Pirlo asked questions about tactical approaches in midfield and the concept of a deeper-lying playmaker, and Aldridge welcomed the chance to discuss the subject with him, as well as with Ballack, Vieira, Nedvěd, Lampard, and the other midfielders gathered around. They listened attentively, their interest plain.
The 1990s were an era when the role of the attacking midfielder — the traditional "number 10," or trequartista in Italy — had already begun to face challenges. For a time, it was a fashionable role, but then the game entered a period of stalemate, and within another decade the classic playmaker had almost vanished from the European stage.
That position evolved with the times. The attacking midfielder increasingly became a player who specialized in breakthroughs and goals, more of an individual weapon than the fulcrum of collective organization. This was driven above all by the quickening pace of the modern game: players were faster, pressing was tighter, and teams placed greater emphasis on defending the central areas and back line. At the same time, the rise of the so-called "beastly midfielders" — powerful, combative players who could run tirelessly, win duels, and break up play — became a defining trend.
The advantages of using a deeper-lying playmaker, what Aldridge described as the "delayed midfield," were clear. First, space: operating from deeper positions allowed an excellent passer to survey the pitch and dictate play. Second, having an attacking focal point higher up the field drew defensive attention, which in turn concealed the true source of creative play behind him. Third, such a role provided a platform to control the midfield battle and set the rhythm of the match.
Aldridge imparted this knowledge to his players, urging them to think of the midfield not as a set of individuals but as a tactical battalion — a coordinated unit where positioning, movement, and balance decided the outcome.
When the first half of the Super Bowl ended, the two teams were level. The spectacle then shifted to the halftime show, the centerpiece of American sporting culture.
The Super Bowl halftime show had become a stage where legends were made. Performers invited there were not just stars but global icons, most of them Grammy winners and household names in the United States. To American culture, stepping onto that stage was a statement of dominance in popular music.
This year's performer, however, drew little interest from Aldridge or his players. Three years earlier, Guinness had named Diana Ross the most successful female singer in history, but her style did not capture the lads' attention. Melanie, however, was thrilled, rushing over to Aldridge and singing along enthusiastically with Ross's performance.
Aldridge could not help a pang of regret. He thought that he ought to have come to America to watch the Super Bowl in 1993, when Michael Jackson had delivered what many still considered the greatest halftime show in history. That broadcast had set national ratings records that remained unbroken.
Once the music ended, everyone stretched their legs, grabbed refreshments, and prepared for the second half, where the Dallas Cowboys and the Pittsburgh Steelers resumed their duel.
Having gained some familiarity with the rules and flow of American football during the first half, the players now followed the contest with sharper focus. They watched as the Steelers' defense repeatedly stifled their opponents' running game, setting themselves up like an impenetrable steel wall. Yet when Steelers quarterback Neil O'Donnell attempted a pass under pressure, disaster struck: his throw was intercepted by a Cowboys cornerback, who returned it all the way for a touchdown. The box erupted in gasps and shouts.
Even though few of them were genuine American football fans, the Millwall players felt the surge of adrenaline — the thrill of sudden, decisive drama that mirrored moments on their own football pitch.
An attacking move cut short, a pass intercepted, and the defensive player sprinting the length of the field to turn the tables in an instant — it was not unlike the experience of seeing a striker dispossessed and the opposition counterattacking directly to score. Such mistakes, when made by the team's creative hub, often proved fatal.
Aldridge turned to his players with a wry smile. "I read some notes before the game. The Steelers' quarterback, O'Donnell, had the lowest completion percentage in the NFL this season. Watching him today, you can see why — his passing accuracy is suspect. Data tells you something, but it never tells you everything. Statistics alone can't predict how a game will unfold."
He explained further: the earliest pioneers of sports statistics in football had been the Japanese, who loved filling magazines with endless numbers — passes completed, shots attempted, kilometers run. The figures had their uses, but they could never fully capture the truth of a match, because football was not a science to be solved. It was a living contest, subject to pressure, psychology, and human error.
The second half continued fiercely. Every mistake felt like it could decide the championship. Aldridge appreciated it as a textbook lesson in competitive sport, where details and discipline determined everything.
In the end, the Dallas Cowboys triumphed over the Pittsburgh Steelers, 27–17. On paper, the statistics showed O'Donnell with more passes, more completions, and greater yardage than Cowboys quarterback Troy Aikman. Yet Aikman's efficiency and decision-making had been sharper. O'Donnell's three costly interceptions swung the game. Two of them were seized by Cowboys cornerback Larry Brown, who turned them directly into 14 points in the second half and, with them, earned the Super Bowl MVP award.
As the confetti fell and celebrations began, Aldridge led his satisfied group out of Sun Devil Stadium. They went straight to the airport, catching their flight back to London with the experience of America's greatest sporting spectacle fresh in their minds.
It was already Monday morning by the time they returned to London. The players had managed six or seven hours of honest sleep on the plane, and upon arrival they went straight home for a short rest. By afternoon, however, the squad was already on the team bus heading north to the Riverside Stadium, where Middlesbrough had just opened their brand-new ground this season.
Because the match was scheduled for the evening, Millwall arrived early to acclimatize to the venue. The club's physiotherapists, who had traveled with them, were welcomed into the home facilities by Middlesbrough staff, where they worked on the players — massaging tight muscles, easing lingering fatigue, and making sure bodies were loosened before the warm-up.
Aldridge wandered along the touchline, hands in his coat pockets, observing his men. Perhaps the travel had left them a little sluggish in body, but their spirits were clearly in the right place. Teammates chatted easily, smiles breaking across faces. That mood reassured him more than anything else.
He had long believed in the delicate balance between mind and body. A footballer could be physically sharp, yet if the spirit sagged, his performance would collapse. For Aldridge, the decisive factor in a player's true combat power was always the mental attribute; the body merely provided the explosive energy. As long as fatigue was not overwhelming, he considered mental state the first priority.
Middlesbrough, under the guidance of Brian Robson, were another newly promoted side. Unlike many who struggled, they had impressed in their first Premier League season. They were well clear of the relegation zone, and Robson knew that with perhaps thirteen more points from the final fourteen rounds, survival would be secured.
Millwall, meanwhile, had caused chaos back home. They had skipped the usual pre-match press conference the day before, and Fleet Street had erupted. Reporters found Millwall's training base empty in midweek — understandable, since the club had played an FA Cup tie on Tuesday and now had a Monday league fixture — yet the sight of deserted pitches was enough to set the press into a frenzy.
Some tabloids ran wild. They speculated that financial collapse had forced Millwall into hiding. Others imagined a mutiny, suggesting coaches and players alike had vanished. Even the gossip sheets handed out for free on London street corners screamed headlines about a "mystical disappearance in East London — the entire Millwall squad gone missing!"
Not even staking out the players' flats brought answers. For several days, no one in the media could find where Aldridge's men had gone.
So when Millwall suddenly turned up at Middlesbrough's brand-new Riverside Stadium, reporters and supporters alike were stunned. The Lions had simply bypassed their training ground and gone directly to the away venue.
As the kick-off neared, the Riverside was packed to capacity, fans eager to enjoy both their new home and the clash with Millwall. Sitting on the padded seat in the dugout, Aldridge took a moment to appraise the comforts of the fresh facility. He could not help comparing it with the plans he carried in his head for Millwall's own future stadium. Every detail here — the spacing, the seats, the vantage points — would feed into the demands he would one day give his own contractors.
Brian Robson approached with a smile, and Aldridge looked up as the shadow fell across him. The younger manager rose politely and shook hands.
"Congratulations," Aldridge said warmly. "We've both managed to avoid the relegation battle."
Robson laughed. "Where has Millwall been hiding? The papers say you've vanished."
"Oh, that." Aldridge grinned. "I gave the players a short leave. Too many foreigners in my squad — they're not used to England's winters, and the fact there's no winter break. They need a holiday somewhere along the way."
Robson raised an eyebrow. "But didn't you manage that last year in the First Division?"
Aldridge shrugged. "Yes, but experience doesn't make it easier. You could call it a conditioned reflex. At that stage of the season, players' balance — especially their mental balance — always dips."
"So you actually study psychology to manage your team?"
"Of course. Brazil took a psychologist with them when they won the World Cup, didn't they?"
Robson chuckled. "And didn't people call Pelé childish, and Garrincha simple-minded? What would a psychologist have said about that?"
Both men laughed together, the cameras catching their cheerful exchange. To the public, the image was striking: Robson, making his Premier League managerial debut with promise, and Aldridge, the revelation of the season, already earning admiration across England. Media speculation had even begun: could one of them one day take charge of the national team?
Aldridge reflected that the league was its own river and lake, full of friends and foes. A manager could be a lone wolf and still attract attention, but he would never truly belong to the mainstream. For his part, Aldridge had cultivated both. He could speak amicably with Frank Clark of Nottingham Forest, who had handed him his first defeat earlier in the season. Yet he also had his clear rivals: Harry Redknapp among them, and Kevin Keegan with whom he shared little love. Aldridge knew his stance before the public was distinctive. Whatever the press speculated, he had no desire to join the comfortable club of Premier League managers, let alone dream of the England job.
As the referee's whistle signaled the start, Aldridge sat back down, calm. He did not place high demands on this match. He wanted his players to execute their tactical plan, nothing more. Victory, he told himself, was not essential.
Of course, he never phrased it that way to the players.
His instructions were simple: no frantic pace, not after days of travel. He asked them to slow the rhythm, control possession through steady passing, and retreat the formation slightly to base their game around the midfield. Patience would bring opportunities.
Middlesbrough had snatched a draw at The Den earlier in the season by fighting tooth and nail, but here at home they seemed a little looser, more willing to open up. They raised their attacking banner confidently in front of their supporters.
What delighted Aldridge was the composure of his men. They looked calm, confident, exuding the air of a side in control of proceedings. It was the temperament of a team that believed in itself.
Middlesbrough, however, were stubborn. They pressed and chased relentlessly.
Pires came close with a fierce strike, the goalkeeper parrying it desperately, but Henrik Larsson was alert, pouncing on the rebound to fire in the opener for Millwall.
Twenty minutes later, though, Middlesbrough responded. A well-delivered corner was met with determination in the crowded box, and they forced the equalizer.
In the second half, Nedvěd slipped a clever ball into space for Trezeguet. The French striker adjusted his body in stride and met it first time with a crisp volley, driving the ball low inside the corner of the net to restore Millwall's lead.
In stoppage time, Schneider's free kick was partially blocked by the wall, but the loose ball dropped into the box. Stam reacted quickest, powering through the crowd to head home and seal the victory.
Millwall came away with a comfortable win against Middlesbrough in their first league outing after the short mid-season break.
Because it was scheduled on a Monday night, the fixture was the last of the Premier League round, which meant all eyes were on it. The spotlight was intensified further because, in the days leading up to the match, Fleet Street had finally uncovered Millwall's "mystery disappearance."
The Super Bowl was a global event, broadcast live in nearly a hundred countries. The British public often dismissed American football as overblown spectacle, yet its status as a sporting occasion was undeniable. So when the live broadcast cameras in Arizona happened to pan to a private box and captured Aldridge and the Millwall squad watching the game, the British media erupted the next morning: Are they insane?!
The headlines wrote themselves: Millwall's first team had flown across the Atlantic to watch the Super Bowl on the very weekend before a Premier League fixture.
Aldridge's side had triumphed at the Riverside, but the result itself became secondary to the drama surrounding the trip. The story dominated the post-match coverage.
In the mixed zone after the match, Aldridge fielded the inevitable questions with an easy smile. He confirmed openly that Millwall had spent the past five days in the United States.
"Mr. Hall," a reporter pressed, "how could you possibly justify taking the entire squad to the U.S. on such a tight schedule? Surely you could have gone alone. Wasn't it irresponsible to overlook the fatigue your players would face?"
Aldridge's response was calm. "This was a pleasant and relaxing trip. My players and I used those days to release pressure. It worked. Frankly, it was better than leaving them at home alone over the weekend, dwelling on the grind of the season."
Another reporter pushed further. "But today you defeated Middlesbrough away from home. Are you giving this trip credit for the victory?"
"Of course not," Aldridge answered. "Even had we lost, I would not change my mind. There's no reason to lie about it. This time last year, I gave my core players a complete break. They didn't play for half a month. This year I tried a different method to achieve the same purpose — to recharge them."
The questions became sharper. "Middlesbrough drew at The Den earlier this season, but tonight they lost at home to a Millwall side fresh from a holiday. Does that mean Robson's tactics failed? Isn't it proof that he was outthought?"
Aldridge shot the bespectacled reporter a meaningful look. He knew this trap well. Interviews always dangled such bait. For a manager, the greatest taboo was to directly criticize the competence of a colleague. You could analyze a team's style or strengths, but never a peer's tactical ability. That was the realm of pundits and journalists, not professionals. Respect among managers demanded it — unless, of course, you were ready to declare open war.
Even when Aldridge had openly clashed with Harry Redknapp and West Ham United, he had never stooped to questioning Redknapp's fundamental ability to coach. To do so would have been foolish, turning himself into a caricature in the press and earning the contempt of his peers.
He therefore kept his reply balanced. "Middlesbrough performed very well. Remember, at the start of the season many thought they would be relegation candidates. Brian Robson has done an outstanding job to lift them clear. We won today because Millwall controlled the rhythm better and created more chances. That isn't down to Robson's failings. You must also remember that Millwall's squad investment over the last two years has been far greater than Middlesbrough's."
With the questions finished, Aldridge gathered his players and staff, and they returned quietly to London.
Once home, he rewarded his men with another day and a half of leave, instructing them to report back to the training ground on Wednesday afternoon, refreshed and ready to prepare for the next challenge.
On Tuesday afternoon, Aldridge was summoned by Andrew to the Leo Youth Training Base.
He arrived at the edge of the pitch in casual sportswear, where the youth team was in the middle of training. Andrew, dressed sharply in a suit and polished shoes, stood on the sidelines observing. Next to him was a thin, dark-skinned boy who watched the session intently.
"Hey, Andrew," Aldridge called out as he walked over.
Andrew turned his head, the boy following his gaze. Aldridge stopped in his tracks, momentarily stunned by the sight before him. The teenager's wide mouth revealed large front teeth that seemed too big for his face, an awkward but endearing feature that made him look almost comical — and oddly charming.
"Come on, Ronaldo, say hello to your boss," Andrew said, patting the youngster's shoulder in encouragement.
The boy's name was Ronaldo. At the beginning of 1996, the name carried no particular weight in European football. It was not yet associated with greatness. The Brazilian striker who would later be called the Phenomenon was at thid time still in Eindhoven, battling injuries and struggling for consistency.
But Aldridge already knew who this young man was meant to be. That unforgettable smile — that bite — was unmistakable.
"Hello, boy," Aldridge greeted warmly.
Ronaldinho, just shy of his sixteenth birthday, showed no trace of shyness. He lifted his head confidently and offered a greeting in return. Aldridge extended his hand, and the teenager shook it firmly, like an adult. Aldridge never treated youngsters with condescension. Even when he had met thirteen-year-old Joe Cole the previous summer, he had shaken his hand with formality and respect.
Out on the pitch, the youth players had noticed Aldridge's presence. Their effort doubled instantly. They were engaged in a small-sided scrimmage, while coach Nagy barked instructions from the touchline, sharply correcting positioning and combinations.
Aldridge turned back to Ronaldinho. "Do you want to play?" he asked, phrasing it in the simplest English he could.
The boy nodded eagerly, his eyes lighting up. It was obvious that he wanted to step onto the field and test himself.
Aldridge waved Nagy over. When the coach approached, Aldridge pushed Ronaldinho gently forward and smiled. "Give him ten minutes. Let's try him as a forward."
"Wide or central?" Nagy asked.
"Anywhere up front. Just tell his teammates to give him the ball. Let's see how he feels."
Nagy nodded, led Ronaldinho to the bench, found him a spare training kit, and allowed him to warm up. The plan was to send him on for the final ten minutes.
As they waited, Aldridge asked Andrew quietly, "Is everything arranged for his family?"
"Yes," Andrew replied. "We've enrolled his sister in a good girls' school, so she'll grow up with proper education and background. His mother now has a small shop in her name in the community. They're pleased with that. To be honest, from my non-professional eye, this kid is an artist with the ball. After watching so much of England's tough, physical football, seeing him is like watching an elegant opera."
Aldridge chuckled. "Opera? You actually understand opera?"
"Hah! No, of course not. I'm a vulgar man. But you know what I mean." Andrew grinned. "Anyway, I've been busy. I'm flying to Brazil in two days. If all goes to plan, Rivaldo will come to Europe this summer. Interested? If I recommend Millwall, he'd seriously consider it, especially after the way you've played this season."
Aldridge shook his head. "No. You'll have to take him elsewhere. The FA won't give us another foreign player slot."
"Fair enough. But Rivaldo will be a big name in South American football. Signing him will strengthen my network out there."
Aldridge nodded. Not long after, Nagy returned to signal that Ronaldinho was ready.
The scrimmage that day featured the most promising U17 talents: Ashley Cole, David Villa, Capdevila, Joe Cole, and others. Because they were all teenagers, the physical intensity wasn't overwhelming, which meant technically gifted players like Joe Cole and Villa were not drowned out by rugged challenges. They had space to express themselves.
Ronaldinho came on, and immediately Nagy frowned. He had just used the tactics board to instruct the boy to stay forward as a striker, and Ronaldinho had nodded in apparent understanding. But as soon as play resumed, he drifted straight back into midfield to collect the ball.
Nagy raised his hand to blow the whistle but Aldridge waved him down with a smile. "Let's just watch," he said.
Ronaldinho dropped into the middle, received the ball, and with one deft touch rolled it through an opponent's legs — a nutmeg so smooth it left the defender embarrassed.
"Daniel!" Nagy shouted furiously. "How many times have I told you? Don't take risks! Protect the space behind you!"
The boy named Daniel had thought to clatter Ronaldinho with a strong challenge, but instead he had been humiliated, reduced to a mere stepping stone. He stood frozen, stunned, as Ronaldinho glided past.
From there, Ronaldinho danced. The ball seemed tied to his feet as he swayed left and right, tapping with his toes, flicking with the outside of his boot, even lofting it delicately over a defender's lunge. His dribbling rhythm was hypnotic, closer to a samba than a football drill. Joe Cole, usually considered the boy genius of the academy, stopped in his tracks, watching in disbelief. Compared to Ronaldinho's pure ball sense, his own technique seemed raw and ordinary.
On the far side of the training ground, other coaches stood up, eyes wide, whispering in amazement as if they were watching an apparition.
Andrew and Aldridge exchanged knowing smiles, while Nagy stomped and muttered under his breath.
"Pass, pass, pass… for God's sake, pass the ball!"
But Ronaldinho had no intention of stopping. He beat three defenders, carved through the midfield, and when confronted by the final man, slipped the ball one way and ran the other, collecting it again before calmly slotting it into the net.
The players stopped. Ronaldinho spun around, flashing his enormous grin, chest puffed with pride. The others stood dumbfounded.
Nagy slapped his forehead in despair. "This child's talent is unmatched. But if he keeps playing like this, he'll be a nightmare."
Aldridge patted his shoulder. "That's what coaching is for. Your job is to guide him."
It was natural for gifted youngsters to hog the ball, especially Brazilians, who had grown up treating dribbling as an art form. The task now was to teach him how to use that brilliance in a way that served the team.
With seven minutes remaining, Nagy reorganized the defence, drilling his players to focus on closing spaces and doubling up. From then on, Ronaldinho found less joy. Each time he received a pass, he tried to replicate his earlier heroics, but he was quickly crowded out, forced into dead ends, and eventually dispossessed. Numbers and discipline outweighed individual flair.
When the final whistle blew, Nagy called Ronaldinho aside. The lesson would begin immediately. He gestured, pointing at the tactics board, speaking slowly, emphasizing teamwork over showmanship.
Aldridge and Andrew left the pitch smiling. They had seen enough. It had been a good day, one worth celebrating with a seafood dinner together in London.