When the international break arrived, more than half of Millwall's first-team regulars left to join their national squads. Training at the senior level suddenly became lighter, and Aldridge's own workload eased for a short while.
In addition to beginning preparations for Aston Villa — Millwall's opponent in the League Cup final at the end of the month — Aldridge found himself spending even more time with the youth sides. This had already become his habit: wandering through the training grounds, standing quietly at the edge of the pitch, always observing the young players' growth with a mixture of scrutiny and patience.
What pleased him most during this period was the progress of Ruud van Nistelrooy. For months the Dutchman had been stuck in the reserve team, struggling to adapt. But in the past three months his development had accelerated noticeably. The reserves had hit a strong vein of form, and Van Nistelrooy in particular looked transformed. Inside the penalty area his instincts were sharpening; his timing and movement bore little resemblance to the awkward forward who had first arrived in London. Back then, when an opposing defender shoved him off balance, he would lose his bearings and stumble clumsily. Now he remained calm, scanning for gaps, reading the flight of the ball, and making intelligent runs. He was starting to think like a striker — anticipating trajectories, shaping attacks before the ball even reached him — and those changes were bringing results.
Van Nistelrooy's recent statistics spoke for themselves: nine goals in his last six reserve matches. Yet what impressed Aldridge more than the numbers was the hunger that still burned inside him. The Dutchman trained relentlessly, as if waiting for the moment when the reserve coach, Maurice Moreaux, would finally deliver the words he longed for: "Ruud, from today the reserves no longer need you. You'll be training with the first team."
After one particularly demanding session, Aldridge called Van Nistelrooy aside. They spoke at length, not just about goals but about positioning, mentality, and the ruthless habits required at the highest level. When their conversation ended, Van Nistelrooy walked away almost trembling with excitement. He had been given a promise: if he continued to work as hard as he had, and consciously improved his reactions and sharpness in front of goal, then in the coming months Aldridge would reward him with minutes in the first team.
By contrast, another striker at the club remained a source of frustration. Luca Toni had been in South London for a year and a half, but he progressed at a glacial pace, as stubborn as an elm stump.
Because Toni had only turned eighteen at the start of the season, he was still eligible for the youth league. There, his record looked impressive — he scored often — but his style betrayed his limitations. Most of his goals came through sheer physical dominance. He bullied defenders, muscling them aside, holding the ball up endlessly, trying to beat opponents on his own rather than combining with teammates. He had become addicted to relying on size and strength. Gradually, this selfish streak eroded his link-up play.
Even so, Aldridge had not lost hope. He carried certain expectations for Toni. A centre-forward with such imposing physical gifts, if taught properly, could become invaluable. Toni's strength allowed him to shield the ball, occupy centre-backs, and create space for midfielders arriving from deep. His lack of pace meant he would never thrive in lightning counterattacks — Aldridge knew this flaw would limit him in England, where transitions were brutal — but in set-piece situations, in sustained pressure, or in direct battles inside the area, Toni's potential threat was undeniable. In the crowded penalty box, his aerial ability and sheer presence could rival even the most feared poachers.
Fortunately, Nagy, who had taken charge of the youth team a few months earlier, recognised the same issue and began reshaping Toni's game. Training sessions now forced him to combine with teammates, to make unselfish movements, to fit into a collective tactical scheme. Progress was slow, but it gave Aldridge some cautious optimism.
When the international break formally began, Aldridge granted the squad a couple of days' holiday. The players dispersed to their families or national teams, but Aldridge himself still had obligations to fulfil.
He had to "serve his sentence."
The court had handed him forty hours of community service — a punishment that had so far gone completely untouched. Not a single hour completed. With February coming to an end, Aldridge decided to use these free days to settle it. Two days of service, eight hours on one, three on another, would allow him to clear the debt before the month closed.
On the first morning, he rose early, washed, and opened his wardrobe. Armani shirts and tailored suits filled most of the space, gifts of his sudden celebrity status. But he pushed them aside and pulled out an old set of plain sportswear, without logos, perhaps bought long before success had arrived. He slipped into the trousers, tied his shoes, and carried the matching jacket downstairs.
A few minutes later, Andrew arrived at the door to give him a lift. Before leaving, Aldridge paused at the kitchen table with a thick black marker Andrew had bought. Carefully, he scrawled large words across the back of his jacket:
"Everyone is responsible for protecting the environment."
Andrew stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, grinning as he watched.
"Looks good," he said. "Our very own environmental warrior."
Aldridge chuckled, blew on the ink until it dried, and then pulled the jacket on. "I'm off to be a cleaner," he replied dryly. "See you tonight."
Andrew shook his head, amused, and wandered into the kitchen in search of breakfast as Aldridge stepped out.
Despite his attempt at modest disguise, Aldridge was well aware of the attention he attracted. He was a public figure now. In London, even minor celebrities could be snapped by photographers while buying groceries. His punishment made it irresistible for Fleet Street reporters, many of whom had been waiting impatiently to capture images of the "Millwall prodigy manager" fulfilling his community service. The spectacle of Aldridge sweeping streets or scrubbing walls would make fine headlines. And, as always, it was news they craved most of all.
As Aldridge walked out through the gates of the community, he unexpectedly spotted three familiar faces.
Eva stood in front of a small jeep, her ponytail tied neatly, smiling brightly as she waved. Brady and Fred lounged on the hood, side by side, both grinning like schoolboys caught in mischief. All three were dressed alike: jeans on the bottom, and on top a special white T-shirt emblazoned with a bold blue lion across the chest, beneath which ran the words: "The Best Lion!"
With a loud thud, Fred hopped down from the bonnet, yanked open the car door, rummaged for a set of tools, and then slammed it shut.
Aldridge shook his head, unable to stop a helpless laugh. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"To work with you, of course." Eva's tone was light, but her eyes sparkled with determination. She looked fresh and radiant in the morning sun, more like someone on her way to a picnic than community service.
Brady and Fred both carried brooms slung over their shoulders like soldiers with rifles. Eva, more practical, held a large rubbish sack in one hand and pressed a litter-picking clamp into Aldridge's palm with the other.
Looking at the three of them — clearly intent on turning the whole affair into a cheerful spectacle — Aldridge had no heart to drive them away.
Everyone knew his community service was more performance than punishment, symbolism rather than substance. Yet Aldridge never saw the sentence as humiliating. If anything, he chose to view it as a hidden blessing: an opportunity to give back in a way that might benefit both himself and the club.
As Millwall's manager and figurehead, he carried the club's image on his shoulders. Every word he spoke, every action he took in public, reflected directly upon Millwall. With the club's reputation still haunted by its infamy in English football, he felt an obligation to set a positive example.
He was, whether he liked it or not, a star. Not just because of his tactical innovations or the team's remarkable record, but because of his personality, his fiery touchline presence, his sharp interviews, and the occasional exuberant celebration that captured headlines. Critics had begun comparing his aura to that of established managers like Harry Redknapp. On the sidelines, Redknapp looked every bit the veteran coach, but it was Aldridge's presence that radiated charisma and authority, his aura spilling over into the team itself, helping Millwall overwhelm opponents with sheer momentum.
By embracing community service, Aldridge intended to channel that aura into something constructive. He even stencilled an environmental slogan on the back of his jacket, knowing the cameras would catch it.
Was it a show? Of course it was. But showmanship, when directed toward the right values, was no weakness.
Had Pelé not dedicated his World Cup triumph to the world's suffering children rather than merely his teammates or countrymen? That too was performance, but one the world cherished. Maradona's impassioned cries of "Argentina!" after his greatest victories were also theatre, yet no one doubted their authenticity. Michael Jackson, singing "Heal the World" surrounded by children, had moved millions. Closer to home, Princess Diana — long estranged from Prince Charles — remained beloved precisely because of her devotion to charity and public causes.
These moments were, at their core, performances. But they promoted universal values, striking chords of recognition and empathy in ordinary people. Aldridge believed football managers, no less than pop stars or royalty, could play their part.
For Millwall, still tainted by notoriety, he would start with himself.
With the litter picker in one hand, Aldridge pulled out his phone with the other and rang the court-appointed supervisor.
A short while later, a motorcycle pulled up beside the community entrance. The rider, a black man in his early thirties, wore neatly pressed trousers and a plain shirt. He removed his helmet, walked over briskly, and extended a hand.
"Mr. Hall, I'm Nordman. Are you ready to begin your unpaid community service?"
Aldridge checked his watch before replying evenly. "Eight hours today, eight hours tomorrow. Please record the time properly. By the way, are there any targets for the workload?"
Nordman smiled and shook his head. "No indicators. This is a symbolic punishment. As long as you complete the hours, that's sufficient."
Aldridge raised an eyebrow but nodded in understanding. He glanced up at the clear London sky, inhaled deeply, and said, "Very well. Let's begin."
With that, he led the way down the street. Each time he spotted litter, he bent with the picker and dropped it neatly into the rubbish sack Eva carried at his side. Brady and Fred flanked them, sweeping gutters and clearing cigarette stubs.
It did not take long for their progress to attract attention. A slow convoy of cars began trailing behind, windows rolled down, cameras poking out. Some clambered halfway out of sunroofs, filming every step.
Aldridge paid no mind, chatting and joking with his friends as if they were out on a casual stroll. The group's cheerful energy was infectious; before long, passers-by began recognising him. This was East London, Millwall territory. First came the surprised looks, then the smiles, then waves and greetings shouted across the road.
By mid-morning, Aldridge had gathered a following. Dozens of youngsters trailed after him like disciples, begging for autographs or photos. He smiled, but promised to sign only during the lunch break, urging them instead to join in the cleaning. Some did. The sight of Millwall's manager stooping to pick rubbish inspired even shy teenagers to grab a broom or bag and join the effort.
Wherever they passed, streets were left spotless, laughter ringing in their wake.
"Hey, Aldridge!" called an elderly man with a white beard, leaning out of his burger van. "Come work for me. I'll pay you five pounds an hour!"
The crowd chuckled, and Aldridge shot back without missing a beat: "Keep that job open for me. If I ever lose mine, I'll come to you first!"
The vendor shook his head theatrically. "No chance! I don't want your fanatics mobbing my stall!"
The onlookers burst into laughter, and even Aldridge himself doubled over briefly, enjoying the banter.
The crowd continued to swell — young men, women, even families with children. Little ones perched on their fathers' shoulders, beaming as they pointed at their idol. For them, this was a memory they would never forget: their local hero walking their streets, not as a distant celebrity but as a neighbour, sharing in something humble and human.
Journalists flooded in, snapping away with cameras, filming with bulky TV equipment. One television crew even set up live commentary from the roadside.
When reporters tried to approach, Aldridge waved them off. At one point, noticing a driver drop a cigarette butt from the window of an interview van, he strolled over, stooped with his picker, and plucked it from the ground. Without a word, he held it up and tossed it into the sack.
The watching crowd erupted with boos, not at Aldridge, but at the shamed driver, who immediately ducked back into his seat. The laughter that followed rolled down the street like a wave.
...
That noon, Aldridge's lunch came later than usual. The food itself was simple, but the atmosphere around him was anything but ordinary.
Outside Pepys Park, by the Thames, the early spring breeze carried a faint chill, but the mood was lively. Aldridge had gathered everyone present — friends, volunteers, and the small crowd that had followed them — and invited them to share coffee and burgers for lunch.
Leaning casually against the riverside fence, Aldridge chewed a beef cheeseburger with great satisfaction. "I like beef cheeseburgers the most," he declared with a grin, "even if one day they turn me into a big fat man."
The remark drew laughter. A pretty girl in the crowd, cheeks blushing, spoke up shyly: "Oh no, Aldridge. If you became fat, that would be the end. The poster on my bedroom wall would look more like a mascot picture."
Her words provoked another round of giggles, and several other girls nodded in playful agreement.
Aldridge chuckled, wiped his hands on a napkin, and patiently signed autographs. He posed for group photos, answering questions with the easy manner of a friend rather than a distant public figure.
The young people around him brimmed with curiosity. They wanted to know what Aldridge did in his free time — which music he listened to, what games he played, what films he watched, and even what books he kept on his shelves at home. A few brave ones tried to pry into gossip, asking about the progress of his relationship with Melanie.
Aldridge indulged most questions, dodging only the most personal ones. This wasn't like the rehearsed question-and-answer sessions with reporters. Here he was speaking with peers, sharing ideas, opinions, and jokes on equal terms.
When the talk turned to cinema, the majority sang the praises of GoldenEye, the new James Bond release from the previous year. Aldridge admitted he had little interest in the heroics of 007. Instead, he confessed that he had been captivated by Se7en, the grim thriller that had come out six months earlier. His answer drew surprised reactions, sparking a lively debate among the group about film, heroes, and darker storytelling.
Not far from the park, parents played with their children on the grass. A football rolled toward Aldridge's group, and when he bent to pick it up, a ripple of excitement spread through the crowd. Someone shouted for him to show some skills.
Smiling, Aldridge dropped the ball to the ground, flicked it up with his toes, and began juggling lightly between left and right feet. The crowd gasped. They knew him as a brilliant young coach, but few had ever seen him actually play.
Encouraged by their cheers, they demanded more. Aldridge obliged, attempting a more difficult trick: catching the ball on his right foot, then wrapping his leg around it before it landed. He mistimed the move.
Thud!
The ball struck Brady square in the face.
"My face!" Brady yelped, clutching his reddened nose. The crowd roared with laughter, Aldridge included.
Far from embarrassed, Aldridge picked up the ball and began playing casually with the children. The little ones squealed with delight, their silvery laughter carrying across the riverside. Parents watched fondly, proud to see their children sharing a few precious minutes with a man they knew from television.
When he noticed several children wearing Millwall shirts, Aldridge made sure to sign them personally. As he finished, he felt a tug on his jacket. Looking down, he saw two small girls with neatly tied braids — twin sisters of about six or seven, with bright, curious eyes.
"Aldridge, can I give you a kiss?" one asked sweetly.
The crowd erupted in laughter, parents and teenagers alike. Aldridge blinked, momentarily taken aback, then crouched down so he could meet their gaze. "Do you like Millwall?" he asked gently.
"We do! Our dad goes to the matches every week," said one proudly. "And Mum watches on TV with us at home."
"Dad says when we're older he'll take us to The Den. But he also says the stadium is too crowded now. Mum says Dad is crazy, and if he's too excited he might even lose us there!"
Their innocent chatter drew warm laughter from everyone nearby.
"So," Aldridge continued with a smile, "who's your favourite player in the team?"
The twins answered instantly, in perfect unison: "Ole Gunnar Solskjær!"
Aldridge spread his hands in mock despair. "But Ole is in Norway right now with the national team. You won't see him here today."
They clutched his clothes again, as if afraid he might slip away. One quickly added: "You asked about the team, but my sister and I like you the most! Then Ole."
This time it was Aldridge's turn to laugh with embarrassment. He closed his eyes theatrically and said, "All right then. One kiss on each cheek."
"Boo! Boo!"
The sisters planted kisses on his cheeks as cameras clicked. Reporters had captured the scene instantly. One of them raised his hand, suggesting, "Mr. Hall, how about a proper picture with them?"
In 1996, when most people did not carry personal cameras — and mobile phones were bulky bricks, far from having built-in cameras — it was the press who controlled such moments. Aldridge agreed, crouching between the twins as a photographer snapped a keepsake.
With time still remaining before the afternoon shift of cleaning, Aldridge leaned against the riverside walkway with his group of nearly thirty followers. Suddenly, music burst into the air.
Fred, always carrying his Walkman and a small portable speaker — a new gadget just appearing on the market — had pressed play. A familiar riff spilled out, and almost by instinct, the young people around him began singing.
The song was Michael Jackson's Black or White, a track that had swept the world only a few years earlier and still played constantly across radios in multicultural London. In East London, with its immigrant communities and diverse cultures, the song carried particular resonance.
Fred, himself the son of black immigrants, adored the track. He played it endlessly through his headphones, and now, through the tinny speaker, it became the soundtrack to Aldridge's unlikely lunchtime gathering.
As the melody played, the group's energy ignited once more. Voices rose together in harmony:
"I said if you're thinkin' of my baby, it don't matter if you're black or white! I said if you're thinkin' of bein' my brother, it don't matter if you're black or white!"
They sang the chorus again and again, leaping and dancing like a carnival procession. The music seemed to bind them together, a spontaneous celebration on the banks of the Thames.
Eventually, lungs gave out. Breathing heavily, the singing tapered off. The group laughed loudly, clapping hands and exchanging high fives as if they had completed some grand feat.
Checking his watch, Aldridge realised it was time to resume his afternoon shift. He turned to Nordman at the edge of the crowd and called out: "Sir, I'm ready to get back to work."
Nordman shook his head, still smiling. "No need. The neighbourhoods around here were already cleared this morning."
Aldridge chuckled, inhaled deeply, and replied, "Well then, it's time to get some proper exercise."
Without another word, he broke into a jog. Instantly, the crowd behind him followed, turning the simple community service into an impromptu fun run. Dozens of young Londoners trailed after him, their energy creating a unique spectacle through East London's streets.
That afternoon, wherever Aldridge went, he became the centre of attention. The sight of Millwall's manager leading a jogging pack through the city drew curious glances, waves, and cheers. For the press, it was a goldmine. Reporters scribbled notes furiously, photographers snapped away, and camera crews whispered to each other about how to headline the piece.
If anyone had asked Aldridge himself, he would have answered plainly: "Write about passing on positive energy."
By the time the sun dipped low and painted the Thames gold, Aldridge had logged eight full hours of volunteer duty. He reported the completion to Nordman, who nodded and made a record of it. The young people around Aldridge cheered loudly, treating the end of the shift as a small victory. Aldridge merely smiled. He did not crave the applause. For him, the fulfilment came from something simpler: the streets were cleaner, and for one day at least, he had brought joy to those around him.
Just as he was preparing to leave, a young woman stepped forward hesitantly. Her face carried worry.
"Mr. Hall, could I ask you for a favour?"
Sensing the private nature of her request, Aldridge gestured for her to step aside. Away from the crowd, he listened quietly.
Her voice trembled as she explained. Her eight-year-old son had fallen from his bicycle, suffering a fracture. Surgery was scheduled for the next day, but the boy was terrified. She hoped Aldridge could speak to him, because her son idolised him — Millwall's fearless young manager, who stood on the touchline like a general unbowed by any opponent.
Aldridge agreed without hesitation.
After waving goodbye to the others, Aldridge, Eva, Fred, and Brady followed the mother to her modest flat. It was a typical East London apartment: narrow staircase, worn carpets, but filled with warmth.
When Aldridge entered the small bedroom, the boy lying on the bed froze. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened in disbelief. "You… you… you're… Aldridge? Really?"
Aldridge nodded, smiling, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He noticed the boy's arm strapped tightly in gauze and sling, evidence of the recent accident.
The child burst into excited stammers, confessing his love for Millwall. The walls of his room told the same story: posters of the entire squad, clippings of heroes caught in action. Nedvěd mid-strike, Larsson celebrating a goal, Trezeguet rising for a header, Makélélé tackling fiercely. The Den's warriors stared proudly from the boy's collection.
"Hey," Aldridge said gently, "you've got an operation tomorrow, right?"
The boy nodded nervously, colour draining from his face.
Aldridge leaned forward, lowering his voice. He pointed to a faint scar near his own hairline. "Do you see this?"
The boy peered closely and nodded. "Yes. Is it a birthmark?"
"No," Aldridge answered. "When I was ten, I fell badly. I had to have surgery. I was terrified, crying before they took me in. But look at you — you haven't cried at all. That makes you braver than I was."
The boy fell silent, staring at him with wide eyes. Then, voice trembling, he blurted out: "But what if the anaesthetic doesn't work tomorrow? Won't it hurt?"
Aldridge's tone sharpened slightly. "Are you a man?"
"Of course!" the boy shot back.
"Do you love your mother?"
"More than anything!"
"Then listen carefully. Before my surgery, I saw my own mum crying from worry. That's when I told myself I couldn't let her see me afraid, because I had to grow up and give her strength. Being a man isn't about never getting hurt. It's about giving others courage when they need it most. If you really are a man, then you already know what you must do."
For a moment, the boy just stared, caught between fear and pride. Then, with sudden determination, he leapt from bed and ran into the living room.
"Mom!" he shouted, his voice clear and strong. "I'm not scared anymore! It's just a little surgery. I'll sleep and wake up fine. Don't worry. It's nothing!"
Aldridge heard the words, and the corners of his mouth lifted in quiet satisfaction.
Eva stood in the doorway, giving Aldridge a discreet thumbs-up. She whispered with a grin, "So, were you really that scared back then?"
Aldridge winked. "I fainted before it even began. When I woke up, it was over."
Eva laughed softly, shaking her head.
The mother's eyes glistened with gratitude. She insisted Aldridge and his friends stay for dinner. At first he declined politely, but her sincerity — and the boy's beaming smile — made it impossible to refuse.
So Aldridge, Eva, Fred, and Brady remained. They did not act like honoured guests. Instead, they helped set the table, chopped vegetables, and stirred pots. In that cramped kitchen, laughter and chatter flowed freely.
The dinner was simple, humble, far from luxurious. Yet the warmth of that small apartment made it feel more generous than any banquet.
It was, for Aldridge, one of the most enjoyable meals he had shared in a long time.