had carried them to glory, and yet when he needed them most, they gave him little more than a stage-managed performance.
Before the 1950s, Real Madrid had not been Europe's noble giant. They had prestige, born of their royal name and capital-city roots, but their record was modest. It was only in that decade, when they won five consecutive European Cups, that they truly became a superpower. And in those triumphs, Puskás was vital—joining Di Stéfano and Gento as the pillars of their dynasty. He delivered them five straight league titles, four straight years as La Liga's top scorer, and remains one of their all-time leading scorers even decades later. Only the likes of Raúl, Santillana, Sánchez, and in the future Cristiano Ronaldo would come close and surpass him.
And yet, in the 1995–96 season, Madrid's fans were restless. It had been thirty years since their last European Cup. Their only glory to boast of still came from that golden age when Puskás was on the pitch. Now, he was reduced to a piece of their marketing machine, trotted out whenever they wished to display history for commercial gain.
Even as they continued to put his name on their lips, Aldridge knew the truth.
He had lived nearly fifty years counting his previous life and had long since seen through football's illusions. The game was not pure. It was full of betrayal, indifference, hatred, and cold business calculations. Loyalties could turn faster than the flipping of a page.
Even with his rebirth, Aldridge could not erase all that. But in his heart, he vowed that history would not repeat itself—not for Puskás.
He forced down the anger simmering inside him, though it took a long time before the flames subsided. In the end, one truth mattered above all: he wanted Puskás to receive the best possible care, and for Erzsébet to live without fear or hardship. That meant more than holding on to bitterness.
That, for Aldridge, was the only tribute worthy of his mentor.
When Aldridge returned to the hospital after breakfast, he noticed a thin man standing outside the ward. The man looked to be twenty-five or twenty-six, with the bearing of a scholar. His neatly combed hair and the pair of glasses on his face gave him an almost bookish awkwardness.
"Nagy!"
Aldridge called out softly.
Nagy Sándor turned in surprise, then quickly approached. Extending his hand, he said seriously, "I didn't expect you to actually come."
That letter Aldridge had received—the international envelope—had been sent by Nagy. A member of the Hungarian national team's coaching staff, he had worked alongside Aldridge for six months. Other than Puskás, he was the only friend Aldridge had made in Hungary.
Instead of shaking his hand, Aldridge pulled him into a firm hug. "You make me sad with those words," he said, half-angry, half-amused. "Do you really see me as such a cold and heartless man?"
Nagy sighed and explained honestly, "No. I just thought you were too busy. I assumed, if you came at all, it would be in mid-September."
Aldridge paused, then understood. Mid-September would be the international break, a time when he would have more freedom.
The two of them walked down the corridor, talking quietly about Puskás's condition before the conversation inevitably turned to football.
"It is hard to come back from this," Nagy said with a heavy heart. "Our youth training has collapsed. The foundation must be rebuilt from nothing. Hungary has vanished from the football map. The teacher's generation was our last glory."
His words were filled with sorrow.
Aldridge knew he was right. The old system that had once produced the Golden Team could no longer be recreated. The world had changed. Football had become more scientific, more professional, and no longer could a nation simply pluck soldiers from the army and forge them into world-beaters.
Aldridge placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly. "You can't change this alone. Football always grows from the bottom up. Without a foundation, there can be no superstructure. Come back to London with me. To tell you the truth, no one understands my football philosophy better than you. Together, we can build something unimaginable."
Nagy looked every bit the academic—slightly awkward, slightly detached. But Aldridge knew his heart. Najib was the heir to the old Budapest café culture, the intellectual tradition that had birthed Hungarian tactical genius in the 1950s. He was a tactical obsessive, capable of staying up all night with Aldridge, endlessly dissecting formations and theories. He was brilliant in theory, yet his character doomed him from becoming a first-team head coach. He lacked the spark of passion, the fire that a leader must ignite in his players. He could bury himself in schemes, but he could not breathe life into them on the pitch.
"I will make a decision next month," Nagy said quietly.
Aldridge thought for a moment, then understood. Nagy's heart was still tethered to Hungary. He wanted to give his homeland one last chance.
At the time, Hungary were stuck in the Euro 1996 qualifiers, drawn in a group with Switzerland, Sweden, Iceland, and Turkey. Their results had been poor, and their chances of qualifying were slim—mathematically possible, but dependent on unlikely outcomes. If Turkey failed to win their next match, Hungary's hopes would vanish completely.
Aldridge nodded. "All right. I'll wait for your reply next month."
If Nagy agreed to join him, Aldridge knew it would be a great advantage. Nagy lacked the temperament for senior management, but his value lay elsewhere. He had the patience to train, to drill concepts into young players, to correct habits with tireless repetition. Aldridge respected that because he himself could not do it. To him, a first-team coach was not a youth trainer. He had no time to mould every detail of a player's game. His job was to select those already capable, to arrange them, and to make the team function. Nagy, however, could shape raw talent, refine details, and impart tactical vision in a way Aldridge could not.
After spending another day in Budapest, Aldridge paid Puskás's medical expenses and began contacting top hospitals in the United Kingdom, determined to secure the best possible treatment for the old man.
When he returned to London on Wednesday, he did not linger. He immediately travelled to the coastal town of Cleethorpes in northeast Lincolnshire, where Millwall were set to play their League Cup tie at Blundell Park against Grimsby Town.