Cup ties and midweek league matches were always played at night, since most supporters worked during the day.
By the time Aldridge arrived at Grimsby Town, the sky was already dark. The floodlights at Blundell Park blazed down, and the roar of the crowd shook through the stands. The noise carried all the way to the street outside, a raw, restless energy that made Aldridge pause.
He could feel it immediately: the atmosphere was electric. That was never a good sign for the visitors. If the home supporters were this fired up, it usually meant their team was playing well.
Aldridge had no ticket, so he couldn't enter through the public turnstiles. Instead, he made his way to the club entrance, where he found himself in a frustrating back-and-forth with a young security guard.
"I'm the head coach of Millwall," he said firmly. "I'm late. Now let me in."
"Sir, I'll need to see some identification," the guard replied, polite but unmoved. The lad was clearly new, probably not much of a football follower, and had no idea who Aldridge was.
Before Aldridge could argue further, another member of staff passed by and called out: "Hey, Jerry, let him through. That really is Millwall's manager. He was here last season."
The recognition got him inside, but the tone was cool. Aldridge noticed the man's expression—there was no warmth in it, only a faint hint of hostility. He could understand why. After all, Millwall had beaten Grimsby here 3–0 the previous year.
As Aldridge walked past, the staffer added lightly, almost with a touch of malice: "Mr. Hall, I'm afraid Millwall won't be going home happy tonight."
Aldridge ignored him. He already had a bad feeling. Making his way through the players' tunnel, he headed straight for the mouth of the pitch and looked up at the scoreboard.
2–0.
As was standard, the home side's score was shown first. It was the forty-fourth minute of the first half.
"What the hell?" Aldridge muttered under his breath.
Millwall were two goals down? He scanned the pitch, counting. Twenty-two men, no red cards, both teams at full strength. Grimsby hadn't sneaked a twelfth man on, and Millwall had all their regular starters—Solskjær and Richards aside, this was practically a first-choice lineup. So why were they trailing?
He glanced across at the Millwall bench. Jenson stood on the touchline, arms folded, a frown carved into his face. He didn't look panicked, but there was a helplessness about him.
The half-time whistle blew. Aldridge stepped back from view, slipping away from the tunnel entrance.
The Grimsby players jogged off, grinning and slapping hands, buoyed by their lead. The Millwall players trudged past with slumped shoulders and hollow eyes, looking as though they had lost something intangible, something vital. From the first whistle, they had sensed something was off, as if the spark had gone missing.
Jenson followed at the rear, his mind churning. He was searching for answers, wondering what adjustment to make. But tactically there had been no real problem. Millwall had dominated the ball, penned Grimsby back, and carried the play. And yet, they were the ones two goals down. How?
He had tried to rouse the team with passion before kick-off, to imitate Aldridge's fire. But his words had fallen flat. The players had stared back at him, polite but unmoved, like an audience watching a play rather than soldiers answering a call.
As he wrestled with his thoughts, a voice broke through the corridor.
"Jenson! Jenson!"
He looked up, startled, and saw Aldridge beckoning him from the shadows of a corner, looking for all the world like a conspirator sneaking around the enemy's camp.
"Good God, if you're here, get inside quickly," Jenson said, hurrying over. "The situation is very bad!"
Aldridge pulled him aside, out of sight. He lit a cigarette, handed another to Jenson, and exhaled slowly. "Tell me about the first half."
Jenson took a drag and explained: "We had the better of the play. Grimsby sat back, countering when they could. Their first goal came from a corner. Then we won a penalty—Larsson stepped up, but he smashed it against the post. After that, we kept pressing, but they broke through us on the counter. Honestly, half the teams in the First Division are trying to copy us now. They soak up pressure, then launch two quick wingers forward with a long pass, looking for individual battles."
Aldridge shook his head. "That's not copying us. That's just the trend. Our counterattack works because we break forward as a unit, not because we leave two men stranded to fight alone."
Jenson gave a resigned shrug. "Be that as it may, we're two goals down. What do we do now?"
Aldridge checked his watch as he stubbed out his cigarette. He straightened his jacket, smoothing the creases, and walked calmly toward the dressing room door.
The atmosphere in the dressing room was heavy and subdued. No one spoke. After wiping down their jerseys and boots, the players sat in silence, heads lowered, some with eyes shut as if lost in thought. None of them seemed to notice—or care—why Jenson had not yet entered the room.
On the pitch, the captain's armband had been worn by Nedvěd. He was not a man of many words in the locker room. His leadership came through relentless effort, through running and tackling, through his sheer presence. But in terms of communication, he was quiet, far less vocal than Southgate, which was why Aldridge had entrusted the role of first captain to the English defender instead.
The silence broke when the door creaked open. The players did not look up. They still sat slouched, drained, their heads hanging.
"Hey," came a familiar voice, calm but firm. "I haven't seen you in a while. I had personal matters to deal with these past two days, so I wasn't with the team. For that, I owe you all an apology."
Every head in the room snapped upward. The players stared in disbelief at the figure in the doorway. Aldridge. Their eyes, which had been dulled and lifeless, suddenly burned with light.
Aldridge ignored their stunned expressions. Folding his arms across his chest, he continued evenly: "I was in the stands during the first half. I watched everything. You played well enough, but maybe you're tired. After all, four days ago we were away at Liverpool, and this weekend we face the defending champions Blackburn. So perhaps I should give you a rest, yes? If that's what you want, I'll understand. After all, this is only the League Cup. If we lose, we lose. Nothing to worry about."
The players looked at each other, baffled. Had they heard him right? Their coach… conceding? Almost encouraging them to give up?
Aldridge shrugged. "In fact, I just spoke to the referee. I asked him to make an exception and allow us to replace all eleven players in the second half. Of course, our bench isn't deep enough for that, but it doesn't matter. I could add the coaching staff to make up the numbers. Unfortunately, the referee refused. So, I'll have to settle for three substitutions. Who wants to volunteer to come off?"
The room froze. No one moved. No one spoke.
Aldridge let the silence stretch, then sighed. "All right, since no one is willing to step forward, I'll decide myself. I'll take the second half to watch from the stands. Jenson will make the changes on my word. Don't worry, it isn't personal. I'm satisfied with your effort. But if you can't rouse yourselves against Grimsby of all teams, then what am I supposed to think? Can't get excited? Can't get motivated?"
With that, he opened the door and stepped out, leaving the words hanging in the air.
The players exchanged uneasy glances, throats dry, each man swallowing nervously. They all knew it: Aldridge was furious.
This Millwall side had been built largely from unknowns. Many of them, just a year ago, were nobodies. Aldridge had brought them into the light. He had given them opportunities, handed them Premier League wages, and placed them in the spotlight of English football. To them, Aldridge was not just a coach. He was a mentor, almost a father figure. His words—whether praise or criticism—cut directly into their hearts.
Without him on the touchline, something had been missing. The players had felt it from the first whistle: a strange absence, as though they were acting without direction. But now he was back. His presence, even his scolding, gave them strength.
When the second half began, the players took the pitch with renewed focus. As they emerged from the tunnel, Aldridge appeared too, standing casually at the exit of the players' corridor. He leaned against the wall with folded arms, watching with apparent ease, as if nothing in the world troubled him.
The television cameras quickly picked him out, zooming in. The commentators immediately picked up on the shot, chuckling as they remarked on Aldridge's sudden appearance, and speculated whether his return would change the course of the night.
What Aldridge had not expected was that some of the Grimsby staff were also football romantics. A heavyset young man approached him, visibly excited.
"You're Mr. Hall, aren't you? Could I get your autograph? You're incredible—head coach before you've even turned twenty, and already doing so well. I watched Millwall's matches against Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool… it was thrilling, honestly the best football I've ever seen. Millwall is…"
The words spilled out in a rush. Aldridge listened patiently to the man's excited praise, signed his notebook, even posed for a quick photograph. Then, smiling faintly, he asked the lad for a glass of water. From the moment he had stepped off the plane until his arrival at the stadium, Aldridge had not taken a single sip, and his throat was parched.
As he stood there, glass in hand, the roar inside Blundell Park suddenly died for a heartbeat. Aldridge looked up sharply. On the pitch, Solskjær was already jogging back to the centre circle with the ball under his arm. He had just scored.
"Brilliant! Millwall scored!" the young staffer shouted, almost more excited than Aldridge himself.
It was easy enough to understand. Not everyone who worked at a football ground supported the home club. At Liverpool, there were staff who had been loyal Evertonians for decades. Here too, allegiances were scattered.
On the pitch, Millwall's approach had not changed from the first half. The formation and tactics were the same. The difference was in their execution. Suddenly, their play had bite. Their pressing was sharper, their passing quicker, their movements more confident. Grimsby dropped deeper and deeper, clinging to defence, but the difference in quality was evident. Their players lacked the ability to hold back Millwall's surging attacks.
Within twenty minutes of the restart, the equaliser came. Schneider's free-kick struck a defender in the wall, deflecting cruelly into the net. Fortune, yes—but fortune is part of football, and it had been earned by relentless pressure.
From that moment, the tide was irreversible. Grimsby defended with almost their entire side behind the ball, but they could only bend so far. The decisive moment arrived in the eighty-seventh minute. From a corner, Jaap Stam rose highest, powering his header through the crowd and into the net. Millwall 3, Grimsby 2.
No more, no less—the comeback was complete.
Aldridge had lied, of course. He had not made a single substitution.
After the final whistle, Jenson lingered at the tunnel entrance. He glanced toward the shadowed exit, where Aldridge had been standing, then turned back toward the dressing room, deep in thought. In his heart he could only sigh.
You always say that Nedvěd is the embodiment of this team's fighting spirit… but the true soul of Millwall is you.
...
After Millwall's midweek comeback against Grimsby, their League Cup campaign continued successfully. The following day, Aldridge once again gathered the squad on the training ground and offered an apology. His sudden absence had undeniably shaken the team. No one needed to be reminded of the head coach's importance—his presence, or lack thereof, directly influenced the players' mentality and performance.
Yet Aldridge was not one to dwell endlessly on mistakes. He acknowledged responsibility, reflected on it seriously, but then moved on quickly. The schedule left no time for self-indulgence.
Millwall had only two days back in London before setting off again, this time for the northwest of England. Their next fixture was daunting: an away trip to face defending champions Blackburn Rovers. The match was billed as one of the highlights of the round, attracting national attention. The anticipation and hostility promised a stormy atmosphere, with the boos for Millwall expected to eclipse even those hurled at Arsenal in their home clash with Nottingham Forest.
Blackburn, for all the prestige of their title, was hardly a great metropolis. With just over 100,000 inhabitants, it felt more like a large town than a city. Yet last season, against the odds, the club had clinched the first league championship in its history. Their triumph had been built on continuity and firepower. That summer, they retained their core lineup, avoiding the player departures that often follow success.
The most significant change came not on the pitch but on the bench. Kenny Dalglish, the mastermind who had guided them to the crown, stepped aside. He retired from front-line management, taking an honorary director role at the club, where he was worshipped by supporters and compensated with a handsome £300,000 annual salary. His successor was Ray Harford, a coach in his fifties who had once been a solid centre-half during his playing career.
As is so often the case, a coach's background coloured his philosophy. Kevin Keegan, for example, had been an attacking genius as a player, and his Newcastle side reflected that: dazzling going forward, but shambolic in defence. Harford, by contrast, was defensive by nature. But Blackburn's success had been built on attack, not caution. Last season they outscored everyone in the division—three goals more than Manchester United—while conceding fewer than any other team except United. United's tally, however, was padded by lopsided thrashings of weaker sides, like their 9–0 demolition of Ipswich Town.
Harford's cautious approach did not mesh easily with a squad accustomed to attacking freedom, and it was hardly surprising that the champions' form had wavered. In the opening three rounds of the new campaign, they had beaten Queens Park Rangers 1–0, but then slipped to back-to-back defeats: 2–1 against Sheffield Wednesday and 2–1 against Manchester United.
The outside world speculated that Blackburn were prioritising Europe, especially as they had been handed what seemed like a favourable Champions League group: Spartak Moscow, Rosenborg, and Legia Warsaw. Yet Aldridge, watching closely, recognised a deeper problem. Their struggles were not down to divided focus. In fact, their European outings had already embarrassed English football, as they had been comprehensively outplayed, exposing their lack of tactical balance on the continental stage.
Before Millwall travelled north to the quiet, traditional town, Aldridge adopted a diplomatic tone in his press conference. "Blackburn are the defending champions," he said evenly. "We are only a newly promoted side. To play at Ewood Park is a real challenge for us."
Many in the media interpreted this as the standard humility of a coach managing expectations. But Aldridge meant every word.
He rotated heavily for the match, resting several of his mainstays. Fielding a bench-heavy lineup away to the reigning champions was a gamble, and he knew it. But Aldridge believed strongly in the necessity of accelerated growth. His substitutes had to adapt quickly to the pace and brutality of the Premier League. Only by exposing them to pressure in matches like this could Millwall, in the long term, grow into a stronger, more complete team.
Harford was under intense pressure. After two consecutive league defeats—most recently a painful home loss to Manchester United—the Blackburn manager knew that another slip, especially against newly promoted Millwall, would be intolerable. This was a game he simply could not afford to lose.
In the dressing room before kick-off, he drilled his players relentlessly: build a defensive wall first, focus on shape, then look to attack. The instructions were clear, and though some of Blackburn's stars might have preferred a more expansive approach, no one dared appear rebellious. To defy the manager now would have risked their reputations as professionals.
When the fourth round of the Premier League began at Ewood Park, both managers were animated on the touchline. Aldridge prowled his technical area, as he always did, sharp-eyed and restless. On the opposite bench, Harford constantly barked reminders to his men, urging them to stay compact, to close down space, to defend first.
Aldridge had lined Millwall up in his now-familiar 4-3-3. His midfield trio—Gattuso, Vieira, and Ballack—provided a granite core of strength and discipline. At the back, he had to cope with absences. Materazzi was still serving a lengthy suspension from last season, and combined with a recent red card, he was unavailable until mid-September. As a result, Aldridge paired Richards with Iván Helguera in central defence. The full-backs were Gianluca Zambrotta on the left and Danny Mills on the right. Up front, the attacking trident featured Jesper Grønkjær on one wing, Kevin Phillips through the middle, and Ole Gunnar Solskjær on the other.
Blackburn, meanwhile, fielded almost the exact side that had carried them to the title the previous season.
Up front, the deadly SAS partnership—Alan Shearer and Chris Sutton—remained their spearhead. Between them, they had terrorised Premier League defences the year before, and though Mike Newell and Kevin Gallacher offered alternatives from the bench, it was the SAS who carried Blackburn's hopes.
In midfield, captain Tim Sherwood anchored alongside David Batty, with Jason Wilcox and Stuart Ripley providing width. It was a blend of bite and service, not always elegant but certainly effective.
Their defence featured quality too. Graeme Le Saux patrolled the left, Henning Berg the right, with Colin Hendry and Chris Coleman marshalling the centre. Behind them stood Tim Flowers, one of England's top goalkeepers.
On paper, it was still a formidable lineup—perhaps a little heavy with established names, but strong nonetheless.
Aldridge, however, viewed it differently. If he were handed Blackburn's transfer budget, he would not have assembled this particular group. Not only because he, with knowledge of the future, could identify better prospects, but because he believed fundamentally in another philosophy of squad building.
Blackburn's recruitment strategy had been simple: buy proven players, names already known, fighters who could deliver immediately. After some polishing, Dalglish had moulded them into champions. But these men were not bound to Blackburn by loyalty or long-term vision. They were mercenaries, proud professionals, yes, but ultimately driven by personal ambition and the market.
Aldridge preferred a different path. He wanted young, relatively unknown players, men who would grow under Millwall's colours, earning their reputation with the club. Even if they eventually left, they would depart as players developed by Millwall, taking pride in that journey. This, Aldridge believed, created cohesion, a stronger identity, and gave him greater leverage when persuading key talents to stay.
Across from him, he could already see the fragility in Blackburn's model. Shearer and Sutton would not remain forever. Within two years, bigger clubs would come calling. Others too—Le Saux, Batty, Wilcox—would move on, joining Chelsea, Tottenham, Manchester United, and elsewhere. They had come to Ewood Park for money and honours, and when the trophies dried up, they would move on without hesitation.
The much-anticipated clash did not quite live up to its billing. To the neutral eye, it was even a little dull.
Millwall's three-man midfield—Gattuso, Vieira, and Ballack—effectively stifled Blackburn's build-up play. Behind them, the central defensive pairing of Helguera and Richards performed with maturity beyond their years, blunting the SAS partnership.
Aldridge scanned the stands of Ewood Park thoughtfully. The atmosphere here lacked the cauldron intensity of Anfield or Old Trafford. The noise was there, but it didn't carry the same suffocating weight. Perhaps that was why Millwall's youngsters showed no fear against the defending champions.
Helguera, making his English debut, was especially impressive. Sutton and Shearer each tried to beat him, but on both occasions he stood firm, intercepting decisively and showing composure on the ball.
Millwall's attack, however, left Aldridge shaking his head.
Ballack slid a pass forward to Phillips. The striker spun past Sherwood neatly, then, from nearly thirty yards out, unleashed a thunderous drive. The strike was well-hit, forcing Tim Flowers into a sprawling save.
Aldridge slumped back into his seat with a sigh. Turning to Jenson, he muttered, "It's been a year now. Hasn't he changed that habit yet?"
Jenson could only shrug. "You saw it yourself. That's just Phillips. But he's lucky—more often than not, it works."
They were talking about Kevin Phillips. Aldridge was never fully satisfied with him. Phillips had an irritating tendency to ignore better options and take on speculative long shots. Yet, despite that flaw, his efficiency in front of goal was remarkable. In terms of goals per minutes played, he even ranked higher than Solskjær.
Moments before his long-range effort, both Grønkjær and Solskjær had peeled into space, perfectly placed for a pass. But Phillips chose to shoot. That was his nature. He was a reckless shooter—a forward who thrived on instinct, thriving on sudden strikes from distance or opportunistic efforts. His finishing was undeniably sharp, but his style was often at odds with Millwall's collective approach.
Aldridge wanted strikers who played within the system: making runs, linking play, and delivering the final blow when the team created the chance. Phillips behaved more like the archetypal English "fast" striker from the old big man–little man partnerships: lurking in threatening positions, waiting for half-chances, and firing at will.
He scored often enough that his numbers were hard to argue with. Aldridge had spoken to him about it several times, but Phillips rarely changed. He remained a substitute, valuable as an impact option, but not the type of striker Millwall's future would be built around.
The more goals he scored, the more he believed he deserved to start. That was the problem. Aldridge rubbed his forehead, feeling the headache building. Substitutes like Phillips had their uses, but to make him the main man? That was something Aldridge simply could not accept.
As Aldridge wrestled with this dilemma, Blackburn struck. A counter-attack, fuelled entirely by individual brilliance, carved Millwall open. Shearer used clever footwork to wrong-foot the still raw, impetuous Gattuso. From the edge of the box, he let fly. Bout managed to parry, but Sutton reacted quickest, muscling in ahead of Richards to stab home the rebound.
1–0 to Blackburn.
Aldridge jumped from his seat, shouting encouragement. The concession was no disaster—it was a lesson. He wanted his young goalkeeper and defenders to learn from it, to understand that awareness and positioning were as vital as bravery.
Blackburn's lead gave them swagger, and in the second half they grew bolder, pushing men forward. But with every surge, they left more gaps behind.
In the seventy-third minute, Vieira and Ballack combined in midfield to launch a swift counter. Grønkjær raced down the flank, delivered low across the box, and Phillips, arriving at the near post, finally did what he did best: burying the chance.
1–1.
With the equaliser, the match opened up completely. Both teams threw caution aside. The cagey chess match of the first half was forgotten; the closing stages became a furious exchange of attacks. Chances came and went, the tackles flew in, and the game grew frantic.
But neither side could find the winner. At the final whistle, honours were even.
For Millwall, the result was more than respectable. In a brutal run of fixtures—the so-called "devil's schedule"—they had managed two wins and two draws in their first four games. It was an excellent start for a newly promoted side.
Still, in the table they were already four points adrift of the leaders. And to everyone's surprise, it was Kevin Keegan's Newcastle United, with their breathtaking attacking football, who had won all four matches and sat top of the Premier League.