Kevin Keegan's scalp tingled with frustration.
The Magpies had thrown five men forward against Millwall's defensive chain of seven. Yet they found no gaps. Their intricate positional rotations could not pry open the compact block, and their individual skills failed to win in one-on-one situations. Newcastle's proud attack looked like flashy embroidered punches landing against an iron wall.
They exchanged positions, dribbled, and dazzled the eye, but all it produced was heavy breathing and sweat, not goals.
Even Robert Lee began to push higher, trying to lend weight to the attack. On paper, Newcastle had six men against Millwall's seven. Still, it made no difference. They passed and probed in midfield and the final third, but Millwall refused to be lured out. They never pressed recklessly, simply waiting until Newcastle advanced within thirty metres of the penalty area. Then, with collective timing, they closed ranks and dismantled the attack.
Keegan rose from the bench and gestured toward his left-back, John Beresford.
In mid-90s English football, full-backs were rarely expected to attack, but Beresford was different. An adventurous, attacking defender, he was considered a star at Newcastle for his energy and forward runs. Each season he chipped in with stunning long-range strikes, the kind that made highlight reels and headlines.
Beresford surged forward now. If Newcastle could not break Millwall down through passing, perhaps a thunderbolt from distance would do it.
He struck a dipping shot from range that flashed wide of Keller's post, drawing gasps from the stands.
Aldridge hardly flinched. To him, this was a blessing in disguise. The more Newcastle poured forward, the more they exposed themselves. Their attacking frenzy was playing right into his plan.
Millwall held seven men deep, leaving only three forward. Today, Aldridge had chosen Schneider on the wing. At first glance, the German's movement seemed limited, tied to his flank rather than drifting inside. But that was exactly what Aldridge intended — to keep him wide, ready to break into the vacated channels.
Beresford tried again moments later, unleashing another long shot. This time Keller gathered it cleanly. The American goalkeeper was not the most spectacular shot-stopper, nor was he the most naturally gifted, but he was disciplined and dependable. Above all, he followed instructions to the letter.
Aldridge had drilled into him a simple philosophy: the goalkeeper was not only the last line of defence but also the first point of attack. In the mid-90s, this idea sounded almost outlandish in England. Goalkeepers were expected to punt long, not launch counters with precision. Yet Keller never questioned it. Every time he caught the ball, he immediately scanned the field for outlets. His first look was always to the wings.
This time, he needed no more than two seconds. Adjusting his body, he threw the ball sharply out to the right, straight to Thuram.
Thuram cushioned it calmly and slid a pass forward into Schneider's stride. The German accelerated, and suddenly open green space stretched ahead of him.
Where was the opposing full-back?
Beresford was still sprinting desperately back from Millwall's half.
Schneider rolled the ball forward and continued his charge. When Aldridge spotted Newcastle's Belgian centre-back Philippe Albert stepping out to confront him, he clenched his fist and grinned.
Keegan might be celebrating his attacking spectacle, but Aldridge knew history would mock him. Five years later, everyone would remember that Keegan's Newcastle could dazzle going forward but remained soft at the back.
It was not for lack of quality defenders. In the years ahead, English football would boast centre-backs like Campbell, Adams, Keown, and Southgate. Even now, Newcastle's defensive line was hardly weak. Albert, a ball-playing centre-back, would later be named among the top thirty players in the club's history. Warren Barton had cost £4 million that summer, then a record fee for a defender — proof of his reputation.
But defence is not about individuals alone. Just as attacking football demands cooperation, so does defending.
Now, as Millwall countered three-on-three, Albert's mistake was glaring. He charged straight at Schneider instead of retreating to form a compact line with his fellow defenders. The correct response would have been to drop as a unit, shrink the space, and force Millwall to work through a crowded penalty area. By rushing out, Albert only opened gaps.
Schneider spotted it instantly. Before Albert closed in, he slipped the ball across to Larsson.
Newcastle's defending looked more like a disorganised rugby chase than a drilled back line. Each man pursued his opposite number instead of covering space collectively.
Barton rushed at Larsson, but the Swede took the ball smoothly in stride and burst past him with a surge of acceleration. From the other side, Steve Watson lunged with a sliding tackle, desperate to nick the ball. Yet Larsson, reading it early, released a perfectly timed pass into the centre.
Goalkeeper Pavel Srníček had already abandoned his line, charging out in panic. But with Albert out of position, Barton beaten, and Watson sliding on the turf, there was no defender left between Millwall and the goal.
The ball rolled to Solskjær — completely unmarked.
In one fluid motion, the Norwegian nudged the ball past the onrushing Srníček, slipping it neatly between the keeper's legs as he surged forward. Srníček twisted back desperately, but Solskjær was already beyond him. A heartbeat later, he guided the ball calmly into the empty net.
The Den erupted. Songs thundered through the stands, thousands of voices rising as one.
"Ole! Ole! Ole, Ole!"
Even commentator Martin Taylor was swept up in the rhythm of Millwall's celebrations.
He roared into his microphone, his voice nearly drowned by the chants in the stands. "Ole, Ole, Ole, Ole! Ole Gunnar Solskjær! A superb finish! Millwall take the lead! He nutmegs Srníček and rolls it into the empty net — ice-cold from the Norwegian. But give Henrik Larsson the credit as well — dazzling footwork, skipping past Barton and Watson before threading the killer pass. Newcastle's defence was ripped open, their goalkeeper left stranded. Keegan can only bury his head, while Hall applauds calmly on the touchline — he knew exactly what his men were capable of."
Aldridge was not in love with the way Millwall were playing. In his mind, the tactic of sitting deep and relying on isolated bursts of individual brilliance would, in the long run, fall away from football's mainstream. But he was a flexible coach. With nearly half of his starting eleven unavailable, it would have been rigid — even naïve — to insist on his usual brand of attacking football.
Besides, this system provided another hidden benefit. Ballack, Vieira, and Gattuso — still in the formative stages of their careers — needed to sharpen their defensive instincts, their discipline, and their awareness of collective responsibility. Tonight's approach gave them exactly that. The drawback, of course, was suppressing the natural attacking instincts of Zambrotta and Thuram, who were restricted from making their usual forward runs.
The pattern of play was simple. With numbers equal in the attacking and defensive thirds, Newcastle often had only three defenders holding shape when Millwall broke forward with three attackers. In those moments, Aldridge knew the odds favoured his side. All it required was one man to beat his marker, and suddenly a one-on-one with the goalkeeper would emerge. Larsson showed it: he shrugged off Barton, Watson was late arriving, and the moment he committed, Larsson simply slipped the ball sideways to Solskjær. The counterattacking space was vast, and Newcastle's defence scattered.
Schneider played his part too. He was not only exploiting the space left by Beresford's forward runs but also using his precise passing to knit Millwall's attacks together. He was more than a runner; he was a key conduit in transition.
Yet Aldridge knew this was not sustainable as a long-term system. Asking the midfield and back line to absorb waves of pressure week after week would drain their energy and dull their attacking instincts. Worse, it might stunt the natural growth of talents who needed to learn more than just containment. Tonight was a tactical necessity, not a blueprint for the future.
For Keegan, however, there was no way back. His team trailed, and his philosophy left him no choice. The thought of retreating was unthinkable.
Inwardly he cursed Aldridge, fuming at the shamelessness of Millwall sitting so deep at home. But he could only double down, waving his players forward with even greater urgency. He had built his reputation on attack, and he would live and die by it.
Millwall's players, by contrast, were euphoric. They did not think about tactical pragmatism or philosophical debates. For them, it was simple: their manager had crafted a way to beat the league leaders despite missing four key starters. They trusted his brilliance completely.
Newcastle's players looked deflated. They had run themselves into exhaustion, shirts clinging with sweat, and all they had to show were a handful of wayward long shots. Their endless combinations had found no way through Millwall's iron chain, and now they were behind.
Keegan shuffled his midfield, but the effect was minimal. His instinct was always to attack. He had played the game with flamboyance and coached the same way, but attacking football required space, and Millwall denied him every inch.
The second half only deepened Newcastle's anxiety. Their attacks became rushed, reliant on individual dribbles or desperate long passes. Millwall, in turn, countered with menace and could easily have scored again. Larsson, however, was uncharacteristically wasteful, squandering one clear chance and another half-chance that might have killed the game.
Schneider, once so dangerous, was gradually marked out of the match. Aldridge responded with a fresh card from his bench: Kevin Phillips.
With Phillips leading the line, Larsson and Solskjær tucked in just behind him, feeding passes and running at angles that unsettled Newcastle's already stretched defence. Millwall's shape had shifted into a Christmas tree–style 4-3-2-1, a system rarely seen in English football at the time. Its effect was immediate.
Solskjær dropped into space to collect the ball and combined neatly with Larsson in a slick one-two. Driving into the box, Solskjær carried it all the way to the byline, almost recreating the move that had led to the first goal. Barton scrambled across to block, but Solskjær, cool and composed, slipped a square ball into the centre.
There, Phillips was completely unmarked. With the composure of a natural finisher, he simply guided the ball past Srníček with a controlled push, doubling Millwall's lead and sealing the result.
When the referee blew for full time, The Den erupted in triumph. The fans roared their songs into the cold London night, celebrating the scalp of the league leaders. Newcastle's players slumped, beaten and disbelieving.
On the touchline, Kevin Keegan stood pale and motionless, the colour drained from his face. His attacking juggernaut had been blunted, his defence torn apart by simple but ruthless counters.
Aldridge strode past him with confidence, a faint smile on his lips. Pausing just long enough to meet Keegan's eye, he offered a polite but pointed remark.
"Wish Newcastle United success in winning the league title this season."
...
On the way home, Aldridge drove with a light heart, humming along to the music that poured from his cassette deck. The tape spun a track from a little-known American boy band, the Backstreet Boys.
They had only just begun releasing singles, and in England they were still largely unknown. Aldridge could not understand why such polished pop harmonies had yet to reach the mainstream, but that did not stop him from enjoying their sound.
He steered the car into the garage, still humming under his breath, before bursting into laughter. He admitted to himself he was being a little smug, but the memory of Kevin Keegan's pale, defeated expression after the match was simply too sweet to ignore.
As usual, he checked his mailbox before heading inside. From time to time, letters arrived from J.K. Rowling. Their exchanges were no longer only about manuscripts of her "Harry Potter" drafts. Over the past year they had become pen-pals, sharing stories about their personal lives.
From her recent letters, Aldridge sensed her outlook had changed. The melancholy and self-doubt that had coloured her earlier words had lifted. Inspiration seemed to flow into her writing, and when she wrote about her daughter, happiness shone between the lines.
Aldridge was genuinely pleased for her. He too enjoyed sharing his own daily joys and frustrations. Both were adults now, and their correspondence carried the weight of maturity, never the empty chatter of people talking past one another.
This evening, however, what he found in the mailbox was different.
There was no postmark, no return address, no sign it had been through the post at all. Someone had slipped it directly inside. It was the fourth time he had received such a letter.
Inside the house, he loosened his tie and dropped heavily onto the sofa. Opening the envelope, he found seven or eight glossy photographs. He placed them on the table and unfolded the handwritten letter. His lips twisted into a resigned smile.
It was another love letter — more a provocation than anything tender. The photos showed a young woman in bold, suggestive poses, her nudity carefully veiled by props or angles. The note was filled with breathless declarations of affection, along with playful doodles and hearts.
Aldridge went to his study, opened a drawer, and pulled out the three previous letters. The words were nearly identical, only the photos differed.
From the first envelope, he retrieved the phone number. Sitting at the desk, he lifted the landline and dialed.
After a few rings, a bright female voice answered.
"Miss Katie Price, is it?" he asked evenly.
"Yes… who's speaking?"
"I am Aldridge Hall."
There was a pause, then an excited outburst. "Aldridge Hall? Oh, it's really you! Have I finally impressed you? I've been waiting for more than a month for your call!"
"Stop with the nonsense," he cut in coldly. "Tell me directly — how much for one night?"
"…"
"Not interested? Fine. Then I was mistaken. Do me the courtesy of not harassing me again. Thank you."
"Wait!" she blurted. "Two thousand pounds."
"Two thousand?" His tone dripped with disbelief. "You are rather expensive."
"I guarantee value for money."
"Very well. I'll let you earn twenty thousand tonight. Do you know the Green Hotel in East London? I'll book a room now. Nine o'clock sharp. Show up on time. The waiter will bring you upstairs."
Her voice trembled with excitement. "Twenty thousand… good! Good! See you tonight!"
By the end of the call, she was breathless. Aldridge calmly pressed the record button, ending the tape. He removed it and stored it safely in his drawer.
He had no appetite for dinner. Instead, he opened his safe, counted out £20,000 in cash, and drove to Sanders Bar.
It was not yet seven o'clock, and the bar had not reached its peak hours. As soon as Aldridge stepped inside, heads turned. Regulars and strangers alike raised glasses in greeting.
Before he even sat down, Sanders placed a glass of whiskey in front of him with a smile. "On me. That match this afternoon was wonderful."
Aldridge downed it in one gulp. Sanders reached to pour more, but Aldridge waved him off and leaned in closer. "I seem to recall you're not married yet."
Sanders shook his head. "No. l already am, she just didn't come."
Aldridge rolled his eyes. "And you didn't think to tell me?"
Sanders grinned sheepishly. "I didn't want you wasting money on a gift. Besides, it was nothing. Just me working my way alone in East London."
"Enough of that," Aldridge interrupted sharply. He knew Sanders liked to revisit the past, but he had no desire to dwell on it. Years ago, Aldridge and his friends had helped Sanders, a black immigrant, establish himself in East London, protecting him from being swallowed by the streets. Aldridge considered it a great effort, but Sanders had never forgotten it.
"What's the real reason you've come here tonight?" Sanders asked. He had noticed the seriousness in Aldridge's eyes.
In a bar that drew every kind of clientele, Sanders knew people from all walks of life. Aldridge looked him in the eye and said flatly, "Can you find me ten men who are itching for it?"
Sanders nearly spat his drink. He stared with a mix of amusement and confusion before leaning closer to whisper. "I know a club that caters to that, not far from here."
Aldridge pushed him back in irritation. "Not for me. For her."
He pulled a photo from his pocket and slid it across.
Sanders glanced at it, eyebrows rising. "She's certainly striking… looks familiar too. Wait a moment."
He ducked behind the bar, rummaged, then returned with two copies of The Sun. Side by side, they compared the photo with the tabloid pages.
Sanders grinned knowingly. "She's a model. Still young. You don't like her?"
"Do you?" Aldridge shot back.
Sanders smirked. "I'm thirty. Not exactly chasing girls that age."
"Rubbish. Men are eighty and still want seventeen-year-olds."
Caught out, Sanders chuckled, then quickly hid the papers as a customer entered. Like most British men, he pretended indifference in public but privately read the infamous Page 3 as often as anyone else.
"Ah," Sanders said quietly, "she's the same one who's been in the papers talking about wanting a relationship with you, isn't she?"
Aldridge nodded.
Sanders sighed. "It's tough for you. Fame puts you on the list for women like her — rich, visible, and useful. To them you're not just a man, you're a ticket."
"I know," Aldridge replied. "And I won't be used. I refuse to buy affection, and I refuse to be anyone's cash machine."
Sanders hesitated. "So ten men — what's your plan? Threaten her?"
Aldridge grinned. "Nothing so crude. That would be a crime, and unnecessary. You find me ten men. I'll pay them £2,000 each. They go to the hotel, one after another, and offer her exactly what she demanded. If she accepts, fine — she gets her price, but not from me. If she refuses, they still keep the fee as my service charge. Either way, she learns a lesson. I want it clear to anyone else who tries to use me: I am not a stepping stone, and I will not be played."
Sanders clapped him on the shoulder. "Understood. I'll make a few calls."
Aldridge slid over a paper bag stuffed with £20,000. Sanders nodded and picked up the phone. Aldridge meanwhile booked the Green Hotel. He left the photo with Sanders so his men would recognise her.
Later, back home, Aldridge parked his car in the quiet garage. The street outside was calm under dim lamps. From a nearby house, Villa's Spanish parents were returning with groceries. They invited him warmly to dinner. Unable to refuse, he joined them for a light meal.
Meanwhile, across East London, Katie Price arrived at the Green Hotel. Expecting luxury, she entered the suite — and fled moments later, horrified. Ten men in their underwear greeted her.
Panicked, she ran home and immediately called Aldridge.
At that moment, Aldridge was soaking in a warm bath, sipping a drink. He stepped out to answer the ringing phone.
"Mr Hall, are you humiliating me?"
"Did they pay you?"
"This isn't about money!"
"You confuse me. It isn't about money? You yourself set the price at £2,000 and said you were worth it."
"You'll regret this! I've never met a man as tasteless as you!"
"Thank you. There's no need to argue over who's more noble, Miss Katie Price. Please don't harass me again."
He hung up and returned to his bath, eyes closing in contentment. After a while, he reached for the phone again and dialled.
A gentle voice answered. "Why are you calling now? It's not even ten o'clock."
This time it was his girlfriend. Aldridge told her what had happened, ending softly, "Melanie, I miss you.."
"…"
"Sorry. Maybe I was a little dizzy in the bath."
"I haven't had time to finish the album work, Aldridge. Are you telling me the truth?"
"Why do you ask?"
"We've been together for more than half a year. Sometimes I wonder if you're really interested in me… or if your heart is elsewhere."
"I'm just busy with work," he said gently. "That kind of doubt hurts me."
She laughed lightly. "Then I apologise."
"I accept. Good night."
"Wait," she said. "There's something I want to tell you."
"What is it?"
"Aldridge, I miss you too. Good night."