After entering February, Millwall's players finally slowed their tempo from the relentless high-pressure rhythm of the Christmas schedule. Injuries were inevitable: several members of the squad had been carrying knocks, and the younger players could not be asked to shoulder too much physical burden week after week. Fortunately, Aldridge had built a deep enough squad. His rotation policy meant he never had to stretch his resources beyond their limits.
Before the international call-ups scheduled for mid-February, Millwall still had two fixtures to negotiate: one in the league and another in the FA Cup. Both promised to be demanding encounters.
The league opponent was none other than a North London neighbor: Tottenham Hotspur.
White Hart Lane — perhaps the most poetic stadium name in English football.
Tottenham themselves had always carried an aura of romanticism, a kind of footballing fairy tale spirit. For many years they had not been the strongest side in the top flight, rarely genuine contenders for the title, nor the most high-profile club in England. Yet they were seen as the torchbearers of a particular style: elegant, free-flowing, committed to attractive play. Spurs fans took pride in this heritage. Their measure of success was not simply in silverware. Even when losing, even when watching Arsenal lift trophies, they remained dismissive of their rivals. For them, Tottenham stood apart — proud, aloof, clinging to their identity as purveyors of beautiful football.
That pride would not be stripped away until years later, when Daniel Levy — a sharp Jewish businessman — took control of the club. His philosophy was brutally simple: he wanted trophies and he wanted financial success. But that shift was still ahead. In the mid-1990s, Tottenham were drifting, their star power waning.
It was not long ago that they had boasted Gary Lineker, Paul Gascoigne, and the bold, attack-minded coach Terry Venables. Spurs under Venables had played with a glamour comparable to today's Newcastle United: whatever the result, they attacked with flair. But those days had passed, and the decline was evident.
Aldridge led his Millwall side to White Hart Lane with a clear memory of their earlier meeting. In the first half of the season, Tottenham had left The Den with a draw, a result that had left the Lions bitterly dissatisfied. This time, the mood was different. Confidence coursed through the squad. They feared no one and genuinely believed they could beat anyone placed before them.
The Lane was alive with noise and color, the atmosphere charged. As the two sides took the field, the roar was thunderous. From the opening whistle, the game had the intensity of a London derby: every challenge contested, every ball chased as if it were decisive.
For this match, Aldridge made a notable adjustment. He left Trezeguet on the bench, resting him ahead of the coming FA Cup clash. Instead of fielding a like-for-like striker, he used the opportunity to begin laying foundations for the following season.
Millwall lined up in a 4-3-3. At its heart, 17-year-old Andrea Pirlo made his debut. Shielded by the tireless Makelele behind him, Pirlo's role was carefully defined. Aldridge did not burden him with attacking responsibilities. His task was simple: stabilize the back line with his distribution, ensure a high passing success rate, and keep the play ticking between defence and attack. He was instructed not to push recklessly forward, but to hold his ground between the center circle and his own penalty area, acting as the pivot.
This meant Millwall's attacking line was effectively four men: Nedvěd occupying the central playmaker's zone, with a trident of Pires, Larsson, and Schneider ahead. On paper, it looked fewer in numbers than their usual attacking setup, but Aldridge's system made up for it. With both full-backs encouraged to overlap, the front line often became six strong. When the wingers cut diagonally into the box, Millwall frequently created the illusion of playing with three outright forwards.
On the Tottenham bench, manager Gerry Francis grew visibly tense. Standing on the touchline, hands on his hips, his frown deepened as he watched the flow of the game tilt against his team. The tempo, the patterns of Millwall's possession, the way the visitors occupied space — all signaled danger. He sensed the crisis but struggled to find a tactical solution.
Back in September, the key to Spurs leaving The Den with a point had been their ability to neutralize Nedvěd. This time at White Hart Lane, they tried the same ploy, closing down the Czech midfielder at every opportunity.
But they quickly realized they were chasing the wrong man.
Having lost Jürgen Klinsmann to Bayern Munich and Gheorghe Popescu to Barcelona, Tottenham's strength had fallen sharply. Teddy Sheringham was left to carry the attack on his own, and without support, Spurs' offensive rhythm faltered. Their defensive priority remained clear: stop Nedvěd. But it was not Nedvěd pulling the strings. The distribution came from Pirlo's boots.
At first glance, Pirlo appeared unremarkable — his movements unhurried, his presence almost understated. He rarely sprinted, never flew into tackles, and carried himself with an air of detachment. Yet when he received the ball, he always found the safe, intelligent option. With Nedvěd closely shadowed, Pirlo calmly spread play to the flanks, recycling possession with short diagonals and linking with the wingers. He would collect the ball deep, exchange a quick one-two near the halfway line, then retreat into his zone, never overcommitting.
It was subtle work, but invaluable.
Because of it, Millwall's wing play grew increasingly threatening. The full-backs surged forward to combine with the wide men. Overloads were created, triangles formed, and soon wave after wave of attacks swept toward the Spurs penalty area. Crosses were whipped in, cutbacks drilled low, and diagonal balls threaded into dangerous channels.
Millwall, though the away side, seized the initiative and pressed Tottenham back, attacking them right in front of their own supporters.
After Schneider's two-footed cut inside, both of his shots flew wide, missing by a distance that left Aldridge grimacing. Moments later, Pires delivered a perfect through ball to Larsson. The Swede, already with 17 league goals to his name, found himself one-on-one with Ian Walker. Everyone in the ground expected the net to bulge, yet Larsson's close-range effort was smothered as Walker threw his body in the way.
Nedvěd then surged into the box to contest a header. He rose well, powered the ball downward — only to see it crash against the upright.
On the touchline, Aldridge felt as though his heart was strapped to a roller coaster. One moment soaring with expectation, the next plunging into despair.
He returned wearily to his seat, picked up a bottle of mineral water, unscrewed the cap, and took two sharp swigs. Turning to Jenson with a helpless shake of the head, he muttered:
"When you were playing and later coaching at Ajax, didn't you come across players like Schneider?"
Jenson immediately understood the subtext.
Schneider's qualities were obvious: technically superb, intelligent, unselfish, and an excellent passer. His distribution lacked spectacular flair, but his reliability made him one of the most accurate in the Premier League. A fine player — yet his finishing was consistently poor.
The last two opportunities illustrated it perfectly. Twice he cut in, twice he found space, and twice his shots sailed hopelessly off target.
Those wasted chances had not only given Walker cold sweats but also sent Aldridge's mood tumbling from the heights of hope into the pit of frustration.
Jenson offered a wry smile. "It's down to positioning. You can't just judge him by his technique. Plenty of wingers are the same. Take Overmars — the Flying Dutchman. Out wide, devastating. But stick him inside the box and he might not finish the move."
Aldridge sighed. He was venting in the moment, but as a coach he knew perfectly well that a player's characteristics must be matched with their position.
On the wing, a player's field of vision is simpler: check the line ahead and the inside channel. In midfield, however, you need to scan the entire pitch, 360 degrees, before receiving the ball. The same applies in the penalty area. The angles close down, pressure increases, defenders swarm, and instinctive tension takes over. Some players thrive; others falter.
Schneider, operating on the right flank, only needed to scan his left and ahead. But when he cut inside into the crowded box, it became a trap. The subconscious stress spiked, and his decision-making crumbled. Aldridge resolved to speak with him after the match.
As he sat back, Millwall launched another furious assault.
Thuram surged forward from full-back. He and Schneider had developed a rhythm on the right, and Spurs' defense was beginning to read Schneider's inside cuts. This time, Schneider dragged the full-back away, opening a channel.
Thuram took a touch, steadied himself, and from 45 degrees outside the box unleashed a rocket.
It was struck beautifully — a clean, rising drive, the ball traveling flat without spin, arrowing toward the top right corner.
Ian Walker, who had already produced several brave stops, was again Tottenham's savior. Concentrated and defiant, he flung himself across goal, his outstretched fists punching the ball clear at full stretch.
A huge exhale of relief surged through the White Hart Lane crowd.
But danger still lingered. Walker's punch carried the ball only as far as the opposite side of the penalty area. Pires met it first-time with a thunderous drive. His body shape was elegant, the strike explosive — the sound echoing around the stadium.
Boom!
The shot smashed against the post. Aldridge kicked the turf in fury on the sideline.
"Bloody hell!" he barked. White Hart Lane's woodwork seemed charmed, protecting Spurs by divine right.
The crowd groaned and gasped, a mix of Tottenham prayers and Millwall curses.
Yet the sequence wasn't over.
The rebound off the post ricocheted into the six-yard box. Defenders scrambled. Calderwood spun awkwardly to clear but made a complete mess of it, kicking air before colliding with a teammate. The ball skipped along the line, Larsson pounced and flung himself at it.
Again, Walker came to Tottenham's rescue. Diving desperately, he failed to reach with his hands but somehow blocked with his thigh, the ball cannoning away from goal.
White Hart Lane was on edge, the stands vibrating with tension. Home supporters clutched their heads, scarcely able to watch.
The loose ball looped up once more, hanging in the air like a rainbow, falling back toward the penalty arc. Spurs players charged out, but one figure arrived first, striding into the ball's path.
Nedvěd!
He struck through it cleanly, a venomous left-foot volley. The ball screamed into the top-left corner, finally beating Walker.
The net bulged.
"One strike, two, three, four — and it's Nedvěd who scores!" Martin Tyler's voice carried over the commentary. "Andy, Millwall's fifteenth shot of this half finally breaks the deadlock! What a bizarre match this is."
"Absolutely, Martin. Millwall's football has been superb — fluent, incisive, wave after wave of attacks. But chance after chance went begging. In the end, it took this brutally direct, unstoppable volley to make the breakthrough. The contrast is almost surreal."
"Either way, Millwall are ahead, and on balance of play, no one can argue they don't deserve it."
Nedvěd raced to the corner flag, pumping his fists, before being engulfed by jubilant teammates. Relief was written across every face. The frustration of missed chances was finally lifted, replaced by pure joy.
On the sidelines, Aldridge rubbed his forehead with a weary chuckle.
He had tried to win the game with patience, with subtle combinations and intricate buildup. In the end, it was raw power, a thunderous strike, that broke Tottenham's resistance.
Football, he thought, had a sense of irony all its own.
...
...
The stands of Tottenham supporters inside White Hart Lane had fallen into silence.
That kind of furious, storm-like attacking football — wasn't it supposed to be theirs? Spurs prided themselves on flair, on poetry in motion. Yet now it was Millwall, a club long dismissed as crude street fighters, who were carving them apart with artistry and power.
After Nedvěd's strike, a scene of unrestrained joy erupted in the away section. Brady, a bare-chested Millwall supporter, tore off his shirt despite the biting February chill, whirling it above his head as he bellowed with the traveling fans.
"There's only one Pavel Nedvěd! One Pavel Nedvěd! Walking along, singing a song, walking in a Nedvěd wonderland!"
The chant thundered from the away end, hundreds of voices united in rhythm.
In just a season and a half, Nedvěd had conquered Millwall hearts. His tireless running, fierce shooting, and willingness to fight for every ball matched perfectly with the English supporter's image of the ideal player. Even neutrals admired him. To many, he had become a symbol of the new Millwall: technically refined, yet ferocious in spirit.
Millwall's fanbase was swelling rapidly that season. Of course, their thrilling brand of football played a major role. Their lightning-quick breaks, intricate passing, and fearless approach attracted attention across the country. Broadcasters began scheduling their matches opposite Premier League fixtures, confident that Millwall could deliver entertainment to rival anyone. Neutral fans tuned in, drawn to the brilliance of their attacking quintet: Larsson, Nedvěd, Schneider, Pires, and Trezeguet. Their consistent highlight-reel performances were making them household names.
The only lingering frustration came with Schneider. At 22, he was producing outstanding performances, yet still had not received a call-up from the German national team. Aldridge often voiced his disappointment at the German FA's conservatism. In Germany, seniority still carried disproportionate weight; promising young players were often overlooked until they reached a certain age, regardless of form. Schneider, in any other system, would already have been capped.
On the touchline, Tottenham boss Gerry Francis rubbed his temples in frustration. He had pinpointed the problem. His initial strategy had been to crowd Nedvěd out, but that fixation left space elsewhere. The real damage was being orchestrated by a fresh-faced Italian in midfield.
Before kickoff, Francis had specifically warned his players to deny Andrea Pirlo time and space. But for much of the first half, they had neglected him. With attention on Nedvěd, Pirlo dictated play, threading passes with understated calm. Only in the last seven minutes of the half did Spurs adjust, compressing their midfield to close him down. Three times Pirlo was caught in possession, a reminder of his youth. Only Makelele's vigilant covering prevented disaster.
Millwall still went into the break leading 1–0.
Inside the dressing room, Aldridge pulled Pirlo aside. He knew the boy had started too comfortably. With no pressure on him early on, his passing had resembled training ground drills. But when Spurs finally pressed, his composure cracked. Aldridge stressed the lesson: the problem wasn't technical ability but mentality. Football at this level was unforgiving; lapses in concentration would be punished. He reassured him: nobody becomes a master overnight. For young talents, psychology mattered more than skill. Many gifted players had failed, not because they lacked ability, but because they could not cope with intensity.
When the second half began, Tottenham pressed Pirlo aggressively, believing they had discovered the antidote to Millwall's flow.
But the "sleeping rabbit" had woken. Pirlo adjusted, no longer dwelling on the ball. He moved cleverly, exchanging one-touch passes, running into spaces, and letting the ball do the work. Tottenham's midfielders chased, but he was always gone before the trap could close. With Makelele sweeping behind and Spurs easing their grip on Nedvěd, the Czech suddenly found far more space in advanced areas.
Pirlo received, turned, and slid a perfectly weighted vertical ball through midfield lines, bypassing two rushing opponents. Nedvěd collected it on the half-turn and surged forward. Millwall's front four clicked instantly into motion, their movements rehearsed countless times in training.
Francis raged on the touchline, arms flailing. His midfield had pressed too rashly, and Pirlo's incisive ball had cut them open.
Nedvěd feinted a long shot before slipping a disguised pass into the channel. The pattern was second nature. Over the last eighteen months, Aldridge had drilled Robert Pires to strip his game down, to play with ruthless simplicity. The Frenchman had learned to time his runs with precision.
Not blessed with raw pace, Pires instead relied on anticipation. He darted into the inside-left channel just as the defender turned his head. By the time his marker reacted, he was gone. One touch, then a shot from a narrow angle.
The ball traced a perfect arc, appearing destined to curl wide of the far post. Walker launched himself fully stretched but could only flail at air. The ball kissed the inside of the upright and nestled into the far corner.
White Hart Lane gasped. The away end exploded.
"That is sublime!" Martin Tyler exclaimed over the broadcast. "Pires' finish might well contend for goal of the round — though Nedvěd's strike earlier could rival it! Andy, Millwall's tactical shift today is fascinating. Have you been watching that 17-year-old Italian?"
"I have, Martin," Andy Gray replied. "He's looked invisible at times, hasn't he? But strip him out of Millwall's midfield and you'd never see these flowing moves. He doesn't register assists on the stat sheet, nor does he surge forward for goals, but his impact is undeniable. He's liberated Nedvěd. Instead of carrying the ball from deep, Nedvěd now operates closer to the box. That one sequence proved it — in the blink of an eye the ball traveled from Pirlo's boots in the back line to Nedvěd in midfield, and before Spurs could adjust, it was in behind them for Pires to finish."
"As every coach says, the ball always moves faster than the player. Earlier this season, Millwall looked as though they were challenging that theory, relying on furious counterattacks. Now they've returned to fundamentals. With Pirlo anchoring, Nedvěd can conserve his energy for the final third, making their attack even sharper."
Millwall led 2–0, and Pires had now raised his Premier League tally to eight goals. The Lions looked unstoppable.
Aldridge stood calmly on the touchline with a faint smile, while Francis's expression was dark and heavy.
The Tottenham manager's adjustment felt like robbing Peter to pay Paul. By easing the pressure on Nedvěd in order to tighten the net around Pirlo, he had inadvertently released the Czech completely in advanced areas. The result was disastrous.
Damn it, what now?! Francis cursed inwardly.
In theory, there were tactical solutions. Continental managers had already experimented with large-scale defensive retreats, pulling even forwards back behind the ball. But in English football of the mid-90s, that approach had not yet become mainstream. Full-backs rarely sat deep as a line of five, and strikers were seldom asked to defend diligently.
Francis could only improvise. From the sideline, he gestured furiously, urging his players to track back. Even Teddy Sheringham, Spurs' main attacking spearhead, was ordered to drop near the halfway line and help block Pirlo's influence.
The consequence was inevitable: Tottenham's entire shape shrank backwards.
In that environment, one figure came to the fore — Claude Makelele.
Whenever Spurs tried to build through midfield, their intentions were read in advance. Time and again, Makelele intercepted, snapping into position to break attacks before they began. His performance drew admiration even from the commentary box.
"Makelele is a key player capable of reshaping the game!" Martin Tyler exclaimed.
The Frenchman's contribution was double-sided. In defence, he protected the crucial spaces between the lines. In possession, his first instinct after a tackle was security: retain the ball at all costs. Over the past eighteen months at Millwall, his passing accuracy had quietly risen to the highest in the squad, over 84 percent. It was rarely adventurous, but it was vital. Each simple ball he played allowed Millwall to reset, stabilizing transitions between defence and attack. His understated precision was a cornerstone of Aldridge's entire tactical system.
Tottenham, compressed and cautious, were running out of options. In the last ten minutes, Francis threw caution aside. He urged his players to raise the tempo, to attack with speed and directness. The centre-backs stepped high into midfield, pumping long balls into the area. It was raw, frantic football, a desperate attempt to claw something back.
For a spell, Millwall's counterattacks fizzled out under this pressure. The ball was turned over in midfield, momentum broken.
But with three minutes left, the Lions struck again.
Tottenham's back line was still recovering from a failed surge forward, leaving gaps everywhere. Their midfield closed aggressively on Nedvěd, and both full-backs stuck tight to Pires and Schneider. That left space for Pirlo.
The 17-year-old looked up once, dropped his head, and delivered a raking diagonal long pass.
The ball sailed across midfield with a light bounce, dropping perfectly near the edge of the Tottenham penalty area.
Colin Calderwood turned and sprinted, angling across to cover. But Larsson had already read the play, cutting diagonally between defenders with impeccable timing.
The Swede was stunned by Pirlo's precision. He had only just started his run to beat the offside trap when the ball arrived on a platter. A second later and he would have been flagged off.
Larsson didn't wait for the ball to settle. He accelerated into position, cushioning it on his chest at the top of the box. Calderwood lunged in, braking sharply to challenge, but Larsson's control spun him the wrong way. With one deft touch he rolled into the penalty area.
Now it was just him and Walker again. He had squandered two golden chances earlier, but this time there was no hesitation. He opened his body and guided the ball calmly into the far corner.
Walker was beaten. White Hart Lane fell into stunned silence.
In the away end, Millwall's travelling support erupted, their roar echoing like thunder. Some fans nearly vaulted barriers, such was their euphoria.
The Lions had roared again — three goals away from home.
Tottenham, humbled on their own turf, could only bow their heads.
For Millwall's fans, the meaning was deeper than just three points. Against Spurs, one of London's proud clubs, it was a declaration of arrival. Among London derbies, only West Ham's Hammer Gang or Chelsea offered comparable ferocity. Charlton and Crystal Palace were too small, Wimbledon's Crazy Gang was already fading, and QPR seemed destined for relegation. Arsenal and Spurs stood high in North London. Now Millwall, too, claimed the right to the city's battles.
Magnificent, the fans thought. Let us stamp on you as equals!
Larsson sprinted straight toward Pirlo, pointing at the teenager with a beaming grin. The debutant's lofted assist had been the perfect pass, and the Swede wanted everyone to know it.
Pirlo, flushed with excitement, was almost trembling. His first appearance for Millwall had produced an assist. His confidence soared.
On the sideline, Aldridge applauded, satisfied. With the score secure, he made two late substitutions to eat up the remaining minutes.
When the whistle blew, he shook Francis's hand. Earlier in the season they had shared a few polite words, but not today. Francis's face was dark with frustration, and the handshake was brisk, wordless.
Millwall had conquered White Hart Lane with three goals, leaving North London in shock.