For the neutral fan, the derby might simply mean sitting on the sofa with a beer in one hand and a packet of crisps in the other, calmly waiting for a fair and entertaining match. But for the players, coaches, and supporters on both sides, a derby is no mere game. It is war.
Millwall needs this war. On the road from being a small club to establishing itself among the elite, the crucible of the derby is essential. Rivalries forge character and sharpen ambition.
All across football's great stages, the biggest clubs are defined by their derbies. Manchester United against Liverpool, the Derby della Madonnina in Milan, the Derby d'Italia between Juventus and Inter, the Madrid Derby, or the Spanish clásico between Real Madrid and Barcelona. If a supposed giant lacks a fierce and historic derby, their aura feels incomplete. Bayern Munich, for example, have long dominated German football, yet their local derbies — whether against 1860 Munich in the city, or the Bavarian and North-South clashes — have never commanded worldwide attention. For that reason Bayern tirelessly promoted the so-called "German Clásico," first against Borussia Mönchengladbach and Hamburg, and later against Borussia Dortmund, to manufacture the sense of a national rivalry. But true derby traditions are not created overnight. They grow from continuity, from generations of shared history, not simply from choosing the strongest available opponent to generate headlines. A great clash can be thrilling, but derby culture carries a deeper meaning that cannot be conjured from nothing.
Even Aldridge could not explain why Millwall and West Ham remained such bitter enemies after more than a century. This was not a matter that could be reduced to logic or traced like a detective novel searching for clues. It was not a quarrel that could be settled by bringing both sides to the table to calmly resolve grievances. The hostility had endured through time, handed down like an heirloom of animosity.
Every derby war has its roots in wider history — shaped by social changes, politics, and economics. To those familiar with Spanish history, the rivalry between Real Madrid and Barcelona is easy to grasp. That contest has never been merely a football match. It reflects the confrontation between Catalan identity and the Spanish ruling class, coloured by decades of political oppression. Behind it stood half a century of authoritarian control, even though Madrid themselves were originally founded by Catalans and Barcelona's history includes players of mixed backgrounds. Political hatred and cultural resistance left scars that did not fade even as Spain moved on from the dictatorship in the 1970s. The football rivalry continued to embody the echoes of that conflict.
Millwall's situation was different, yet Aldridge considered it fortunate that his club was based in London. The capital's status as an international metropolis offered fertile ground for the club's long-term development and rapid rise. Just as importantly, London offered no shortage of derby opponents. For now, the East London Derby against West Ham suited Millwall's stature and identity perfectly. But Aldridge could already foresee a future where Millwall might stand toe-to-toe with Arsenal, once their revival gathered pace, or with Chelsea as they grew in strength. In such a landscape, the East London Derby would be the proving ground, while future rivalries could enhance Millwall's attraction on an even bigger scale.
The team bus rolled safely into Upton Park, West Ham's home ground. The players peered out of the windows, their expressions betraying a touch of unease. They had witnessed the "welcome" arranged by the Hammers' supporters, and it left no doubt about the intensity of the day.
Aldridge remained silent. He did not calm the players with speeches; instead, he let them absorb the atmosphere for themselves. This was what it meant to play a derby. The East London clash might not be contested between England's most decorated sides, but its atmosphere was among the most fervent in the country. For a player, experiencing such a cauldron was a privilege. A footballer whose career passed only through quiet stadiums would one day retire with the regret of never having known this fire.
Football is, at its heart, a sport of passion.
When the players pulled on their jerseys and stepped out onto the pitch for their pre-match warm-up, they were immediately struck by two things.
First, Upton Park was packed to the rafters. Every seat was filled, the stands seething with anticipation. Millwall's travelling support had been allocated the South Stand, penned in carefully and kept apart from the home fans. Between them and the West Ham faithful, two solid lines of police officers stood in the aisles on either side, their faces set, eyes constantly scanning the crowd. Their posture made it clear: they were not watching the match, they were watching the supporters, prepared for any spark that might ignite.
Second, the mood in the ground was unlike anything Millwall's younger players had ever experienced. West Ham's notorious Hammer Gang had abandoned their usual routines. There were no bubbles floating above the terraces, no carefree singing of club anthems. Instead, their entire focus was directed at the South Stand. Thousands of arms pointed like weapons at Millwall's section, and the air shook with a wall of abuse hurled in unison.
"Your support is nothing compared to ours!" they roared.
"Millwall is finished today!"
The sheer venom in the chants reverberated across the stadium, a reminder that this was not just another league fixture. It was a battle for pride, territory, and identity. The players could feel the hostility pressing down on them, heavy as the floodlights above.
...
Normally, when Millwall travelled, the Roaring Lions supporters' group would organize large numbers to follow the team on the road. But today, with tickets snapped up as soon as they were released, Brady had only managed to lead a few hundred members into Upton Park. Around them sat other Millwall supporters, but these were not part of any official group. Among them, Aldridge suspected, were individuals from more extreme circles.
The atmosphere of confrontation was impossible to ignore. The Hammer Gang hurled abuse across the divide, and soon Millwall's section retaliated. Voices rose, tempers flared, and within minutes debris was being thrown back and forth between the stands. Bottles, coins, and scraps of whatever could be torn loose became projectiles. Only the quick intervention of the police prevented matters from spiraling out of control. More than a dozen fans from both sides were hauled away and ejected from the ground, their departure a reminder of how fragile the balance was.
Down on the pitch, the Millwall players warming up could feel the hostility raining down from the stands. West Ham supporters jeered them mercilessly, pointing fingers, insulting their families, and lacing the abuse with chants that carried the sting of racial discrimination.
The Millwall players tried to remain calm, but it was one of the most intense experiences of their young careers. As if the venom from the terraces was not enough, the turf beneath their boots deepened their frustration.
Was this really a professional pitch?
It was dreadful. Potholes pocked the surface, patches of bare earth lay exposed, and every pass bounced unevenly, skidding or popping unpredictably before reaching a teammate. Even in warm-up, the ball rolled like it was being deflected by invisible hands.
This was no accident. It was the latest trick of the Hammer Gang, but also of Harry Redknapp himself. He had studied Millwall closely. He knew their game depended on quick, sharp passing and coordinated movement on the deck — speed, technique, and fluid team play. West Ham, by contrast, thrived on direct balls, aerial duels, and physical strength. An uneven pitch did not bother them. For Millwall, it was a trap. Every forward sprint carried risk; a misstep in a divot could twist an ankle or worse.
Redknapp was still young, his hair not yet grey, but already he had the instincts of a seasoned schemer. With nothing more than neglected turf, he had tilted the conditions to blunt Millwall's strengths and increase West Ham's chances.
Aldridge, however, had been preparing for this derby for more than two weeks. He knew exactly what was coming. His scouts had visited Upton Park daily, reporting on the state of the surface. By midweek it was clear: West Ham had not watered or repaired the pitch since their last fixture. Aldridge understood perfectly what Redknapp was doing.
Still, injuries had forced his hand. Schneider's knock against Wimbledon had complicated his plans, forcing him to rethink his formation.
When the players returned from warm-up, Aldridge stood in front of the tactical board. Then, without a word, he shoved it to the floor.
The crash startled the squad. Already on edge, the sharp noise made them snap to attention, and they wondered if their coach had lost his composure.
"Today," Aldridge said coldly, "you don't need this." He gestured at the fallen board. "Maybe you don't yet understand how deep the hatred between Millwall and West Ham runs. It is not rivalry, it is not competition. It is hatred. They are our dead enemies. There will be no handshakes to end this. If we beat them today, it will not erase the bitterness. It will not silence the jeers. Even if I danced on their grave, I would still wake the next morning ready to drag their corpse out and beat it again. That is what this derby is. If you cannot accept that, if you cannot live with that weight, then you will never go further in this game. You saw it just now. The snarling faces. The venom in their eyes. You wondered, 'Why? Why do they want to destroy us?' This is why. Because football is not theatre. It is war. Welcome to the East London Derby."
He spread his hands, his face impassive. The players raised their eyes to him. In that moment, Aldridge seemed less a coach than a battle commander, blooded and hardened, his words forging soldiers ready for war.
"Today's game," he continued, "is not just about winning. It is more important than that. Above victory itself is what we must show: spirit, blood, and cruelty. Fight like men until the very end, and if we win, the fans will worship you as heroes. In their hearts, you will stand taller than generals, greater even than Napoleon. I am proud of you already, but if anyone today is timid, if anyone shrinks from the fight, then I will not be able to look him in the eye again. Before we step out, bow your heads and look at the badge on your chest. Remember who you are playing for."
He turned and left, striding into the tunnel alone, leaving the players in silence.
One by one, they lowered their heads. Trezeguet stared at the crest, his chest tightening. Millwall had given him the stage to rise, to earn recognition, to build his name. Perhaps this would not be his final destination, but it had already given him fame, fortune, and purpose.
Southgate, the captain, understood the derby's meaning better than most. Though he had come from Crystal Palace, it was here at Millwall that he had grown into a leader, that he had earned his call-up to England. He knew how deeply these games mattered.
He rose and spoke with quiet authority. "Lads, today we give everything, like always. We fight until there's nothing left."
Then he bent his head and whispered: "Millwall."
"Attack! Attack! Attack!" came the unanimous reply.
"Millwall!" Southgate's voice rose.
"Attack! Attack! Attack!"
Their eyes were fierce now, the tension gone, replaced by fire.
"Millwall!" Southgate thundered.
"Attack! Attack! Attack!"
The roar shook the walls. Southgate pulled open the locker room door, and with him at the front, the Millwall Lions surged out together, like wild beasts finally released from their cage.
...
West Ham United versus Millwall. This was the derby that gripped East London, a match that drew in men, women, and children alike.
In the pubs scattered along both banks of the Thames, the atmosphere was electric. Bars in Stratford, Canning Town, Bermondsey, and Deptford overflowed with patrons. Pints of bitter were raised, cigarette smoke curled to the ceiling, and all eyes were fixed on televisions mounted high above the bar. The room would fall silent for a moment, then erupt into shouts as the broadcast cut to images of Upton Park.
Out on the roads, taxi drivers kept their radios tuned to live commentary, following the match call by call as they ferried passengers through the endless streets. Even white-collar workers, stuck in their offices with overtime shifts, slipped on headphones to catch the coverage. The derby was unavoidable.
In back alleys, derelict lots, and small caged pitches, the more extreme elements of both clubs' support had already been at each other for hours. These fights were fought bare-fisted, in line with a long and brutal hooligan tradition. Bringing blades was frowned upon — knives turned a fight into deliberate murder, and only the timid carried them for protection. Yet once blood was drawn, it was all too easy for tempers to boil over. A stabbing could turn a clash into a killing, and when that happened, both sets of supporters would recoil. For all their violence, the essence of the hooligan culture was not supposed to be murder. If knives ever became commonplace, the casualty rate would soar faster than an AK-47's spray.
Inside Upton Park, the noise was deafening. You could barely distinguish the chants; the only words that pierced the air were curses, insults hurled in thick Cockney accents. This was no place for polite football, no setting for gentlemanly manners. It was not ballet. It was chaos.
The teams emerged from the tunnel. Aldridge stood upright on the touchline, his jaw set, his face stern, unmoved by the storm raging around him. Behind him, however, the substitute bench and coaching staff were shaken. They had barely taken their seats when tragedy struck: Babu, one of the coaching staff, was struck on the back of the head by a metal lighter hurled from the stands. Dazed, he had to be helped off by the physio and taken directly to the dressing room for assessment. Police quickly identified the culprits and dragged them away, issuing a stark warning to the home crowd: another incident like this, and they would clear five rows of seats nearest the away bench. That threat finally imposed some discipline, at least for the moment.
Even the Sky Sports commentators on site were unsettled by the ferocity of the atmosphere.
"The East London Derby returns after too long an absence," one voice rang out. "With Millwall down in the lower leagues in recent years, we've scarcely seen this fixture outside the odd cup tie. Some thought it had been forgotten. Tonight proves otherwise. The rivalry is hotter than ever."
"Martin," his colleague replied, "there's no question that if you ask West Ham who they most want to beat, the answer isn't Manchester United, Arsenal, or Liverpool. It's Millwall. And if you ask Millwall the same question, you'll get the same answer back. The Lions have risen fast since promotion. They're in the top group alongside Manchester United, Liverpool, and Newcastle, while West Ham are stuck in mid-table. That's a bitter pill to swallow for a club that once lorded it over their rivals."
"And Andy, let's not forget," Martin continued, "since July, Redknapp and his staff haven't stopped firing shots at Millwall. They've called them thieves, robbers, accused them of shameless poaching — all because Millwall signed one of West Ham's brightest young prospects in the summer. Even Redknapp's friendship with Frank Lampard Senior has cooled. The tension has been simmering for months. Aldridge, for his part, has barely said a word — until yesterday. At his press conference he was asked about it again, and his answer was cutting: 'Excellent players choose ambitious clubs. West Ham might offer contracts, but they cannot offer achievements. At Millwall, everyone pushes forward with a clear goal. We're heading for glory. West Ham? They drift, and their fans show it. Our supporters back us win or lose, theirs turn on their own team the moment things go badly.' Strong words, and it tells you all you need to know about the gulf in mentality between these clubs."
Taylor had quoted Aldridge verbatim, word for word from that fiery press conference. There was no misrepresentation.
The divide reflected decades of history. West Ham's fans, cheerful by nature, blew bubbles and clung to optimism. Their affection for the Hammers was rooted in excitement, in the thrill of unpredictability: one week toppling Liverpool or Arsenal, the next collapsing meekly to Bolton. They loved the ride more than the results.
Millwall's fans were different. Hardened, stubborn, unshakable. They ignored the sneers from outsiders. Good performance or bad, they stood by their club. Millwall was not just a team; it was family, their own child. Like parents, they would praise when the team excelled and defend fiercely when it faltered.
Both sets of supporters carried scars from history. East London had been bombed to rubble during the Second World War, its streets scarred and walls left broken. As West and North London grew wealthier, East Londoners were left to pick up the pieces. West Ham clung to dreams of the future, their bubbles floating upward as a kind of self-consolation. Millwall hardened in defiance, refusing to bow, rooted stubbornly like stone in the rain.
On the touchline, Aldridge did not glance at Redknapp. His counterpart stood nearby in a club tracksuit, Aldridge wrapped in a casual coat against the cold. Both men radiated the same understanding: this was not a match to be taken lightly.
League positions?
Irrelevant.
Tonight, only one thing mattered: pride.
The lineups were then announced.
"Well, Millwall's shape certainly raises eyebrows," Martin noted. "In goal, Kasey Keller. In front of him, a back line with Lilian Thuram, Jaap Stam, and Gareth Southgate, with young Lucas Neill slotting in too.
"In midfield, it's fascinating. Claude Makélélé will anchor, Patrick Vieira alongside him — plenty of steel there. Pavel Nedvěd brings the creativity, while Michael Ballack pushes just behind the strikers, adding muscle and presence.
"And the front two? David Trezeguet and Henrik Larsson. What a partnership. On paper it looks like a diamond 4-4-2, maybe even a 4-3-1-2. Aldridge has crammed the centre with power and quality. We'll see how it unfolds once the match kicks off."
"And West Ham," Andy replied, "no surprises here. Harry Redknapp sticks to his tried and trusted 4-4-2. Luděk Mikloško between the posts. Tim Breacker at right-back, Slaven Bilić and Marc Rieper in the middle, and the hard man Julian Dicks at left-back.
"In midfield, Keith Rowland and Daniel Williamson for graft, Stan Lazaridis to provide pace, and Michael Hughes for guile. Up front, Ilie Dumitrescu and Iain Dowie — one with flair, one with pure industry.
"It's classic Redknapp: nothing flashy, nothing hidden. But you never quite know if he's got a wrinkle up his sleeve once the whistle blows."
Aldridge studied West Ham's starting lineup and could not help but notice a similarity with Millwall: both sides had placed heavy reliance on foreign players.
In the very first Premier League season of 1992–93, only twelve foreign players started across the twenty-two teams — and that tally even included players from Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, who were not seen as "foreign" in the eyes of the English game. But as the years passed, and as English clubs recovered from the European ban and began to invest in modern stadiums with all-seater requirements, the financial landscape shifted. More money flowed into the league, and gradually, foreign imports became not only more common but essential to any side with ambition.
West Ham had embraced this trend earlier than most. Looking down their team sheet, the international flavour was obvious. In goal stood Luděk Mikloško, a Czech like Nedvěd. At centre-back was Marc Rieper, a solid Dane. Leading the line, Ilie Dumitrescu carried the flair of Romania. And at the heart of defence stood a man who drew Aldridge's particular attention: Slaven Bilić, the rugged Croatian, twenty-seven years old and in the thick of his prime. His career would never bring him great silverware at club level, but Aldridge knew that this was not a man to dismiss lightly. In years to come he would trade guitar strings for tactical boards, and almost a dozen years down the line he would lead Croatia to knock England out of the European Championship qualifiers — a wound that would not be forgotten in English football.
"Garbage wing," Aldridge muttered under his breath, spitting the words like venom. The hostility in the ground infected him too. From childhood he had been taught to loathe West Ham, and the venom came naturally, carried on the roar of the terraces.
At the time, West Ham carried the ironic nickname "World United," a jibe at their cosmopolitan lineup. Their critics, unimpressed by the quality of their imports, often sneered with another twist of the phrase: "World Junk United."
Millwall, too, were starting to attract the label of "World United," as the Lions increasingly fielded foreign players. But there was a difference — nobody called Millwall's squad "junk." Their imports were fighters, leaders, and rising stars. That contrast in quality defined the gap between the two clubs.
The pitch at Upton Park was dreadful, the surface an embarrassment to the Premier League. Aldridge cursed it as he glanced out at the divots and bald patches. In his mind, he wished nothing but misfortune on West Ham. Let their players trip, twist ankles, and hobble off. Let them suffer on the very ground they had prepared.
He had adapted his tactics accordingly. There would be no intricate patterns, no flowing ground football. The state of the pitch made that impossible. His plan was brutally simple: muscle in midfield, direct attacks, and raw strength. This was no place to glide over the surface with subtlety. Here, Millwall would storm forward like a tank.
Makélélé would anchor in front of the defence, relentless in his screening work. Vieira and Nedvěd would seize control of the middle third, snapping into duels and driving the ball forward. Ballack, with his box-to-box presence, would wade into the mud, bridging defence and attack, adding weight wherever it was needed. And when Millwall surged, the whole midfield would thunder forward as one, crushing space, overwhelming West Ham with power and momentum.
This was the battle Aldridge had envisioned: hammer against lion. Let the Hammers swing with all their might. Today, he would see whether the raw flesh and blood of the Lions would be broken — or whether Millwall's steel would tear the Hammer apart.