Aldridge shook his head and said seriously:
"I'm not asking you to turn yourself into a striker constantly bursting into the box. No player is truly all-round. Your ability to beat a man on the flank, to cross with either foot, and your excellent sense of teamwork—those are already first-class. If you now dedicate all your effort to becoming a poacher inside the area, I think it would actually ruin you. Do you remember Hans-Peter Briegel, the German defender who was once held up as a model for the player of the future?"
Schneider frowned, searching his memory. After a long pause he finally nodded. "Oh yes, he was a regular in the old West Germany national team."
Aldridge's voice was calm but steady. "Exactly. Briegel came from a decathlon background. Physically, he could run all day, jump, tackle, and surge forward. But when you look at his career on the biggest stage—take the 1982 and 1986 World Cups—he was directly involved in several goals Germany conceded. In those tournaments, he was caught out in matches where West Germany let in four or more goals. My point is this: I've said many times that the players of the future will be more varied in their skill sets. But varied doesn't mean evenly balanced across everything. Footballers are human. Their physical and mental load has limits. You need to build on the qualities that best suit your position and make them truly outstanding, not try to become everything at once."
He leaned forward, speaking with emphasis. "We've actually had a special meeting about you within the coaching staff. I won't hide that from you. And the conclusion was blunt: we don't believe you will develop into the kind of winger we'll need in Millwall's tactical future."
The words hit Schneider like a hammer. His face drained of color. For a moment he felt the world spinning around him, as though he had just been told his career was on the verge of collapse.
Seeing his expression, Aldridge immediately raised a hand. "Listen to me, Bernd. I value you immensely. I trust you. You are one of the most reliable players in this squad. You're a model professional. I'd like nothing more than to keep you at Millwall until you retire, to sign you on a management contract after your playing career. But I must be honest with you. If you refuse to adapt to the team's future tactical needs, then the only responsible thing for me to do would be to recommend you to a club better suited to your style. I'd rather see you thrive somewhere else than wither here as a substitute because of tactical evolution."
Schneider sat upright, his voice rising with emotion. "Boss, tell me what you want from me. Whatever it is, I'll do it. I'll cooperate fully!"
Aldridge pointed at the tactical book on the table. "Take another look. Focus on the offensive and defensive demands of the right-back."
Schneider quickly picked it up again, scanning the page. His eyes locked onto the lines drawn from the right-back's position.
The dotted defensive runs were obvious: holding the back line, tracking wingers all the way down. The attacking arrows showed surging runs from deep, overlapping the flank, stretching the opponent's defensive block.
He looked up slowly. "Boss… you want me to play full-back?"
Aldridge nodded gravely. His tone softened, sincere. "Yes. The coaching staff unanimously rated your defensive work rate as outstanding. Your willingness to sprint back, to cover ground tirelessly—it's second to none. Among the forwards and midfielders, only you and Pavel show that level of commitment. I often see you tracking back all the way into our box. With Robert, not so much. And you've noticed yourself: our tactics this season have already changed compared to last. Last year, our full-backs rarely advanced. They mainly joined attacks late in games. But now, pushing full-backs forward has become a crucial part of our play. That's why, when Lilian overlaps on the right, you've had to cut inside diagonally into the box, either to finish or to provide a threat. That's where your limitations have shown."
Schneider scratched his head, conceding the point. Aldridge was right.
This season, Millwall's left flank was consistently more dangerous than the right. The reason was clear: when Lucas Neill or Zambrotta bombed forward on the left, Pirès had the intelligence to drift inside, while Nedvěd operated on the right. But his combination with Thuram never carried the same punch as the other side.
"Bernd," Aldridge continued, "I respect you too much to spring this on you as an order. In my long-term plan, if you're willing, I want you to become our first-choice right-back. Half of defending is technique and positioning, half is awareness and mentality. Your sense of teamwork is excellent. With further training on defensive technique, combined with your pace and stamina, you could dominate that flank. You'd have all the space in front of you to surge into attack, deliver crosses, break lines, or even cut inside. That's already what you do best. And you have the engine to cover the entire wing for ninety minutes. That cannot be hidden."
He paused, then added with conviction: "The truth is, in the future, top forwards will always be available to buy if a club has money. But truly world-class full-backs? They'll be priceless. They'll define matches."
The seriousness in his voice made Schneider sit straighter.
"But what about Lilian?" Schneider asked cautiously. "Do you mean I'd go to left-back?"
He knew Thuram was the immovable figure at right-back for now.
Aldridge let out a long sigh. He was being completely honest. "Lilian… we won't keep him long-term. Haven't you noticed? In the dressing room he's quiet, detached, as though he doesn't fully belong. Professionally, he's exemplary. But I've been waiting a year and a half for a sign—anything—that he sees Millwall as his future. That he feels part of us. And it hasn't come. You must have sensed it too."
Schneider fell silent. He had.
As teammates, Thuram had always felt distant. Even after Millwall's fierce victory at Upton Park in the East London Derby, when the squad was jubilant, Thuram simply packed his bag, calm and withdrawn, and boarded the bus without a word. Everyone knew he was furious.
During that match at West Ham's ground, racist abuse had rained down from the stands. Black players had been targeted mercilessly. Makelele's fury afterwards was palpable. Aldridge himself had formally condemned the chants in Millwall's complaint to the FA. But the response from the authorities was little more than a request to "calm things down." Aldridge had been left powerless.
This was England in the mid-90s. Sadly, it was not unusual. Black players traveling to Elland Road faced similar abuse from Leeds supporters. Even stars at Manchester United weren't immune. Millwall's players, with their working-class, outsider image, were easy targets.
And it wasn't confined to England. Across Europe, the terraces were rarely free of prejudice. Whether in Italy, Spain, or France, racism surfaced regularly.
But Aldridge knew something deeper: often it wasn't pure racism. It was tribal hatred, weaponized. The color of the jersey was the true trigger; skin color became an easy way to intensify the abuse.
Makelele's outrage had encouraged Aldridge. It showed he cared, that he felt part of Millwall's fight. But Thuram's stoic silence had left him disappointed. It was as if Thuram had built a transparent wall between himself and the club. He would do his job with professionalism, but never open himself beyond that. He knew this wasn't his final destination.
"The contract still runs four and a half years," Aldridge admitted, "but honestly, I'd be shocked if he stays beyond two and a half. Bernd, as I said, I respect you. If you believe your future isn't at Millwall, and you don't want to change positions, I'll never resent you. I'll personally find you a club where you can flourish in your natural role. I have no doubt you'd succeed there, and you'd hold a starting spot."
His words were frank, without disguise.
For Aldridge, players had to serve the tactical system. If they didn't, he wouldn't bend the system for them. But friendship and respect remained. Off the pitch, they were still men who shared meals and lives. For that reason, he would help any of his players find happiness in football—even if it meant a smaller transfer fee.
Schneider smiled faintly, then stood up. "Boss, thank you for the meal. See you tomorrow at training. It looks like I'd better start paying closer attention to Lilian and Claude."
Aldridge closed his eyes and smiled, standing with him. Schneider's words revealed his decision. Thuram was the established full-back, Makelele the holding midfielder. Both excelled defensively. If Schneider was already thinking about them as role models, his mind was made up.
After he walked his player to the door and closed it, Aldridge gathered the tactical book from the coffee table. Alone in the quiet house, he carried it to the bathroom. As he washed his face, he realized he was still smiling.
The decision in his heart was firm now.
As long as Bernd Schneider chose to stay, Millwall would never betray him.
Because a player like him—hard-working, loyal, endlessly adaptable—could not simply be bought with money.
...
...
In the build-up to the FA Cup tie, Schneider was clearly overworked. His commitment was beyond question, but during an intense training session he sprained himself. Aldridge, seeing him in the medical room with a bandage on his ankle, could only shake his head helplessly. He calmed Schneider down, telling him not to chase success in a rush, to let time and patience bring improvement.
Most of his squad were still young, their technical qualities not yet fully matured. With players under 23, there was still room to refine, to shape, to adapt. It was different for those over 25: at that point, training could sharpen fitness and polish awareness, but rarely would it add entirely new technical characteristics.
The match came at the weekend. In preparation, Aldridge had drafted Vieira into the starting lineup, integrating him into joint training to cover Schneider's absence.
On Saturday, the Den was again packed to capacity. Millwall's rise had electrified their support, and the home crowd came in full voice, creating the kind of ferocious atmosphere that had made the old ground notorious in English football.
The visitors were no small opposition: Blackburn Rovers, defending champions of the Premier League. But this was no longer the same team that had lifted the trophy the previous May. Their decline was obvious. In Europe, they had crashed out of the Champions League group stage at the bottom of their group. In the league, their title defence had all but collapsed.
One major factor was their away form. Last season they, alongside Manchester United, had been formidable on the road—United edging them only on goal difference. But this season Blackburn were struggling badly away from Ewood Park. Without their home strength, they might not even have held onto a top-half place in the table.
In the league meetings earlier that season, Millwall and Blackburn had drawn both games. Yet Aldridge had rotated heavily in those fixtures, not fielding his strongest side. For this FA Cup clash, he sent out his best possible XI.
The team lined up in the 4-3-3 they had used the week before. Vieira stepped in for Pirlo, giving the midfield more bite and steel, which was essential given Blackburn's firepower. The SAS partnership of Shearer and Sutton was still formidable, capable of punishing any lapse.
Lucas Neill replaced Zambrotta at full-back, returning to the starting side. Trezeguet led the line as the central striker, with Pirès on the left and Larsson on the right.
Aldridge had spoken to Larsson the previous year about playing as a wide forward rather than a traditional number nine. He had explained that he wanted wingers who could score as well as create. Larsson had agreed without hesitation. He had the speed, the technical quality, and the knack for arriving from the channel into the box to finish chances. With Sweden, he often played wide, so the role felt natural.
For Aldridge, shifting players' roles was not a problem. He saw formations as neutral frameworks. What mattered was the combination of the formation with the players' qualities, shaping a coherent style.
If he had asked Larsson to play as an old-fashioned touchline winger, simply crossing for a central striker, the Swede would never have been satisfied. His hunger to score was too strong. Aldridge's demand matched that hunger: in his system, the winger's first duty was to pose a direct scoring threat. Moving from two strikers to one had, on paper, reduced Millwall's attacking power. But the truth was different—he had only shifted the attacking points, making them harder to read, harder to defend.
Before kick-off, Aldridge exchanged words with Blackburn's manager, Ray Harford. Harford bore the pressure heavily. Taking over from Kenny Dalglish was no small task. The decline in results had made him the target of criticism, and even the stands at Ewood Park were showing it. Attendance had dropped. It was not surprising: Blackburn was a small town of just over 100,000 people. A downturn in the team's fortunes was felt immediately in the terraces. It was nothing like London, where even with countless entertainment options, demand for football was insatiable. Tickets at the Den were scarce, and touts outside always did brisk business.
Harford tried a little humour, teasing Aldridge about his chances in the league title race. Aldridge smiled politely but said nothing. Titles, he thought, were not won by talking. Confidence was important, but only results spoke. If you won enough, the trophy was yours.
Millwall had never approached any competition half-heartedly. Even when Aldridge rotated heavily in the league, sending out the younger lineup, he never considered it wasted. Every game, regardless of result, was an investment in experience and progress.
The match began with Aldridge standing on the touchline, arms folded, his eyes sharp.
Blackburn, conscious of their previous draws with Millwall, came determined to assert themselves. From the first whistle, they pushed forward aggressively.
But Millwall's midfield axis of Makelele and Vieira quickly asserted control. Their pressing and tackling were relentless, cutting off supply to the SAS. When Shearer finally found half a yard of space, squeezing between markers, his shot was hurried and glanced the crossbar.
The opening stages were fierce. Both sides snapped into tackles, battling in the centre of the pitch. The pace was high, the intensity immediate.
Yet Aldridge felt calm. He trusted his system, trusted his players. His philosophy was ahead of its time, and he knew his squad had the quality to execute it. The early minutes were always about probing, adjusting to rhythm. Once Millwall settled, he was confident they would take command.
Vieira and Makelele together formed an imposing shield. Their partnership looked natural, their coverage of space seamless. Aldridge thought briefly of the future. Ten years from now, in the greatest of stages—the World Cup final—they would be the same men standing behind Zidane, protecting him, allowing him to shine.
Blackburn grew increasingly aggressive as the match wore on. More and more men poured forward in attack, leaving greater spaces exposed in their back line.
Southgate intercepted the ball cleanly at Sutton's feet and immediately fed Vieira on the right side of midfield. Vieira turned quickly and sent a direct pass into the channel. Thuram surged onto it down the flank, and Millwall's counterattack swept forward like a gust of wind.
Thuram combined neatly with Nedvěd, who drifted over to overload the wing. A quick give-and-go saw them bypass Jason Wilcox. Thuram carried on with determination, and Larsson, retreating slightly from the forward line, exchanged another one-two with him, slicing open Blackburn's defence.
Larsson burst into the box, but instead of shooting when the ball came his way, he cleverly cut a reverse pass back towards the top of the penalty area. Trezeguet had dragged defenders with him, crowding the centre and creating the perfect pocket of space. Into that space arrived Nedvěd at full speed.
At the top of the D, Nedvěd shaped to shoot, his body movement drawing the defenders towards him in desperation. But at the last instant, he swept the ball sideways with a disguised pass.
Pirès had timed his diagonal run to perfection, breaking the offside trap. He suddenly found himself one-on-one with goalkeeper Flowers. Calmly, he drew Flowers off his line, but instead of firing, he squared the ball across the face of goal. The Blackburn defence was torn apart, and Trezeguet simply rolled the ball into the empty net.
The Den erupted. The commentary from the press box was effusive:
"What a magnificent goal—words hardly do it justice! Millwall are showing textbook team football at its very finest. While everyone raves about Newcastle United's fluid attacking play, they ought to look here at the Den. Millwall's movement, their interplay, it is seamless. Every man knows his role, every man contributes. They are growing stronger by the week. And the question now is: how do you stop them? Their attack can strike from anywhere, at any moment. Look at this move: Thuram, the full-back, charging right to the byline, the ball then swept all the way across to the opposite flank—Blackburn's defence left spinning in circles. That is devastating football."
On the touchline, Aldridge punched the air and turned to the stands, waving his arms, urging the fans to lift the volume even higher. The goal was not just beautiful; it was a dagger to Blackburn's morale.
On the opposite bench, Harford shouted instructions frantically. He called his players over, demanding that the back line drop deeper, the midfield compress into a compact thirty-metre block, and that counterattacks be launched down the flanks behind Millwall's adventurous full-backs.
But the Blackburn players barely seemed to listen. They were, after all, the reigning champions. Had Dalglish still been in charge, perhaps his authority might have carried weight. Harford, however, lacked that aura.
They pressed on with their usual style: crosses from wide, midfielders driving forward, the SAS as targets. Yet their one-on-one duels faltered. Both Neill and Thuram defended aggressively, timing their challenges and refusing to be beaten. Time and again Blackburn's wingers were repelled.
Millwall's counterattacks, by contrast, were deadly. Their transitions were lightning fast. Full-backs surged forward, Vieira stepped up to support play, and the whole team seemed to multiply in number. Watching on television, it gave the uncanny impression that Blackburn were playing with fewer men. When Blackburn attacked, they looked outnumbered. When they defended, they still seemed stretched.
That was the reward of Millwall's superior fitness. The players not only sprinted back with discipline but also burst forward with equal intensity.
By half-time, Millwall had torn Blackburn apart.
Trezeguet, with his back to goal, laid off a clever diagonal pass to Larsson, who had sprung the offside line. The Swede calmly slotted home. Moments later, before the interval, Nedvěd surged forward again. This time he linked with Pirès, who curved a cross into the box. Unexpectedly, Nedvěd himself continued his run, arriving in the area to head past Flowers.
Three goals in the first half. Blackburn's players were shell-shocked. For them, this felt like a nightmare.
As they trudged towards the tunnel, Harford tried desperately to rally them, shouting instructions, insisting that they defend in numbers and keep their shape. But his words fell on deaf ears. The chaos spilled over into something unprecedented.
In the tunnel at the Den, Blackburn imploded. Defender Colin Hendry, a senior figure, suddenly spat towards Harford and sneered at his coaching ability. Words escalated into physical blows, and the astonishing sight of a manager and his captain fighting in the tunnel left everyone stunned.
Aldridge hurried over, pulling staff members with him to separate the two. For a moment it seemed Blackburn would tear itself apart entirely. In the end, Hendry resolved the matter on his own. He stormed into the dressing room, grabbed his belongings, and walked out of the stadium without a backward glance.
When Aldridge returned to Millwall's dressing room, he found his players buzzing, whispering animatedly about what they had just witnessed. He leaned casually against the doorframe, saying nothing. Blackburn's spirit was broken. He almost pitied Harford—his first half had unravelled with three goals conceded, his second half began with a mutiny.
It made Aldridge reflect quietly. Two years earlier, when he had first thought about stepping into coaching, he might never have commanded such authority. But now, being both club owner and head coach, he held every card: the paycheques in one hand, the professional futures of the players in the other. Who would dare rebel? His position was secure, his focus free to remain entirely on football.
When the second half began, Aldridge made sweeping changes. He withdrew three key starters—Makelele, Stam, and Larsson—to rest them. Ballack, Materazzi, and Shevchenko came on. The shape adjusted slightly, but the game was already decided.
Blackburn, rattled by the halftime fiasco, played cautiously. They sat deep, reluctant to take risks. Millwall, still sharper, struck again. Trezeguet added another goal, calmly finishing after good buildup play.
When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard read 4–0.
Blackburn were humbled. Millwall, ruthless and composed, advanced to the next round of the FA Cup.