You should be happy in your life.
After winning a championship, Aldridge saw no reason to act modest or restrained — to pretend humility now would only feel false.
What is a friend, really?
To Aldridge, friendship wasn't about business or ambition. True friends are those who share your joy when you're ecstatic and share your silence when you're broken — the ones who laugh with you in madness and sit beside you in sorrow. Those, to him, were real friends.
On the night Millwall lifted the League Cup, Aldridge went to Sandy's Bar. He drank with strangers, laughed with anyone who raised a glass, and danced with one young, beautiful girl after another. It wasn't lust that drove him, but the need to let go — to feel alive, to taste freedom after endless pressure.
By the time he staggered home, Eva and Fred had to half-carry him inside, the three of them laughing all the way like schoolboys who'd escaped the world.
The next morning, sunlight cut through the curtains. Aldridge dragged himself out of bed, his head pounding. As he came downstairs, he found Fred sprawled on the living room floor, fast asleep, curled up in his jacket like a blanket. Eva had claimed the sofa, still snoring softly.
Aldridge smiled faintly. He stepped over empty bottles and opened the bathroom door — there was Brady, lying in an empty bathtub, clutching a half-finished bottle of wine, out cold.
Shaking his head, Aldridge quietly washed up, showered, and made himself coffee. His friends were still dead to the world.
He stepped outside, fetched the morning paper from the front step, and went back inside. Slipping on his headphones, he turned on the television — the morning news murmuring in the background — and unfolded the newspaper on the coffee table.
As always, his eyes went straight to the sports pages.
Aldridge subscribed to nearly every major British paper — even the tabloids. He didn't trust them much, but he liked to see what everyone was saying. The Times, Daily Telegraph, Guardian, Independent — all four lay spread out before him. He was about to flip directly to the football sections when the front-page headlines caught his attention.
Across the covers, bold letters shouted the same theme:
"The Roar of the Mad Lions Shakes England!"
"England's Young Genius: Aldridge Hall Has Arrived!"
"The Dawn After One Hundred and Ten Years — Blindingly Bright!"
Aldridge sat on the sofa, coffee in hand, flipping idly through the newspapers — and soon found himself sighing.
Most of the pages were filled with praise. Every article glorified him and his team, lauding Millwall's victory as a miracle and Aldridge as the new prodigy of English football.
Some of the photos were excellent, admittedly — shots of him being tossed into the air by his players, or of Larsson sprinting down the touchline after scoring, framed perfectly in a burst of flashlights. Beautiful images, he thought. But still, it all felt hollow.
Rubbing his forehead, he muttered under his breath, half amused, half exasperated,
"Fleet Street… I kneel to you, brothers."
The season wasn't over yet. What his team needed now wasn't praise — it was a bucket of cold water.
Aldridge actually hoped to see a few sarcastic or critical pieces in print, something that could light a fire under his players. Being praised too highly, too soon, was dangerous. The higher you're lifted, the harder you fall.
But that was the nature of Fleet Street. When they love you, they'll put you among the stars; when they turn on you, they'll drag you through the mud. Their pen could make or destroy a reputation overnight.
Still, Aldridge knew one truth — the media machine was a double-edged sword. England's power to create football idols came from this very press. London was Europe's media heart, the continent's centre of opinion. And with the global reach of the English language, their influence far surpassed that of Italy, Spain, Germany, or France.
It was no wonder, then, that as the Premier League's commercial power grew, its ability to manufacture superstars — and export its brand worldwide — outpaced everyone else.
Across the room, Eva, who had been curled up on the sofa under a blanket, suddenly stirred. Half awake, she rubbed her eyes blearily — then spotted Aldridge at the coffee table. Her expression froze for a second before she bolted upright and sprinted toward the bathroom.
Seconds later came a startled scream — followed immediately by Brady's panicked yell from inside.
Aldridge burst out laughing. Eva must have caught sight of herself in the mirror — after a night of partying, her makeup had smudged completely, her once-elegant face now marked with faint streaks like a mischievous cat.
Half an hour later, the three of them had showered, changed, and thrown together a simple breakfast. They gathered around the coffee table, eating toast and sipping coffee while the television played in the background.
Aldridge set the newspaper aside, his attention caught by a football commentary show replaying highlights from the League Cup final. The guests were all well-known pundits and former coaches, dissecting Millwall's tactics in detail — their pressing patterns, substitutions, and transitions.
He watched intently. These programs were far more insightful than any news article. The final score — 3–1 — only told part of the story. What fascinated him were the patterns, the unseen details that only experts could catch. The mistakes unnoticed in real time, the clever moves that seemed accidental, the tactical subtleties that shaped the entire match.
Such analysis always benefited him. Even as a spectator, he could learn something new — a fresh angle, a new way to refine his own ideas. Coaching was about curiosity as much as command.
Fred and Brady, still hungover, sat half-slumped beside him. They looked miserable, their eyes dull and heavy. Eventually, both decided to head home to sleep it off. Eva had to go to university for classes, and Aldridge offered to drive her.
As they stepped outside, his phone rang. He answered quickly, spoke for a moment, then hung up.
Eva glanced at him. "Go if you've got something important. I'll take a taxi."
Aldridge smiled. "It's fine. I'll take you."
They got in the car. She leaned her head against the window, silent, clearly still tired.
When they arrived at the university gate, she suddenly turned and looked at him, her eyes unusually serious.
"Where is she?"
Aldridge blinked. "Who?"
"Your singer girlfriend."
"Oh. She's out of town promoting her album," he said. "Not in London."
Eva's gaze lingered on him. "Is that okay with you?"
"What do you mean?"
She turned away again, staring out the window. "I just thought… when you're happiest, she should be by your side."
Aldridge smiled faintly. "I don't think that's necessary. I prefer a bit of distance. She's a career woman, and I respect that. She supports my work; I support hers. If she stayed with me every day, I'd feel guilty — I barely have the time or energy to pamper anyone. I'm a dull man."
He said it with a light, self-deprecating tone.
That was the truth of a football manager's life — endless work, endless study. To succeed, one had to give up nearly everything else. Football evolved constantly; to stay ahead, you had to study every new trend, anticipate future tactics, and break down your opponents in exhausting detail.
It could be monotonous work, but Aldridge found satisfaction in it. Hours of analysis might lead to a single breakthrough — one weakness uncovered, one pattern spotted — and that discovery brought a quiet, rare kind of joy that no outsider could understand.
Eva turned back to him, her clear eyes studying his face for a long three seconds. Her gaze made him uneasy.
"What?" he asked. "You don't think I'm— gay, do you?"
Eva burst out laughing, shook her head, and pushed open the door. Bending slightly, she leaned down and smiled at him.
"Drive safe, alright?"
Aldridge waved as she left, then turned the car toward the club.
Before heading out, he received a call from Adam, Millwall's CEO.
"Aldridge, a business partner's here to see you," Adam said. "Puma's representative — Jochen Zeitz."
Nearly a year earlier, Aldridge had first met Zeitz. Their discussions had been brief, and when Puma finally agreed to sponsor Millwall's kit last summer, it had been a cautious move — a test run for their first Premier League season. The deal wasn't large: £750,000 a year.
Now, less than a year later, Zeitz had come to London personally — clearly eager to renew or expand the partnership.
Adam, ever the shrewd negotiator, had already let it slip after the New Year that both Millwall's shirt sponsorship and chest advertisement would expire in six months.
Millwall's impressive performances in the Premier League — and now their League Cup triumph — had made them hot property. Barclays Bank had already reached a verbal agreement to renew their sponsorship for another two years, doubling their annual fee to £1.5 million.
Puma couldn't afford to wait. Millwall's image was everywhere — highlights, broadcasts, magazine covers — and their kit sales had soared. For Puma, the blue lion crest had become a gold mine.
The surge in sales also came from Millwall's debut Premier League season — fans were buying shirts in droves, and even neutral supporters were beginning to take notice.
Sponsorship negotiations typically began six months before expiration, and Zeitz's early visit spoke volumes.
Adam could have handled the meeting alone, but Aldridge decided to attend personally — partly out of courtesy, and partly because, as he'd once told Zeitz, he valued partnership built on friendship.
When Aldridge arrived at the club, he went straight to his office and personally welcomed Jochen Zeitz inside. The Puma representative greeted him warmly, offering a firm handshake and a neatly wrapped gift box.
"Congratulations on winning the League Cup," Zeitz said with a broad smile. "Millwall were magnificent. Truly magnificent."
His tone and demeanour were completely different from the cautious, reserved businessman Aldridge had met a year earlier. Now, his words flowed like honey — full of admiration, praise, and enthusiasm. He even used the word "great" several times when describing Millwall's rise.
Aldridge and CEO Adam exchanged a knowing glance. They both understood perfectly — this was business flattery, nothing more. Still, they smiled politely and let Zeitz continue his charm offensive.
After a few pleasantries, they moved on to what truly mattered: the sponsorship renewal.
Zeitz presented his proposal first — a three- to five-year contract with an annual sponsorship fee of £1.25 million.
Aldridge didn't hesitate for a second. "No," he said simply, shaking his head. Then, leaning forward, he laid out his own plan — calm, clear, and confident.
One-year contract: £1.25 million per year.
Two-year contract: £1.5 million per year.
Three-year contract: £2 million per year.
Four or five-year contracts: £3.5 million per year.
Zeitz almost spilled his coffee. The proposal caught him completely off guard.
Aldridge smiled, unbothered by the man's expression, and began to explain the logic behind his structure.
"As long as we maintain our position in the Premier League," he said, "Millwall will qualify for European competition next season. Even if it's the UEFA Cup, that still means greater exposure, more broadcasts, and a stronger commercial platform. And frankly, I believe we'll be even stronger next year — competing for more trophies. So, if Puma wants long-term stability, you'll need to value that future accordingly."
Zeitz adjusted his tie, thinking carefully. "A long-term contract carries risk," he finally said. "How about this — let's sign a one-year deal for now, and then a two-year deal next summer once we see where the team stands."
Aldridge could see right through it. Zeitz's plan was transparent — lock Millwall into a lower £1.25 million rate for now, and if the club's stock rose next year, renew at £1.5 million, still far below true market value.
He chuckled softly. "Mr. Zeitz, we can agree to a one-year deal this time," Aldridge said, "but let me be clear — if Puma still wants to work with us next year, my minimum asking price will be £2 million per year."
Zeitz's smile faltered. He knew Aldridge had seen through the numbers game. A verbal promise meant nothing in business, and he could hardly argue.
The meeting ended cordially, but Zeitz left visibly unsettled, clutching Aldridge's proposal to take back to his board for review.
A month later, the response came. After internal discussions, Puma accepted a two-year renewal — to be signed in the summer — at an annual sponsorship fee of £1.5 million.
...
After lunch, Aldridge took a brief rest before heading to the hotel where the team was staying. Changing into swimming trunks, he went to the large indoor pool to clear his mind.
The vast, still water reflected the ceiling lights as he began his steady laps — stroke after stroke, a rhythm of controlled breathing and silence.
He didn't know how long he had been swimming when, through his goggles, he noticed someone standing at the edge of the pool. Squinting through the water, he recognized the figure — Nagy. From a distance, he couldn't read the man's expression clearly, but sensing the urgency in his posture, Aldridge called out, "Give me a minute — two more laps!"
He finished the two lengths, climbed out, and walked over, droplets falling from his shoulders. When he saw Nagy's face clearly, his relaxed expression vanished. The assistant's eyes were tight with worry.
"What's wrong?" Aldridge asked, drying his face with a towel.
"I have something important to discuss with you," Nagy said gravely.
"About a player?"
"No," Nagy replied, his tone firm. "About the team — about Millwall's future."
Aldridge's expression hardened immediately. Nagy wasn't the kind of man to exaggerate. If he looked this serious, it meant something was genuinely wrong.
After a quick shower and change, Aldridge followed him to the hotel's conference room — the one the coaches usually used for tactical meetings.
He sat down and gestured. "Go on."
Nagy didn't speak right away. Instead, he turned on the television, inserted a videotape into the VCR, and said simply, "Watch this first."
Aldridge leaned forward as the screen flickered to life. It was footage from the League Cup Final — Millwall versus Aston Villa. The clips were short, cut together from different angles, showing various attacking sequences. Larsson, Trezeguet, Pires, Schneider, Nedvěd — all appeared in the footage.
Every clip highlighted Millwall in possession, Aston Villa defending. One-on-one duels, moments in the box, attacking build-ups.
When the reel ended, Aldridge frowned slightly. "Alright… what are you trying to show me?"
Nagy rewound the tape and played it again. This time, he paused midway, freezing a frame where Larsson was driving at Aston Villa's full-back.
He pointed to the screen. "Look here. Henrik's in possession. How many options does he have?"
Aldridge focused on the still image. Larsson was facing Ian Taylor's defence, with space ahead of him. The nearest centre-back, Scimeca, hadn't yet closed in. There was room to break forward — not a guaranteed goal, but a clear chance to create one.
That was the type of situation Millwall's system was designed to exploit: quick, direct opportunities.
But when Nagy played the clip forward, Larsson chose to pass instead of drive on. The attack slowed, giving Aston Villa's defenders time to regroup.
Next came another freeze-frame — Trezeguet holding up the ball with his back to goal.
"What should he do here?" Nagy asked.
Aldridge studied the image carefully. Every nearby teammate was tightly marked. The supporting runners hadn't arrived. The only space available was behind Trezeguet — Ehiogu hadn't stepped in yet, leaving a small pocket to turn into.
"Turn and shoot," Aldridge said. "That's the best option."
Nagy nodded grimly and resumed the clip. Trezeguet did attempt to turn — but instead of taking a quick shot, he tried to dribble further and lost the ball.
"Exactly," Nagy said. "He made the right decision in theory — but didn't execute it. If he'd shifted the ball sideways and struck immediately, one touch and he'd have had a clean shot. There was space. It's right there."
He continued through more examples — different players, same pattern. Millwall's decision-making in the final third was sound, but the details — the fine margins — weren't at a world-class level.
When he finally switched off the television, the room fell quiet.
Aldridge folded his arms. "Alright, Nagy. You've got my attention."
Nagy, who hadn't even celebrated last night's triumph, looked utterly drained. He'd spent the night poring over match footage, analysing frame by frame, and hadn't slept a single hour.
He sat opposite Aldridge, his voice low but intense. "Aldridge, yesterday's win wasn't decided by the players' brilliance — it was decided by your tactics. Millwall's success this season in the Premier League isn't because we have the best players. It's because of three things: team cohesion, tactics, and physical strength."
Aldridge raised an eyebrow. "And isn't that proof of quality? They understand the system, follow instructions, and train hard. That's excellence in itself."
Nagy slammed his palm on the table, eyes burning. "No! That's the trap! Yes, it makes us strong — but it also limits us. These players are excellent products of your system, but they're not becoming world-class individuals. They're moulded by Millwall's tactics. They fit perfectly here, but take them out of this system, and they won't shine. When opponents eventually adapt to our style, when our physical edge fades, we'll hit a ceiling. To stay ahead, we need players who can think — who can read situations and make the best possible choice instantly, and then execute it flawlessly."
He leaned forward. "We have to cultivate not just teamwork, but intelligence and instinct."
Aldridge sat silent, processing every word.
Nagy went on, his tone turning almost sorrowful. "Tell me, has Larsson scored fewer goals than Shearer this season?"
"No," Aldridge replied automatically.
"Then think about how they score," Nagy countered. "Most of Larsson's goals come from the team — from combination play, from patterns. But Shearer? He creates goals from nowhere. He turns half-chances into finishes. He doesn't need the perfect system — he just needs the ball."
Aldridge frowned, half defensive. "But doesn't that make us stronger? We don't rely on individuals — we rely on the whole."
Nagy shook his head sharply. "You're missing the point. This isn't about choosing between individual brilliance and collective strength. Imagine this: if you had a Shearer — but one who could seamlessly fit into Millwall's team football — would he be stronger or weaker than Larsson?"
His voice rose, echoing through the empty room.
Aldridge usually disliked confrontation, but this time, he sat quietly, eyes thoughtful. Nagy's words struck deep.
If Millwall had a Shearer — a player with both the team's discipline and the killer instinct of an elite finisher — how unstoppable would they be?
It was a hypothetical question, but Aldridge's answer was instinctive.
Such a player would be stronger.
Because deep down, he knew Nagy was right — Shearer's threat was greater.
Aldridge lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled slowly. The smoke curled toward the ceiling as he muttered, "Alright, Nagy. Whatever you've found, calm down first. Then tell me everything. I'll listen. Just start from the beginning — what exactly is the core problem you've discovered?"
Nagy sighed deeply. He reached for a cigarette himself, his hands trembling slightly as he lit it. "It's about that Brazilian kid you brought in."
Aldridge frowned. "Ronaldinho? What about him?"
"He's too talented," Nagy said grimly. "I can't teach him."
Aldridge's brows furrowed. "What do you mean? He doesn't follow instructions?"
From a coach's perspective, a player who defied discipline was always troublesome — no matter how famous or gifted. But Ronaldinho was still just a boy; surely, he hadn't developed that kind of attitude yet.
Nagy quickly shook his head. "No, no. It's not his fault — it's ours. It's the youth coaches. We've been teaching him to play as part of the collective — to value the team above himself. And he's absorbed that perfectly. But that's not the issue. The problem is that when he starts to excel — when he does something special — we have no one who can guide him through that process. No one to tell him how to apply his brilliance in different contexts, how to make the right decision between creativity and teamwork. He can do extraordinary things, Aldridge. But we don't have a coach capable of nurturing that genius."
He leaned forward, eyes intent. "That doesn't contradict our tactical philosophy. It's not about letting players act selfishly — it's about refining their ability to use their gifts within the system. Passing will always matter, but we're neglecting the layers beneath it: technique, imagination, control."
Aldridge rubbed his temples, piecing together Nagy's meaning.
"Aldridge," Nagy went on, "every attacking player has only three options when they have the ball: shoot, pass, or dribble. Outside the shooting area, it's down to the last two. Our football emphasises the collective, so when there's a viable passing lane, our players almost always pass — which is fine. But when that space closes, when they can neither pass nor shoot — what then? Can they beat a man? Can they create something out of nothing?"
He jabbed a finger on the table. "In the league, we've been smooth and dominant because of our tactical sophistication. Our full-backs and midfielders rotate beautifully, creating temporary overloads. But when opponents start to adapt — when they match our pace and structure — do we still have players who can decide a game by themselves? Yesterday we won, yes, but did anyone truly dominate in a one-on-one? Larsson relies on pace. Nedvěd too. Only Pires and Schneider can beat defenders through dribbling, and even they do it sparingly."
Aldridge's face darkened. The words struck deep. Perhaps the cold water he'd wished for had just been poured over him.
He replayed the final in his mind. Nagy was right — when things were even, Millwall had no player who could change the game alone. It had taken his tactical shift, moving play through the centre, to force the breakthrough. That was a warning sign. Against top opposition, tactical superiority wouldn't always be enough.
He looked up. "You've been here months, Nagy. Why are you only realising this now?"
Nagy gave a bitter smile. "When I took over the youth team, the players were already moulded that way — disciplined, obedient, system-driven. Then Ronaldinho arrived. His talent shocked me. It made me realise how constrained our environment is. I used to coach the national team — you know how that is. We manage form; we don't build players from scratch. But when I reviewed our training sessions and compared them to the first team's footage, I found something that worried me."
Aldridge nodded silently. He knew exactly what Nagy meant. National team coaches fine-tune; club coaches forge.
Nagy continued, "Take Grønkjær as an example. Over the past year, his stamina has improved, his understanding of space has matured, his passing has become precise. But his technical ability — his ball control, his flair — hasn't advanced at all. A year ago, his only trick was a simple inside-foot acceleration. A year later, that's still all he can do. Thankfully, he's young. But if he were twenty-four or twenty-five, he'd already be plateauing — a squad player at best."
He paused, then added, "Technique isn't innate, Aldridge. It's developed. Pirlo wasn't born with those passes — he honed them, long and short, over years of focused work. But in our training plans, there's no specific technical curriculum. Most clubs skip it too — they treat advanced skill as a luxury of naturally gifted players. But it's not a luxury. It's fundamental to control, to creativity, to everything that separates the good from the great."
Nagy wasn't talking about flashy dribbling or circus tricks. By "superior technique," he meant the subtleties — the touch, the feeling for the ball, the balance and precision that let a player manipulate tight spaces, disguise passes, deceive opponents.
Players with great technique don't just beat defenders — they bend the game around them. They make the ball dance in ways others can't predict. But few coaches dared to spend time developing that. It took too long, carried too much uncertainty, and didn't fit neatly into regimented systems.
Traditionally, exceptional technique was seen as a gift — an accident of talent or physique. The short, wiry geniuses like Maradona or Garrincha were treated as exceptions of nature, not results of cultivation. But Nagy's point was different. He wasn't chasing dribblers for their own sake — he was talking about giving each player the tools to express their individual strengths, to break patterns when systems failed.
He gave an example: "Look at Overmars. He doesn't just sprint and cross. His run to the byline reshapes the whole back line, disrupts defensive rhythm. That's his signature, his personal weapon. Every player should have something like that — a trait that belongs only to them."
Aldridge sat quietly, reflecting. When he'd first taken charge of Millwall, his entire focus had been on constructing a team. The club had been in ruins, the youth system barren. His priority was unity — teaching structure, organisation, selflessness. That discipline had built Millwall's foundation and carried them to glory.
But now he saw it clearly. In prioritising the collective, he'd overlooked the individual.
He thought bitterly, I've been satisfied when players executed the system. When their passes hit the mark, when their runs fit the pattern — I thought that was enough.
It wasn't.
It was nowhere near enough.
No tactical system could dominate forever. Football was a cycle of evolution — every innovation birthed its own counter. The cat would always chase the mouse until the roles reversed. Once the opposition decoded Millwall's structure, their advantage would evaporate.
Tactics could elevate a team — but only players could transcend them.
Aldridge clenched his jaw. He had discussed this very idea with Ferguson before: tactics are tools, but the tools only work when the craftsmen are right. He had ignored that truth in pursuit of control.
Tactics weren't mysterious. Countless managers tried to copy the methods of the greats — but without the right players, the imitation always failed.
Many had tried to replicate Milan's dominance — but who else had Maldini, Nesta, Costacurta, Pirlo, or Shevchenko?Many would later try to copy Barcelona — but who else had Xavi, Iniesta, Messi, or Puyol?
No, a great team wasn't born from tactics alone. It was born from the perfect harmony between system and individuality.
And Aldridge realised, with a cold clarity — he had leaned too far toward the system, and neglected the soul of the team.
Aldridge's silence said everything. He was blaming himself, and the guilt showed plainly on his face.
Nagy noticed it and spoke gently. "Aldridge, don't do that. Millwall have performed brilliantly this season. When things are going so well, it's almost impossible to see the flaws. You can't blame yourself for not noticing. None of us are perfect, are we?"
Aldridge composed himself, exhaling slowly. After a long pause, he murmured, "I think this mistake goes back six years."
"Six years ago?" Nagy repeated, puzzled.
Aldridge nodded. "Have you ever heard of Wiel Coerver?"
Nagy shook his head.
Aldridge leaned back, his tone thoughtful. "Six years ago, when I was studying in the Netherlands, the KNVB's entire youth training philosophy revolved around the ideas of Rinus Michels and Johan Cruyff — total football, tactical cohesion, collective intelligence. I admired it deeply. To me, football was evolving toward universality — attack and defence as one unit. That vision suited me perfectly."
He paused, as though recalling old memories. "But in Holland, there was also a smaller, almost forgotten school of thought — one that I only discovered by chance through a few colleagues' conversations. It was founded by a man named Wiel Coerver."
Nagy frowned. "I've never heard of him. Was he important?"
"Yes," Aldridge said with conviction. "But not accepted by the mainstream. In the Netherlands, Michels and Cruyff defined the orthodoxy — the 'tactical flow' that prioritised structure and simplicity. They believed that if players moved and passed intelligently, football would be efficient and beautiful. And I agreed. The modern game was clearly heading that way: faster transitions, sharper combinations, minimal time on the ball. Too much individual dribbling or dwelling in possession would only slow the team down."
He gave a faint, ironic smile. "But Coerver thought differently. He developed what he called the Coerver Method, or CM — a structured, skill-based training system. His philosophy was that by mastering individual ball control, players could dominate opponents and dictate the rhythm of play. His approach was radical for the time — focusing entirely on technique instead of tactics. He wanted to prove that genius could be taught, not just born."
Nagy stared at him, stunned. "Genius can be trained… genius can be trained…" he repeated under his breath, as if testing the words. It sounded almost heretical.
He leaned back, thinking. "It sounds impossible. How many footballers have there been in a century? Millions, perhaps hundreds of millions. But how many geniuses — real geniuses — can we name? A handful: Maradona, Beckenbauer, Cruyff, Pelé. The ratio is microscopic. If genius could be trained, then shouldn't the world be full of Maradonas?"
Aldridge nodded, acknowledging the paradox. "I remember one thing Coerver said that made me reject his entire theory back then. He argued that Michels' and Cruyff's success was due to the coincidence of generational talent — players like Cruyff himself or Van Basten. His point was that if you have such geniuses, tactics don't matter — they'll win under any system. At the time, I thought that was absurd. Brazil, after all, had no shortage of talent, yet how often did we see eleven geniuses collapse because they lacked cohesion?"
He sighed deeply. "That reasoning made me dismiss Coerver's philosophy. I saw it as naïve — as if skill alone could replace organisation. But now, looking back, I realise I made the same mistake as the Dutch FA. I treated the 'tactical flow' and the 'technical flow' as opposites — as if one must destroy the other. In truth, they're not enemies. They're complements."
Nagy nodded slowly, thinking. "I don't think it needs to be black and white," he said. "Tactics and technique can coexist — but one must lead, and the other support."
Aldridge's eyes brightened. "Exactly. The tactical flow is the soul; the technical flow is the body. You need both. The greatest teams in history all shared that balance — their tactical frameworks were modern, but within them, individual brilliance thrived. Think of the 1970 Brazil team, the late-1980s Milan, the early-1990s Ajax. Tactics gave them order; technique gave them artistry."
He smiled bitterly. "And I — I became a little too proud of our system. Too focused on control."
Nagy frowned. "But how did no one around you notice this? You have good coaches."
Aldridge chuckled softly. "They're all from Ajax's school, like Jenson. They grew up on Michels' tactical philosophy — the idea that intelligence and structure outweigh individual artistry. In Dutch coaching, technique is often treated as something you either have or don't. They focus their time on positional play, pressing triggers, passing triangles — not on teaching someone how to dribble or feint. I can't blame them. It's their football culture. And I never questioned it until now."
Nagy exhaled, then asked quietly, "So, how do we fix this?"
Aldridge leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Football academies often fall into extremes. They either worship system or worship flair. Both are wrong. In theory, the Coerver Method can polish players' skills, but it won't create geniuses out of nothing. Maybe out of a hundred thousand kids practising technique, ten will emerge with true genius — and only a few of those will adapt tactically to professional football."
He continued, his voice steady. "What we need is balance. Our training must still be rooted in tactics — our identity depends on it — but within that, we need specialised technical development. Not endless flair training, but focused skill refinement. Teach players to perfect their strengths and shape them into tools the team can use. Each player should have something unique — a trait that expands our tactical options, not restricts them. That's how we keep evolving."
Nagy nodded. "That makes sense. But where do we find coaches capable of doing that?"
Aldridge's gaze sharpened. "I can think of two."
"Who?"
Aldridge smiled faintly. "You won't know them yet — but I want you to find them."
His fingers tapped the tabletop in a steady rhythm. In his mind, two names appeared.
One was René Meulensteen — the man who, years later, would transform a raw Cristiano Ronaldo into the complete player who conquered Europe.
The other was Ricardo Moniz, a Dutch coach who had retired from playing only three years ago.
The former had not yet been recruited by Manchester United, but Aldridge remembered his name from Dutch coaching circles — a young instructor who studied Coerver's principles in depth and specialised in the systematic development of technique.
The latter, still active in the Netherlands, was known among youth coaches for his work in technical skills training and his belief that fine control could be taught through repetition and discipline rather than pure instinct. In the years to come, Moniz's influence would shape a generation of technically gifted players.
Both men were admirers of Coerver's ideas. Meulensteen had delved deeply into the Coerver Method, refining its principles through his own analytical mind. Moniz had learned directly under Coerver's guidance, turning theory into a living practice.
Aldridge finally understood what that philosophy truly meant. Coerver had once been dismissed as an idealist — but perhaps he was simply ahead of his time.
The most important thing, Aldridge realised, was not merely to find coaches who could train players — but to find teachers who could train other coaches as well. Millwall needed a generation of minds who could unite both sides of the game: the system and the soul, tactics and technique, breathing together in harmony.
He stubbed out his cigarette, watching the faint smoke curl upward.
For Aldridge, it was no longer about repairing a flaw — it was about rewriting Millwall's football DNA.