After playing Liverpool, Grimsby, and Blackburn all away from home, three consecutive trips that left him physically and mentally drained, Aldridge finally steered his "boat" back to London. He returned exhausted, yet relieved, to familiar ground.
By now, the Spice Girls had officially begun recording their debut album. With Melanie busy, Aldridge slipped back into single life. As the manager of a top-flight club, he had never expected much privacy anyway. Even when players were on holiday, a coach's time was consumed by video analysis, scouting, and preparation for upcoming opponents. Loneliness had no place in his life. He had work every day, and that constant rhythm filled every corner of his existence.
Meanwhile, Andrew had used his connections to arrange for the very best care for Puskás. He had contacted Wellington Hospital—at the time not only the finest in the United Kingdom but ranked among the very best in Europe. The transfer paperwork was in progress. Aldridge sincerely hoped that Erzsébet would accept the move, so that her husband could be properly cared for. Whatever the outcome, Aldridge only wished that this legendary couple could find some measure of comfort in their later years.
The fifth match of Millwall's grueling "devil's schedule" loomed, the penultimate fixture before the international break. A League Cup tie against Wolves awaited shortly after, but for now the focus remained on the league. Many of his players would soon be departing for international duty, which made this fixture all the more important.
The opponent was one of English football's strangest cases: Nottingham Forest. A club with more European Cups than league titles—two continental crowns under Brian Clough, but only a single First Division championship. Their legacy carried weight, even if their current squad was no longer the powerhouse of old.
Last season, Forest had finished a remarkable third in the Premier League. Frank Clark, their manager, had even shared an accolade with Aldridge: both had been named Managers of the Year in their respective divisions. The two had met just months earlier, yet in very different contexts—Clark as custodian of a giant reborn, Aldridge as the young tactician who had dragged Millwall back into the limelight.
But this summer had been cruel to Clark. His star forward, Stan Collymore, had been lured away by Liverpool after scoring 24 league goals, nearly a third of Forest's entire tally. Losing him was a devastating blow. Unsurprisingly, their early form reflected it: draws against three London clubs—West Ham, Chelsea, and Arsenal—suggested both resilience and limitation.
Arriving at The Den, Clark spoke with caution. He downplayed expectations, describing Forest's trip to London as "a hard fight." Was Millwall truly that strong? At least on paper, the league table said yes: Forest trailed directly behind Aldridge's side.
Thus, two of the season's remaining unbeaten sides faced off under the floodlights of The Den.
Aldridge sent out his strongest eleven, sticking to his tried-and-tested 4-4-2. Clark, in contrast, set his team up conservatively, clearly intent on stifling Millwall's rhythm and grinding out a fourth consecutive draw against a London opponent.
The opening stages were tight and uneventful. The match lacked fireworks, but the atmosphere inside The Den more than compensated. The roar of the home supporters never ceased. For many of them, this was uncharted territory. They had never witnessed Millwall play with such strength and authority against the giants of English football.
Victories over Arsenal and Liverpool had already electrified the fanbase. A 5-5 thriller against Manchester United at Old Trafford and a 1-1 draw away to defending champions Blackburn had cemented belief that Millwall's rise was real. Now, the terraces buzzed with expectation, the noise a mixture of pride and restless anticipation.
Yet Aldridge grew restless on the touchline. His forwards were struggling badly.
Clark had clearly studied Millwall in depth. His defensive shape was disciplined, his lines compact. Forest clogged the edge of the penalty area with numbers, denying space for Millwall's strikers to link up. Solskjær and Larsson were isolated, unable to combine effectively. Even simple possession became a battle.
Hands buried in his coat pockets, Aldridge paced the sideline, running through solutions in his head.
Forest's defensive scheme was ruthless in its precision. Pavel Nedvěd, Millwall's creative hub, found himself tightly marked the moment he entered the attacking third, with a second line of cover always ready to collapse on him. The edge of the box was suffocated; there was no room for intricate one-twos or clever cutbacks. Out wide, Forest's full-backs refused to be drawn out recklessly, keeping their line compact even when Millwall's own full-backs ventured forward. They were effectively daring Millwall to cross.
That left only one predictable option: lofted deliveries towards Larsson. But with Forest's centre-backs crowding him out, he was swallowed whole, unable to win clean headers or hold the ball long enough to bring teammates into play.
It was a tactical stalemate, the kind of grinding, attritional battle where one lapse of concentration could decide everything. Hard to imagine that last season's third-placed Premier League side would adopt such a low-profile, safety-first approach against a newly promoted club. Yet here they were, treating Millwall with deep respect.
When the referee blew for half-time, the score remained 0-0.
Aldridge called Shevchenko over to the front of the tunnel, his face set in a stern expression, as though the young striker before him was a blade waiting to be unsheathed.
"Go warm up."
The words were short and firm. Shevchenko swallowed, gave a quick nod, and immediately jogged off to the touchline, beginning his stretches with urgency.
Breaking down a packed defense had always been one of football's universal problems, and it would remain so for decades. Even the best attacking sides in history had struggled. Aldridge thought back to the 1990 World Cup final: Germany, a team of stars, battered Argentina—who relied almost solely on Maradona—with more than thirty shots. Yet Argentina managed only a single attempt all game, and the Germans only settled the contest from the penalty spot. That was the cruel logic of football against entrenched defenses.
There were only three real ways to crack the bunker. One was through individual brilliance—moments of sudden, heroic improvisation that no system could legislate against. Another was the long-range strike: constant attempts from distance that forced the defense to step forward and disrupt their shape. The last was the set piece, where chaos and delivery could bypass structure. Without these, all the beautiful passing sequences in the world were meaningless. Possession statistics became hollow numbers if there was no space to shoot.
In the midfield, Aldridge could only encourage his players to attempt more shots from outside the area. If that failed, he would have to escalate and take direct risks in the penalty box. At some point, Millwall would need to create true danger, even at the cost of losing rhythm.
Nottingham Forest, however, remained stubborn. Their second-half approach was the same as the first: lines compressed, defenders retreating en masse to the edge of their box, then launching occasional long clearances into Millwall's half, hoping their two strikers could spring a surprise counterattack.
Aldridge stayed vigilant. He had seen too many games where a weaker side parked the bus, only to nick an improbable goal. That was why he relied so much on his defensive core. Richards and Stam anchored the backline, while Makelele shielded them in midfield, covering gaps and sweeping loose balls. Aldridge trusted them completely. If Forest's forwards somehow managed to receive one of those hopeful clearances cleanly, turning it into a two-on-three counterattack, then perhaps Millwall could be punished. But Aldridge backed Makelele's anticipation and tackling. With his defensive intelligence, even bringing a ball under control against him was a challenge, let alone turning and shooting. And given how long those high balls floated, Millwall's defenders always had time to set themselves.
At the hour mark, Aldridge finally admitted the obvious. Solskjær was struggling. Whether inside the box or dropping deep, he had been anonymous. There was no space for his clever runs, and his movement had been suffocated by Forest's compactness. He had started brightly, but once the defenders adjusted, they nullified him completely.
Aldridge readied his substitution. Shevchenko would come on. Before making the change, though, he wanted the Ukrainian calm and focused. He called him over again. Shevchenko jogged to the sideline, bouncing on his toes, full of energy. Aldridge gestured for him to settle down, then pulled him in close. He crouched slightly, placing a steady hand on the striker's shoulder.
"Andriy, do you trust me?" he asked slowly, carefully choosing simple English words, his tone deliberate so that the newcomer could understand.
Shevchenko had only been in England a few months, but he already knew what Aldridge meant to his career. He did not hesitate. "Of course I trust you, boss!" His answer was firm, almost instinctive. He had no doubt this young manager would shape his future.
"Are you nervous?" Aldridge pressed.
Shevchenko glanced at the heaving stands. The Den was small, enclosed, yet the sound was deafening. For a debut, it was an intimidating environment. To say he was not nervous would have been a lie, but pride kept him silent. He lowered his eyes instead of answering.
Aldridge smiled knowingly. He pointed across the pitch. "Do you know what team that is?"
Shevchenko blinked, puzzled by the question. "Nottingham Forest."
"Do you know their history?"
"Yes. European champions. Twice!"
Aldridge nodded. "Back home in Ukraine, you'd only face a club like Nottingham Forest if you reached Europe, maybe once in a season. Here in England, you'll see opponents with that pedigree every week. Do you regret coming here?"
Shevchenko's answer was immediate, his voice alive with excitement. "No! I am thrilled. Manchester United, Liverpool, Nottingham Forest—they have all won the highest honors in Europe. To play against such teams every week, it excites me!"
The conviction in his tone pleased Aldridge. He bent down, scooped up a handful of grass and soil from the turf, and held it out in his palm. The mixture of mud and blades of grass was raw, earthy. He raised it to Shevchenko's nose. "Smell this."
Shevchenko leaned forward and sniffed.
"What does it smell like?"
He struggled for words. "Good smell." It was a clumsy description, but his eyes betrayed the freshness he sensed—the damp, living fragrance of the pitch.
Aldridge inhaled as well, closing his eyes briefly. The natural scent was grounding, almost soothing. He shook his hand, scattering the dirt, and clapped his palms clean.
"Your job today is simple," Aldridge said firmly. "Stand tall, lead the line. If the ball comes from the sky, head it into the goal. If it rolls on the turf, use whatever part of your body you must—foot, chest, anything—to send it into their net. Understand?"
Shevchenko still seemed half-lost in the smell of the pitch, rubbing his nose absentmindedly, but his answer was decisive. He nodded.
Aldridge straightened, still holding him close, and asked with a grin, "Are you nervous now?"
Shevchenko smiled for the first time. "Boss, after talking with you, I forgot all about it. I even feel cold."
"That's fine," Aldridge chuckled. "Just don't forget to score."
He released him and walked back to the bench, signalling to the fourth official.
When play next stopped, the substitution board went up. Solskjær came off, his face tinged with frustration. He looked slightly downcast, but Aldridge stepped forward and clasped him by the arm.
"Ole, this match wasn't for you," he reassured. "Don't worry. No striker scores every game. A good striker is the one who always believes he'll score in the next match."
Solskjær smiled faintly. "Boss, I'm not a child. You don't need to comfort me like that."
"Fair enough," Aldridge replied, smiling back. "Then sit down, watch closely, and learn from this. Observe the game. Study it."
With a shrug, Solskjær accepted the coat handed to him by a coach and settled on the bench. Watching Aldridge from the sideline had become habit for him—whether he was on the pitch or not, he studied the manager's every move, trying to see the match through his eyes.
Then came the announcement: "Millwall bring on their new summer signing. His name is Andriy Shevchenko, from Dynamo Kyiv in Ukraine. Curiously, Aldridge has not turned to Phillips—the striker with the reputation of being a super-sub. The Ukrainian doesn't look like much: not particularly tall, not overly muscular, not…"
The commentator's voice cut off in a burst of disbelief.
"Oh my God—GOOOOOOAL!"
While the commentator was still in the middle of introducing Shevchenko, the Ukrainian striker had already gone straight into the penalty area, and within moments he was celebrating his first goal in English football.
He timed his movement perfectly, waiting as his teammates advanced. Schneider carried the ball on the flank, lifted his head, and whipped in a cross. Inside the box, Larsson rose first under heavy pressure, glancing the ball on with a clever nod. His touch redirected it into the six-yard area, and Shevchenko, arriving in stride, instinctively launched himself forward. He met the ball with his forehead and powered it toward goal.
The connection was true, but the angle was awkward. The ball shot past the keeper and into the back of the net, yet Shevchenko's momentum carried him into danger. He could not stop himself in time and crashed headfirst into the back post.
Boom!
The sound echoed as he hit the woodwork. Blood appeared immediately on his scalp.
For a moment, the crowd gasped in silence. Nottingham Forest's defenders froze, staring at the young forward lying on the ground, clutching his head, his debut marked by both glory and pain. Their expressions were mixed—frustration that their defensive wall had been breached, and disbelief at the audacity of the unknown striker who had just broken them down.
Clark was stunned. He had prepared extensively, analyzing every Millwall player in detail. He thought he had studied Aldridge's options inside out. He had expected Phillips, maybe even Trezeguet if fit, but not this—an unheralded Ukrainian youngster introduced at the decisive moment. Aldridge had once again broken convention.
And Shevchenko had exploded into life. He had broken Forest's "bus" defense with his very first touch, and in doing so had broken his own head as well.
Millwall's players did not even think to celebrate. They all sprinted towards Shevchenko in alarm. The team doctor rushed onto the pitch, kit bag bouncing at his side, while the crowd roared, half in triumph and half in worry.
Flat on the turf, Shevchenko pressed his hand against his bleeding forehead. The world spun slightly. In broken English, he looked at his teammates hovering above him and croaked: "I scored?"
Nedvěd knelt down immediately, pressing a steadying hand on his chest and leaning close. His voice was deep but reassuring. "Congratulations. First touch, first goal. That must be a record. Andriy, good… but stay down, the doctor is coming."
Shevchenko glanced at his palm, now smeared with blood, and gave a weak, embarrassed laugh. After a pause, he muttered: "Maybe… fastest injury record, too."
On the touchline, Aldridge stood with his hands on his hips. His mind was already working. The goal had changed everything. Nottingham Forest would be forced to abandon their shell and launch desperate attacks. He had Vieira warming up immediately—time to reinforce midfield and tighten the central defensive block, while giving Nedvěd more license to push higher in transition.
Yet as Shevchenko was carefully lifted onto the stretcher, still dazed but conscious, Aldridge walked a few steps forward. He raised his thumb in the striker's direction, then joined the crowd in clapping him off. It was both encouragement and recognition.
Under his breath, however, he muttered wryly: "Crashing like that is never good…"
...
...
The fans inside The Den hardly knew how to react. A few seconds earlier, many had doubted Aldridge's choice. They had expected Phillips to come on, the "super-sub" who so often delivered dramatic goals. Instead, Shevchenko had been introduced—and within seconds, the stalemate was shattered. The crowd had leapt to their feet, fists raised, only to see the young Ukrainian smash into the post and collapse bleeding on the grass. Just as quickly as they had celebrated, they now watched anxiously as he was carried off on a stretcher.
What was happening with Millwall's debutants? It was beginning to feel like there was some kind of curse.
The supporters still remembered last season, when Vieira had been shown a red card on his debut. That image was still vivid in their minds. Now, this season, the new striker had scored within his very first minute, only to be forced off injured immediately after.
Of course, these were isolated incidents, but the impression lingered. Not every debut carried misfortune. Their summer signing at centre-back, Iván Helguera, had performed excellently in his first match and had since established himself as a reliable presence in the back line. Still, the contrast only made Shevchenko's dramatic first appearance stand out even more.
At the very least, the young Ukrainian had left an unforgettable mark. The fans applauded as he was stretchered away and silently prayed his injury would not be serious.
On the pitch, Millwall had gained what mattered: the breakthrough. Aldridge moved quickly, replacing the injured Shevchenko with Vieira. There were still more than twenty minutes to play, and he knew Nottingham Forest would be forced to respond.
Frank Clark was deeply frustrated. Losing Stan Collymore in the summer had already stripped his side of a cutting edge. The forward's departure to Liverpool had left him with fewer weapons, and although Forest had started the season decently, their attacking threat was diminished. Coming into The Den, Clark had thought a draw would be an acceptable result. But now, trailing by a goal, his options were limited.
He did not dare to throw his entire team forward. Everyone knew Liverpool's midfield had greater creativity, but their defense was hardly impervious. Forest's was no stronger. If they attacked recklessly, Millwall's counterattacking pace could cut them apart. Clark knew that if his side conceded again, the match would be over.
Still, the situation demanded risk. Forest pushed more men forward, attempting short passing combinations in Millwall's half. Aldridge anticipated this and had already bolstered his midfield with Vieira, whose presence tightened the vertical defensive axis and clogged Forest's attempts to play through the centre.
The game settled into a battle of attrition. Both sides fought hard in midfield, pressing, tackling, and trading possession, but clear chances were scarce.
With five minutes remaining, Clark made his last gamble. He gestured animatedly from the technical area, urging even his midfielders and full-backs to push higher. It would be all or nothing.
Aldridge, watching calmly from his technical area, was not surprised. He knew this was the moment Millwall's system thrived. Their football was like a coiled spring: the more pressure the opponent applied, the further they compressed, and the more violently they could release once the ball turned over. Strong teams in the future would often follow this rhythm. For underdogs, the most dangerous moment was always after conceding the first goal. Desperation forced them forward, and against quality opposition, that was when the floodgates opened.
The pattern unfolded exactly as Aldridge expected. One Forest attack broke down just outside Millwall's box. Stam, perfectly positioned, intercepted cleanly at the edge of the area and immediately initiated a counterattack.
From that moment, Millwall's movement was seamless. Vieira carried the ball forward and exchanged a quick one-two with Thuram near the halfway line. The Frenchman surged diagonally before releasing a precise pass into the stride of Pires.
Pires wasted no time with touches. He swept the ball centrally with his first pass, finding Nedvěd in space. Forest's retreat was hurried and disorganized. Looking up, Nedvěd saw gaps everywhere. With composure, he slipped a delicate through ball between the scrambling defenders. Larsson had timed his run perfectly, breaking the offside trap.
Now clear, he advanced on goal. The keeper rushed out desperately, but Larsson remained ice-cold. With one smooth touch, he shaped his body and rolled the ball low with the inside of his foot. It slid beneath the goalkeeper's dive and nestled in the corner of the net.
"Larsson scores! That is his seventh league goal of the season," the commentator cried. "What composure from the Swede—utterly clinical. He is proving himself a top-class finisher. Nottingham Forest have no way back now. As we enter stoppage time, Millwall lead 2–0. Aldridge's side have once again stamped their dominance at home!"
Larsson wheeled away, arms spread wide, before being mobbed by teammates. He had his own reasons to celebrate. Part of his decision to remain at Millwall that summer had been Aldridge's faith in him, the belief that he could lead the line. The other part was the joy of playing in this system. Surrounded by Schneider, Nedvěd, Pires, and Trezeguet, he felt his own strengths amplified. The understanding among them needed no words. They moved like a unit, instincts intertwined. It was football made simple—and it was beautiful.
Clark's resolve evaporated. His final gamble had failed, and with it any hope of salvaging a point. He slumped back, waiting for the whistle. The result was beyond dispute.
Stoppage time passed quickly. The referee blew for full-time, and The Den rose as one. The fans had developed a ritual: applauding their team at the end of every home game, a habit forged in last season's remarkable First Division campaign, when Millwall had gone 23 matches unbeaten at home, winning 20 and drawing 3. That exceptional momentum had carried into the Premier League. The applause tonight was thunderous, a collective salute to another victory.
On the touchline, Aldridge and Clark met. The two Managers of the Year from last season—the First Division and the Premier League—shook hands warmly, exchanging brief words. Clark even inquired discreetly about several of Millwall's promising youngsters. But Aldridge only smiled and gave the same answer: none were for sale.
He knew the truth. No successful side survived without depth. A strong bench was as important as a strong starting eleven. The luxury substitutes that fans often marveled at in Europe's elite clubs were part of the reason those teams could sustain success year after year. Millwall, if they were to join those ranks, had to build the same foundation.
Back in the dressing room, Aldridge praised his players for their performance. But his first stop afterward was the medical room, where he checked on Shevchenko's condition.
The sight had been frightening, but the doctors reassured him. It was only a superficial trauma. The Ukrainian was conscious when he arrived, and although the test results were still pending, the medical staff were confident it was nothing serious. A few stitches would be required, followed by a rest of ten days to two weeks. Then he would be ready to return.
Relieved, Aldridge finally allowed himself a smile.
Later, he returned to his office, pulled out a poster emblazoned with the image of a trophy, and walked back into the dressing room. He pinned it on the wall.
As the players finished their showers and changed into clean clothes, they noticed it immediately. Grins spread across their faces.
The trophy on the poster was the English League Cup.
That was their next challenge. Their next match would be against Wolves, at home—an old First Division opponent from last season.
After finishing work and stepping out of the club, Aldridge was stopped by a voice calling from behind him.
"Hey, boss."
He turned around and saw that it was Adam, the club's CEO.
"Is there a problem?" Aldridge asked.
Adam nodded. "During the match, Andrew came over. He asked me to pass a message to you. Mr. Puskás' transfer procedure has been completed. He'll be moved from Budapest to London next Tuesday."
Andrew, who used to work at Millwall and knew Aldridge's routines well, was aware that Aldridge always kept his phone switched off during games. Since he could not reach him directly, he had asked Adam to act as a messenger.
"Oh, I see," Aldridge replied quietly.
Adam hesitated, lowering his voice. "Boss, forgive me for asking, but… is it really Puskás? I mean, that Puskás?"
Aldridge's brows knitted. He knew where this was heading. "Adam, yes. That is Puskás."
The CEO's expression brightened. He leaned in slightly and whispered, "Boss, if we could make this public, take a few photos, maybe even…"
"Stop." Aldridge's voice cut sharp. "Adam, do you understand the meaning of respect?"
Adam froze, caught off guard.
"Tell me," Aldridge pressed. "Do you have someone in your life whom you respect above all others?"
After a pause, Adam nodded. "Yes. Professor Smith, from the Business School. I will never forget his teachings."
"Good," Aldridge said firmly. "Now imagine that Professor Smith was gravely ill. Would you exploit his suffering to make money? If your answer is yes, then I expect your resignation letter on my desk tomorrow morning. Goodbye."
With that, Aldridge turned and walked away. Adam stood rooted, eyebrows raised, then gave a resigned shrug and a self-deprecating smile.
Four days later, Millwall hosted Wolves in the League Cup. Aldridge named his strongest available lineup. Wolves, still fighting hard for promotion to the Premier League, clearly did not prioritise the cup competition. The result was straightforward. Millwall controlled the match from start to finish and secured an easy home victory, advancing to the next round.
Then came the sixth round of the Premier League, the final fixture before the international break. Millwall remained at home and welcomed a familiar opponent: Middlesbrough.
This season, Middlesbrough were managed by Bryan Robson. His approach was pragmatic, disciplined, and effective. Already, Robson's side had drawn away at Arsenal and Bolton, beaten Chelsea and Coventry at home, and only lost to the newly resurgent Newcastle United. They were newly promoted like Millwall, but their style was entirely different—measured, cautious, and highly organised.
Against Millwall, Robson's tactical conservatism was even more apparent. Last season, Middlesbrough had often lined up in a 5-3-2, but for this visit to The Den he went even further, deploying a 5-4-1. Apart from leaving one striker high to harass Millwall's back line, every other player dropped into their own half. They stacked two compact defensive banks, bodies filling every pocket of space, determined to suffocate Millwall's rhythm.
The match turned into a siege. Millwall fired 27 shots across the ninety minutes, but only six were on target, and none found the net. Middlesbrough, meanwhile, failed to muster a single attempt of their own. Their possession barely reached 30 percent. Yet when the final whistle blew, the scoreboard still read 0–0.
After the match, Aldridge shook Robson's hand, managing only a wry smile. He held no bitterness. Robson had not bent the rules or resorted to anything unfair. This was football. Sometimes, the stronger side could not force a victory, especially against an opponent who came with no ambition other than to deny space and defend at all costs.
The international break arrived. With many of his first-team players away with their countries, Aldridge adapted training. He still held sessions during the week, occasionally arranging teaching matches against the youth team to keep sharpness, but the tempo eased. On the weekend of international fixtures, he gave the remaining squad a short holiday.
At home, Aldridge settled in front of the television to watch Hungary's crucial away match against Turkey in the European Championship qualifiers.
The game offered little drama. Turkey controlled proceedings and won 2–0, effectively extinguishing Hungary's already faint hopes of qualifying for the European Championship.