Aldridge greeted Nagy warmly when he arrived in London, having been transferred directly from Turkey. Though Nagy was a bachelor who lived a simple, almost ascetic life, his seemingly stiff and bookish appearance hid a mind brimming with football knowledge.
Nagy took up his new role at Millwall as youth training supervisor and head coach of the youth team. He quickly settled in, familiarised himself with the setup, and soon developed a clear overview of Millwall's youth ranks.
Not long after, when the first-team players had returned from international duty, Nagy knocked on the door of Aldridge's office. Normally composed and restrained, he could not contain his excitement. Planting both hands firmly on Aldridge's desk, he declared with rare enthusiasm:
"Aldridge, I have never seen such talented youngsters. They are far superior to players of the same age elsewhere!"
Aldridge leaned back slightly, resting his chin on his hand with a smile. "Who exactly are you talking about?"
Nagy sat down, opened his notebook, and began listing names one after another:
"Joe Cole, David Villa, Capdevila, Ashley Cole, Pirlo… and the list goes on."
During this period, all players under the age of twenty had been sent to train with the youth team. This included names like Frank Lampard and Rio Ferdinand, whose quality naturally left Nagy astonished.
So impressed was he that he went so far as to claim Millwall's youth side, with only a few positions filled, could be stronger than the Hungarian national team.
Of course, Aldridge knew better. A youth setup always needed balance: for every rising star, there had to be dependable role players to give the team structure and stability. Millwall's youth academy constantly recruited new players. Any child willing to train could be admitted, provided they passed basic assessments. Aldridge had deliberately lowered the entry threshold, knowing that Millwall's reputation at this stage was not strong enough to attract the best prospects. By ensuring enough players were brought in to act as role players — even if only as training partners — he gave his emerging stars an environment in which to grow. He also understood that, as Millwall's stature rose, those standards could be raised in the future.
Nagy, however, was already bursting with ideas. He spoke at length about each player's strengths, their natural positions, how they might function in different systems, and the tactical structures that could maximise their potential.
"Aldridge," he insisted, "young players like Ferdinand and Lampard should not be left in the youth team. They're ready for the first team."
Aldridge smiled knowingly. "They are already part of the first-team squad. It's just that they weren't called up to their national youth sides this time, so they remained at the club and trained with the youth players. Take it step by step, Nagy. You've only just seen our youth team; you don't yet understand Millwall's first team. Watch a few Premier League matches. See for yourself how the first team functions. Then, if you believe any youth player can step in immediately, replace starters or push aside established substitutes to become an important figure, I will take your recommendation seriously."
Nagy, though eager, recognised the wisdom in Aldridge's words. He realised that Aldridge would never make the mistake of chasing after something he already possessed — overlooking what was right in front of him in pursuit of the same thing.
"Then let's turn to my work," Nagy continued. "Many of these players have immense talent, but if we want them to avoid detours in their development, we must help them progress as quickly as possible. Two things are vital: first, the tactical system of the youth team; and second, ensuring each player is used in his correct position."
Aldridge nodded gravely, in full agreement.
He understood this truth deeply. Football history was littered with examples of gifted youngsters who failed to reach their potential because their environment stunted their growth. A technically intelligent player, for example, might wither in a system that demanded only strength and long balls. Similarly, if a player was consistently placed in the wrong position, he would struggle to find his rhythm and lose confidence, eventually fading from the game.
And so, together, Aldridge and Nagy sat down to analyse Millwall's youth players one by one. They discussed characteristics, strengths, and weaknesses, and began drafting detailed long-term plans for each player's professional pathway — ensuring that Millwall's next generation would have the best possible chance to flourish.
In mid-to-late September, the league battle reignited. Before November arrived, Aldridge had already led Millwall through six league matches and two League Cup ties. Because the League Cup was considered a priority competition for Millwall — a realistic chance of silverware — he often rotated the squad in league fixtures, especially during stretches where fixtures piled up. In those six league matches, the Lions faced a mixed set of opponents: city rivals Tottenham Hotspur, as well as sides more commonly associated with relegation struggles such as Coventry City and Manchester City.
With three wins and three draws from those games, Millwall extended their unbeaten run since the start of the campaign.
Yet Aldridge was livid after the match against Wimbledon. In the very first minute, Vinnie Jones launched a reckless challenge that left Schneider injured. Watching the notorious midfield enforcer — later to become a cult "hard man" on the big screen — Aldridge's fury boiled over. In his mind he cursed: You bastard, you've got no future in football — just hurry up and go make your films!
His post-match outburst drew plenty of attention. It was not directed solely at Wimbledon as a club, but at the deeper culture of brutality within English football. Wimbledon's "Crazy Gang" were infamous for their rough approach, but Aldridge pointed out that they were hardly the originators of such tactics. In the 1980s, English football had already embraced the philosophy of the early foul: clatter the opponent straight away to "let him know you're there," instilling fear and establishing dominance.
Such tactics created intense psychological pressure. A creative opponent, knowing he would be chopped down the moment he received the ball, might hesitate, lose rhythm, and ultimately see his influence on the match blunted.
Wimbledon's own circumstances were humble. For years, they had been forced to rent Selhurst Park, Crystal Palace's stadium, as their home ground. Compared to traditional London clubs, they were perpetual outsiders. Millwall, too, lacked the glamour or finances of the capital's elite, but Aldridge had no intention of showing Wimbledon sympathy. He even found it absurdly ironic when Wimbledon's chairman once admitted that the turnover of a Manchester United souvenir shop exceeded the club's entire annual revenue.
To Aldridge, Wimbledon weren't worth fixating on as rivals. What mattered was the broader point: he wanted to take aim at the outdated tactical culture still lingering in England. His criticism was not about one team, but about the mentality that celebrated fouling as a legitimate strategy. He openly condemned what he called "the rough rogues of English football."
The backlash was swift. Pundits and former players derided him. To them, Aldridge was a rookie who had only just strung together a few good results and was already daring to lecture the nation on football culture. Yes, Millwall were undefeated in twelve matches across all competitions, but, as they reminded him, he had no right to criticise the traditions of the English game.
The consensus among his critics was blunt: Millwall were still far from being a top side. "Don't get ahead of yourself," they sneered.
Aldridge brushed aside most of the criticism, but he conceded one uncomfortable truth. He could not argue with the table. The standings exposed the gulf between Millwall and the leaders.
Newcastle United, under Kevin Keegan, were flying. In the first twelve league matches, the Magpies had produced a blistering record: ten wins, one draw, and a single defeat. Millwall, by contrast, had six wins and six draws. Though they sat second in the table, they were already seven points adrift of Newcastle.
The thirteenth round took Millwall back to Merseyside, where they ground out a tough away match against Everton. For eighty-five minutes, the score was locked, before Millwall finally struck in the closing stages to steal the win.
Newcastle, however, won again. Keegan's free-flowing attacking football, dubbed "The Entertainers" by the press, had turned him into the most popular manager in the country. Even Manchester United, despite climbing one point above Millwall, still trailed Newcastle by a daunting eight points.
Aldridge had no time to dwell on the standings. He wasn't interested. If his sole aim was to chase the league title, the pressure would have been suffocating. But he had no desire to burden his squad with the impossible in their first Premier League season. The Champions League was reserved exclusively for the league champions — there was no reward for second or third. Thus, there was little point in obsessing over the table.
In Aldridge's eyes, something far more important than the championship itself loomed ahead. A single match stood in front of him, carrying greater weight than the league position.
...
When hatred or hostility is passed down for generations and carried for more than a century, its meaning on the football pitch goes far beyond trophies or league standings. It becomes about belief and pride, about confidence and dignity.
Even for clubs that may spend an entire season drifting in mediocrity, the match against their fiercest rival can determine everything — even the head coach's job. Defeat in such a game can undo all other achievements.
For Aldridge, losing all his league matches would not necessarily cost him his position, but losing the East London Derby was unthinkable. This clash was not simply about Millwall's honour as a team; it was about the honour of every supporter who stood with them. A loss to West Ham United meant Millwall fans would be forced to lower their heads for weeks, maybe months, mocked in pubs, at work, and on the streets. The humiliation would cling to them long after the final whistle.
For the fans, nothing mattered more. Victories in other matches were celebrated, trophies might one day arrive, but beating West Ham United was the true measure of pride. For them, winning this derby could feel sweeter than lifting silverware.
The East London Derby dominated the headlines in the build-up to this round of the Premier League. In the days before kick-off, shops around Upton Park posted notices that they would close on match day. Nearby stores stopped selling alcohol altogether, knowing what the atmosphere would be like.
Geographically, Millwall had to make the journey north of the Thames. Their home, The Den, stood in South East London, while West Ham belonged to East London, across the river. That crossing was more than a matter of geography; it was a cultural and territorial divide.
On the day of the match, the weather was heavy and grey, the kind of sky that threatened rain but never delivered.
The Millwall team bus rolled slowly from the south bank towards Upton Park. As they turned into the streets around West Ham's ground, the vehicle slowed almost to a crawl.
The players, seated by the windows, looked out and were taken aback. Both sides of the road were crammed with people. Men and women alike fixed hostile, unblinking stares on the bus, as though watching condemned prisoners being driven to execution. A heavy police cordon lined the pavements, holding back supporters desperate to get closer.
Signs and banners waved through the air, nearly all of them filled with insults and crude slogans against Millwall. One chilling display showed a blue lion collapsed in a pool of blood, with two blacksmith's hammers driven into its body — a direct reference to the twin hammers on West Ham's crest. Beneath it, a message read: The Hammers will kill the Crazy Lions.
The tension grew thicker as stones suddenly clattered against the windows. The bus rattled with each impact, but the reinforced glass held firm. Millwall had expected this, and the coach provided that day was reinforced almost like an armoured vehicle.
Outside, West Ham supporters sang abusive chants, their voices echoing through the streets. The authorities had deployed extraordinary measures: more than half of London's available police force was mobilised to keep order. Mounted officers led the convoy, faces blank, their nerves dulled by routine but their bodies tense. Riot police lingered nearby, ready to intervene the moment violence erupted. Everyone knew a single spark could ignite chaos.
Inside the bus, Aldridge sat with a book open in his hands, feigning calm. In truth, he was forcing himself to stay composed, burying the churn in his stomach beneath the steady rhythm of the printed words. He knew that by now, away from their route, Millwall and West Ham supporters were already clashing in side streets, back alleys, and pubs.
Match day was war day. From the first light of dawn until long after nightfall, violence would spill across East London. There would be blood; that much was certain. Aldridge's only hope was that no innocent bystander would become a casualty.
As for the fans themselves, they marched knowingly onto the battlefield. Both sides embraced the risk. If death came, then so be it — that was the price of loyalty. Rivalries this deep were not restrained by reason. Wars always had blood, and for these supporters, this was their war.
This was no utopia where people joined hands and sang in harmony. It was a battlefield, harsh and unyielding, where hatred painted the streets in red.