After the halftime break, Aston Villa's players came back onto the pitch in high spirits. For them, the equation was simple: hold firm for another forty-five minutes and the League Cup trophy would be theirs.
Millwall were preparing to restart the game. As his team gathered at the centre circle, Aldridge called over the already-warmed-up Materazzi.
"Boss, what are you going to do with me?" Materazzi asked loudly, puffing out his chest like a soldier awaiting orders. His tone carried the determination of someone ready to throw himself into the fight.
Aldridge turned to him, his expression calm but focused. He lowered his voice so the instructions would be for Materazzi alone.
"Did you notice how their defensive formation was set up during the first forty-five minutes?"
Materazzi hesitated for a moment, then gave his assessment. He had observed Aston Villa's structure, but Aldridge wanted him to see it more clearly. From the inside pocket of his suit, he pulled out a small notebook and quickly sketched a simple diagram.
It was Aston Villa's defensive system: three midfielders in a compact triangle, one sitting higher to press, two holding deeper in front of the back line. Behind them, a flat back four, with an extra centre-back playing a trailing, covering role whenever one of the defenders stepped forward. The whole block was tight, layered, and difficult to pull apart.
The strength of a defense is not measured only by numbers or aggressiveness. What really matters is the coherence of the system, the distances between players, and their discipline. Stars often cut through a back line or unlock it with one decisive pass, not purely because of their brilliance, but because the opposition's defensive organisation collapses — defenders rushing forward together, leaving gaps, or chasing the ball instead of holding their shape.
Villa, however, were not making those mistakes today. Their block was well-drilled, and in the pressure of a final their tactical discipline and concentration were at its peak. They did not dive recklessly into challenges. Instead, they slowed Millwall's rhythm, closing passing lanes, and compressing space. When they chose to press, one defender went to the ball while others held position, ready to intercept the next pass. The efficiency of their coordinated movement frustrated Millwall's attacks and limited their ability to combine in the final third.
As the second half began, Millwall stuck to their usual attacking patterns. They sought to stretch the pitch wide, looking to create overloads on the flanks before swinging balls into the box. Yet the early deliveries were comfortably dealt with — each time, it was Villa's tough centre-half Riccardo Scimeca who rose above everyone to head clear.
For the first five or six minutes of the half, Aldridge stood on the touchline beside Materazzi, pointing into the penalty area and explaining in detail how Villa's defenders covered space and shifted as a unit. Materazzi listened attentively, nodding frequently, committing every detail to memory.
When Aldridge was satisfied that the Italian had understood, his tone became solemn.
"Marco, here's your task when you go on. When we're defending, stay tight to their midfielders and wide players, hassle them, make them uncomfortable. If you can't win the ball, hold your ground in their half. And when we attack, I want you right at the front, wrestling with Scimeca. Stay on him. If a chance falls, shoot without hesitation. If he ignores you, even better — it means Henrik and David will have more freedom. Your presence must constantly occupy him. Do you understand?"
Materazzi was tall, dominant in the air, and, unusually for a centre-back, capable of striking the ball cleanly. Unlike many defenders, he did not look out of place if he found himself near goal. He nodded firmly, and Aldridge patted his back as a signal: it was time.
At the next stoppage, the fourth official raised the substitution board.
Neill's number went up in red. Materazzi's in green.
Neill jogged off to a warm reception from the Millwall fans, his performance acknowledged. Materazzi strode on, shoulders squared.
The reaction in the stands was immediate.
"What is Millwall doing? They're trailing, yet Aldridge has taken off Neill, who has been lively going forward, and put on a centre-back! This is baffling!" the commentator exclaimed in surprise.
Around the stadium, Millwall supporters exchanged puzzled looks and argued among themselves.
"Is he going to play three centre-backs?"
"Is Aldridge throwing in the towel?"
"Why would he weaken the attack when we need a goal?"
Even on Aston Villa's bench, manager Brian Little shook his head in disbelief. He had anticipated Aldridge would strengthen the midfield with Vieira or Ballack, or add firepower with Solskjær. Those would have been logical attacking moves. But a central defender? The decision completely overturned everyone's expectations.
After Materazzi entered the pitch, the match resumed at a furious pace. The Italian immediately charged into Aston Villa's penalty area, and at once Millwall's entire formation shifted.
Thuram dropped deeper, slotting in alongside Stam to form a solid central defensive pairing. Southgate pushed forward from the back line into midfield, partnering Makelele as a double pivot. Nedved advanced into the hole, operating as a central playmaker, while on either flank Pires and Schneider abandoned their wide starting positions and tucked inside, drifting closer to the centre. The shape now resembled three attacking midfielders aligned across the pitch, pressing up behind the forwards.
The most astonishing change, however, was up front. Instead of the expected strike pairing of Trezeguet and Larsson through the middle, Aldridge split them wide, placing one on each channel. At the very tip of the attack, leading the line like an out-and-out centre forward, stood Materazzi.
The commentator, trying to make sense of the transformation, faltered mid-sentence.
"What on earth is this?" he exclaimed in bewilderment.
The shape looked like a 2-2-3-3, highly unusual at this level.
Defensively, Villa tried to stick to their initial plan. When they launched a long pass out to the left, Dwight Yorke pulled wide to receive it. Schneider immediately sprinted back, tracking Yorke all the way, and managed to nick the ball away with a clean challenge. Without hesitation, he played it inside to Southgate, who quickly relayed the pass forward into Pires' feet.
Millwall's defensive shape morphed constantly. When they retreated, both Pires and Schneider dropped deep, working like tireless wing-backs in what looked more like a 3-5-2. When they transitioned forward, though, they abandoned the touchline entirely and narrowed into the half-spaces.
Makelele pushed up aggressively to Aston Villa's midfield, linking play neatly. With the Frenchman breaking lines, Nedved found himself under less pressure and began to dictate attacks with growing influence.
When Pires carried the ball forward, he did not hug the touchline or attempt a direct dribble into the box. Instead, he combined fluidly with Schneider, working quick one-twos around the top corner of the penalty area, or setting up either a driven shot or a clipped ball from forty-five degrees. Millwall crowded the central channels, compressing everything around the edge of Villa's box.
Aston Villa suddenly struggled. Their full-backs, Neil Cox and Steve Staunton, looked uncertain and hesitant. With no threat out wide to occupy them, they instinctively tucked inside, congesting the penalty area. But this only added confusion, as too many claret shirts piled centrally without clear assignments.
Millwall's attack became direct and relentless. Pires and Schneider threatened with long-range strikes, angled crosses, and incisive passing. Nedved surged into shooting positions or slipped runs through the defensive seams. Makelele arrived late to hammer efforts from the edge of the box. Each attack seemed to bounce back and forth: a shot blocked, the rebound recycled, another cross whipped in, another strike unleashed. The waves of pressure grew heavier and heavier, forcing Villa deeper and deeper.
The man suffering most was Scimeca. In the first half, he had enjoyed relative freedom. With Ehiogu and Wright tightly marking Larsson and Trezeguet, Scimeca acted as the spare defender, sweeping behind, timing interceptions, and calmly heading clear whenever danger threatened. He had thrived as the insurance man, free from the shackles of direct responsibility.
Now that luxury was gone. Materazzi planted himself right on top of him, leaning his tall frame into every duel, constantly jostling and tugging, refusing to give him a moment's peace. Like a stubborn piece of plaster stuck to his skin, Materazzi denied Scimeca the space to see or react. Instead of reading the play, Scimeca now had to fight for balance, distracted by the Italian's sheer presence.
Worse still, Scimeca did not hold an obvious physical advantage. Materazzi matched him in strength and often leaned harder. Twice already, high balls angled in from Schneider and Pires had nearly undone Villa. In one, Materazzi rose above Scimeca and glanced a header narrowly wide. In the other, both men misjudged the flight and the ball skimmed over their heads, sending Villa supporters into nervous gasps.
On the touchline, Aldridge observed intently. He had not introduced Materazzi to gain more possession. That was meaningless. Millwall already dominated midfield through Makelele's energy and Nedved's growing influence. They could have passed the ball endlessly, racking up record statistics in sterile control, but that only promised extra time and a penalty shootout.
What Millwall needed was penetration. They needed someone to tilt the balance inside the box, someone to challenge Villa's aerial comfort and unsettle their spare defender. Aldridge knew crosses from the byline were easy to defend when a compact back four could simply hold position. Instead, he emphasised angled deliveries from forty-five degrees, where defenders had to turn, adjust, and face play in awkward positions.
With Materazzi, Trezeguet, and Larsson all strong in the air, Millwall suddenly became a barrage of aerial threats. This was no longer about circulating the ball; it was about creating chaos.
Scimeca, who had acted as Villa's hidden shield, was now pinned. Materazzi's duel with him opened space for Larsson and Trezeguet to peel off Ehiogu and Wright. Each cross and cutback became a gamble.
Of course, Aldridge knew there was risk. By abandoning width and pulling Schneider and Pires inside, Millwall left themselves exposed to counterattacks on the flanks. If Villa broke quickly through Yorke or Savo Milošević into the wide channels, the danger could be severe. But in a final, no tactical adjustment comes without risk. What mattered was whether Brian Little would recognise the danger and dare to exploit it.
On the Villa bench, Brian Little finally rose and walked anxiously to the edge of his technical area. His brow furrowed. In the fifteen minutes since Materazzi's introduction, Millwall had unleashed more than ten attempts, with four forcing saves or flying narrowly wide.
Villa's midfield trio were being pounded by waves of long-range efforts from Schneider, Pires, Nedved, and even Makelele. Materazzi's presence drew Scimeca out of position, and with the spare man neutralised, Millwall's quick interchanges suddenly sliced through Villa's box. Nedved's late runs caused particular panic, arriving between centre-backs unmarked.
The heart of Villa's problem lay with their full-backs. Cox and Staunton, dutifully holding defensive positions, never ventured forward to relieve pressure. Instead, they tucked in alongside their centre-backs, clogging the box and compounding confusion. With no natural outlet wide, Villa's counterattacks stalled. Defensively, they were reduced to desperate blocks and scrambled clearances.
The entire defence seemed to cry out silently: Hold on, don't make a mistake, just survive.
Makelele collected the ball and slipped a clever diagonal pass into Schneider's inside-right channel. Facing up against Ćurčić, Schneider shaped as if to drive down the flank. Seeing the open space wide, Ćurčić immediately dropped back to cut off the byline, convinced the German would attempt to surge outside.
But Schneider, calm and composed, had no intention of running to the corner flag. With a deft touch and a subtle feint, he lifted the ball with the outside of his boot, floating it towards the crowded penalty area. The delivery arrowed into the most dangerous zone in front of goal.
Materazzi, stationed centrally, suddenly made a jagged run across Scimeca's line. The Italian leaned his big frame into the duel and lunged for the header before the defender could react.
Scimeca felt a chill run through him. He had his hands pressed against Materazzi's back, straining to shove him off balance, but his eyes flicked anxiously over his shoulder.
Bodies collided everywhere. Amid the chaos, a flash of blond hair rose above the mêlée.
Nedved!
The Czech midfielder soared brilliantly, timing his leap to perfection. Neil Cox scrambled across to challenge from the side, but he could not prevent Nedved from connecting.
Nedved angled his neck to glance the ball towards the far corner, but under pressure the header straightened slightly, flying more centrally.
Goalkeeper Michael Oakes reacted instinctively, thrusting his arms up. His positioning was awkward, his movement hurried. The ball ricocheted off his palms, dropping loose right in front of him.
As Oakes dived desperately to smother it, a boot darted through the tangle of legs. A quick toe-poke stabbed the ball forward. Oakes' eyes widened in horror as the ball wriggled past his arm and rolled behind him over the line.
Several players tumbled to the turf, but none of it mattered. The ball was in the net.
The referee blew his whistle sharply, pointed to the centre circle, and signalled that the goal stood.
On the touchline, Aldridge closed his eyes, clenched his right fist, and pumped it in a silent, restrained celebration. Behind him, his coaching staff erupted, sprinting onto the sideline as Millwall's players mobbed each other.
Larsson scrambled to his feet inside the box, ignoring the sight of Villa captain Ugo Ehiogu slumped on his knees in frustration. The Swede wheeled away, sprinting towards the corner flag in jubilation.
"Millwall have scored! Villa's defence collapsed into chaos, and in the scramble it was Larsson who stabbed the ball home! The referee confirmed it immediately. Equaliser! Henrik Larsson has pulled Millwall level at Wembley!" The commentator's voice rose with excitement as replays confirmed the moment. "He improvised on the ground, stretching a toe to flick the ball past Oakes. Call it unorthodox, call it scrappy, but Larsson is ruthless. Any chance to score, he'll take it!"
Larsson raced along the touchline with arms wide, his smile beaming. Teammates streamed after him, and on the sidelines a wall of cameras flashed as journalists and supporters immortalised the moment.
Watching his striker celebrate, Aldridge thought to himself: Run free, Henrik. Smile as wide as you can. This is your moment — Millwall's moment. I told you all before: you are superstars. Prove that my so-called madness was truth.
The celebration grew wild. Larsson was engulfed not only by his on-field teammates but by substitutes Ballack and Solskjær, who stormed from the bench to join in. The roars, the embraces, the pounding fists on shoulders — all carried the same message: belief. The goal had saved Millwall, and it gave them the conviction that they could go on and win it. As they jogged back for the restart, their spirits soared, their faces alight with a new confidence that made them seem untouchable.
Aldridge, pragmatic even amid the emotion, immediately called Makelele over. He instructed the Frenchman to sit deeper once more, restoring balance by pairing him with Southgate, who dropped back into central defence. The scoreline was level now, and Aldridge wanted to steady the shape without abandoning their threat.
Would this reduce attacking punch? Of course. But with Pires, Nedved, and Schneider against Villa's three-man midfield, Aldridge trusted his side to hold their own. The crucial factor remained in the box: as long as Materazzi continued to pin down Scimeca, Millwall's attack would remain dangerous.
Brian Little's reaction on the opposite bench was telling. His face hardened, his gestures urgent as he barked at his players to maintain discipline. His plan had worked perfectly for forty-five minutes, but now the situation had shifted dramatically. Where Aldridge adapted, Little hesitated. His 5-3-2 had looked like a fortress in the first half, but against Millwall's concentrated central bombardment, the structure betrayed cracks. With both full-backs retreating into the box, Villa's defensive lines crowded each other and stumbled into confusion.
Aldridge observed keenly, knowing that if he were in Little's shoes he would have pushed his full-backs higher, disrupting Millwall's midfield rhythm and providing counterattacking outlets. Risky, yes — but football demands courage. Little, however, clung to caution. His mindset was: survive and reach penalties.
For Millwall's supporters, the equaliser was a release. In the stands, Arthur and his old mates erupted with unrestrained joy. They leapt, hugged, and even kissed each other's heads in celebration. Old grievances and insults forgotten, they revelled in the shared ecstasy of the goal. Age had mellowed them; now all that mattered was the roar of the moment.
After the restart, Villa's aura of invincibility vanished. Scimeca, previously untouchable, looked rattled. Millwall surged forward again and again, their confidence renewed.
Aldridge glanced across to Brian Little, whose anxious face betrayed the shift in balance. The match has turned, Aldridge thought.
On paper, 0–0 or 1–1 were both draws, both results leading to extra time. But the emotional weight was entirely different.
The change was psychological. Millwall now played with fearless momentum, while Villa, having lost their lead, grew restless and unsettled. Their players sensed the danger of sitting back, yet struggled to abandon it.
That tension quickly manifested on the pitch. Receiving a pass from Staunton, Ćurčić looked up but saw no forward option. Yorke was blocked from view, and instead of launching long, he carried the ball. Schneider pounced, stealing possession. As Ćurčić turned to chase back, frustration etched on his face, he realised he had no time to complain — the counter was already in motion.
Villa's numbers were thinned. Space opened up. When Nedved carried the ball forward, Ian Taylor resorted to cynicism, cutting him down with a tactical foul. Gesturing furiously at Ćurčić, Taylor barked for him to stay disciplined, to stop charging ahead.
The free kick was in a dangerous position, central and just outside the box. Schneider stood over the ball, with Aston Villa's wall of three lined along the edge of the area.
Millwall's set-up was unusual. Every attacking player had crowded towards the far post. Stam, Nedved, Larsson, and Trezeguet all jostled with their markers, while Pires and Makelele hovered outside the area, ready to pounce on a rebound. The near side, directly in front of goal, was left strangely open.
The commentator's voice rose with curiosity."Huh? This is odd. Millwall's attackers are all drifting to the far side, as if they want Schneider to whip an inswinger across the face of goal. Look at Villa's defence — they're all being dragged with them. Yorke and Taylor are stuck watching Pires and Makelele at the edge of the box. And that leaves the middle completely free — it's a no man's land! Is this a trap? Are they preparing a disguised set piece for a long-range shot? Or is it just a decoy for the header?"
Oakes glanced nervously from side to side, caught between possibilities. He knew he had to watch the crowd at the far post, but every so often his eyes darted back to Schneider. The German's stare remained fixed to the left, further convincing the Villa keeper that the ball was headed that way.
The whistle went.
Boom!
The strike cracked off his boot, echoing around Wembley. Oakes, reading the cues and seeing Schneider's eyes still fixed to the left, edged half a step in that direction, anticipating a curling delivery to the far post.
But Schneider had deceived him. The ball cleared the wall and arrowed low towards the near post instead. The shot was not heavy on spin, nor did it find an extreme angle, but it came with speed and precision. That half-step to the right doomed Oakes. By the time he launched himself back across, the ball had already zipped inside the post.
He dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands. He had been sold by Schneider's disguise, fooled into giving away the winning edge.
"Goal! Schneider has done it! But what happened to Oakes? That free kick didn't look unstoppable — there wasn't much curl, the angle wasn't especially sharp — yet the goalkeeper was caught completely wrong-footed! Did Millwall's decoy at the far post drag him across? Or was it Schneider's eyes, staring left the whole time? We may never know until he explains it himself after the match. What we do know is Millwall have turned the final around! With just thirteen minutes left, they now lead Aston Villa 2–1!"
Schneider sprinted, leaping into the air with arms aloft, before charging straight towards the dugout. Aldridge and the entire Millwall bench surged to greet him. The manager embraced him tightly, lifting him off the ground as if to proclaim him to the crowd.
This was Schneider's night. The first goal had come from his vision. The second, from his boot. Even goalkeeper Keller raced across half the pitch to join the celebrations.
Wembley exploded. More than ten thousand Villa fans sat stunned, while the Millwall end became a rolling sea of blue, flags and scarves whipping as the roar rolled around the stadium.
Arthur was beside himself, screaming hoarsely: "We're ahead! We're fucking ahead! My boy is the best! He'll bring that trophy home to Millwall!" Around him, his mates tore off their shirts, waving them in wild abandon, dancing like youths again.
Yet Aldridge's mind was already back on the game. He grabbed Materazzi in a firm embrace. "Marco, drop to left-back. One job: destroy their attacks. But be smart, no rash fouls." Materazzi nodded grimly.
Turning to Nedved, Aldridge added: "Pavel, pull back for now. Once I bring on Patrick, you'll push forward again."
As play resumed, Aldridge handed in the substitution slip. Pires and Schneider came off to standing ovations, replaced by Vieira and Solskjær. The system reset into a disciplined 4-2-3-1.
Materazzi, though no natural full-back, was trusted to hold the left. Villa lacked a dangerous right winger, so Aldridge gambled. The priority now was control in midfield, with fresh legs to counterattack when Villa inevitably pushed forward.
Larsson and Solskjær patrolled the flanks, Trezeguet remained up top, and Millwall's arrows were poised.
Aldridge's intentions were clear: he would not allow the match to drift or give Villa any route back. Millwall now had the lead, and he was determined to lock it down and carry this final to its rightful conclusion — with the trophy in his hands.