In the second half of 1986, the three sons of the Hall family quietly began walking down their own paths.
Barnett left East London and enrolled in finance courses at a technical college in West London. He had made up his mind to enter the financial market within a year. It was a bold move—one that neither Arthur nor Amelia had expected—but they supported him. Barnett had never shown interest in books before. Now, he was travelling across the city, carrying textbooks and speaking about concepts no one in the household could explain.
Andrew, meanwhile, had grown curious about Aldridge's behavior.
Day after day, he saw his youngest brother buried in notebooks, surrounded by football match tapes, rewinding and fast-forwarding the same scenes over and over. One night, unable to hold back, he asked what Aldridge was doing.
"I want to be a coach," Aldridge answered.
Andrew had no reason to doubt it. But the idea sparked something in him too. He said he might want to go in the same direction—maybe become a coach as well.
But Aldridge shook his head and offered a different suggestion.
"Become a player agent."
It wasn't a dismissive comment. Aldridge had thought this through.
'Football's landscape is going to change. All these kids playing right now—ten, twelve, fourteen years old—some of them will become global icons in the next ten or fifteen years. The right agent won't just get rich. He'll control access, shape careers, move clubs and countries. If you get in early, everything changes.'
He didn't say all that to Andrew. But he hinted at it, painted a future that sounded tempting enough.
Andrew bought in.
He started reading about contract law and began paying attention to things like endorsement deals, transfer disputes, club policy. He didn't even mind the idea of studying to become a solicitor—if that's what it took to eventually become a professional agent.
Sometimes, he'd lie awake at night, smiling at the ceiling, imagining future scenarios—negotiating with famous club directors, representing players he used to idolize. Even just thinking about standing next to a superstar at a press conference was enough to excite him.
Aldridge, meanwhile, never let go of his primary focus.
Every day, he studied football tactics.
Despite England's rough and direct style during that period, he had no illusions about the country's contribution to the global game. For all its outdated rigidity, England remained the birthplace of modern football. From the tactical revolutions of Herbert Chapman's WM system at Arsenal decades earlier, to the club-level innovations scattered across the First Division, England still had roots worth understanding.
The more Aldridge studied matches from a coach's perspective, the more he realized how flawed his past perspective as a fan had been.
Watching games on TV had always felt exciting—but limited. The camera followed the ball, not the structure. What a fan saw was only a slice of the match. And often, the best moments—the goals, the last-ditch tackles, the dribbles—couldn't explain the larger patterns behind them.
At Sander's video store, it was different.
There, he could rewind and study a single sequence ten times in a row. He could spend a whole week on one match. He began to develop his own shorthand in a notebook: tracking player positioning, visualizing defensive shapes, identifying triggers for pressing, noting build-up choices and individual decision-making under pressure.
He started asking different questions: Why did this player receive here instead of there? Why did the line shift? What was the fullback reading before stepping forward?
As the weeks went by, his way of seeing matches shifted completely. His understanding of space, timing, transitions, and pressing structures reached a different level.
In Aldridge's eyes now, there was no such thing as a goal conceded by accident. No such thing as a goal scored purely by luck. Every situation came from some cause—some trigger, some failure, some intention.
'I'm not a coach yet,' he thought, 'but I'm no longer just a spectator either. I'm standing at the gate.'
His part-time job at the video store remained quiet and uneventful. With Aldridge now visible behind the counter every night, none of the usual local thugs bothered the shop anymore. His presence gave Sander just enough peace of mind to stop worrying.
And Sander, in turn, took notice of Aldridge's obsession. Whenever he restocked the store or received shipments from contacts, he began looking out for game tapes specifically—especially from other European leagues.
It wasn't just the English game that Aldridge needed to understand. Football, by the end of the century, would belong to those who studied the whole world.
...
Winter passed into spring, and with it came 1987. Aldridge continued to live quietly, steadily, sticking to the routine he had built over the past year.
His elder brother Barnett was trying to establish himself in the fiercely competitive world of finance. After months of training, he was now moving among junior contacts at the London Stock Exchange, attempting to find a foothold in what could only be described as a cannibalistic environment. Barnett was eager to begin investing, anxious to grow his capital before the year was out.
Aldridge, for his part, didn't have much personal experience with financial markets, but he had always been a strong student. What he did remember vividly from his old life was a date printed in red in every economics textbook: October 1987 — Black Monday.
That global stock market crash was no footnote. It was a turning point.
'This is the kind of opportunity no working-class family ever sees coming. But we will.'
On weekdays, Aldridge continued to go to The Den—Millwall's Lion's Den stadium—to watch matches. He did it mostly out of habit, sometimes out of curiosity, but rarely with any satisfaction. More often than not, he left disappointed, his mood low.
It wasn't just the quality of football. What drained him the most was the culture surrounding the club—the fan base, and the behavior that came with it.
Whenever Millwall played West Ham United, the atmosphere shifted long before kickoff. Within thirty minutes of the fixture being announced, local hooligan groups were already stirring. For them, the result of the match didn't matter. The real fight was outside the stadium: in the streets, in the pubs, behind the police barricades. The violence started before the opening whistle and rarely ended after the final one.
The Heysel disaster had made headlines worldwide in the mid-1980s, but it had only been one high-profile eruption of a problem that was far more widespread. English football hooliganism wasn't a phase—it was a cultural sickness. One that the government and media were eager to suppress and reframe, but that still thrived in the terraces. Millwall and West Ham were two of its most entrenched breeding grounds.
Aldridge tried to stay focused on the pitch, but it was difficult. English football, in many ways, seemed to be regressing. After the Heysel tragedy, English clubs had been banned from European competition, and that isolation was beginning to show. The domestic game was slowly falling out of step with the rest of Europe. In the second division especially, the football was basic. Long balls, direct play, relentless physicality. Tactical discipline and technique were an afterthought.
To the eye of someone who had studied elite football in depth—even if only through tapes—the game often felt crude and aimless.
Still, Millwall were making steady progress. They had earned promotion from the Third Division the previous season, survived comfortably in the Second Division this year, and were building some momentum. Aldridge did notice one bright spot: a rising young forward named Teddy Sheringham, who had gone out on loan but was expected to return next season.
In fairness, the club wasn't stagnating. They weren't another Wimbledon, climbing three divisions in a flash, but they were improving. Even so, Aldridge rarely felt inspired when watching them play.
He knew why.
'After watching so much high-level football, this feels mechanical. Blunt. It's not just the tactics—it's the environment. I can't even watch ten minutes without someone in the stands shouting abuse at the referee, the players, or the other fans.'
In the stadium, there was barely a moment of peace. The match itself seemed like a sideshow to the hostility in the terraces. Aldridge often found himself counting down the minutes until full-time.
The 1986–87 Second Division season eventually came to an end. Millwall's results were slightly better than the previous year, but they hadn't mounted a serious push for promotion. With Sheringham expected to return next season, the team would likely continue improving—but for now, they remained outside the top flight.
For Aldridge, the year hadn't been wasted.
He had absorbed a great deal. Beyond watching tapes and studying alone, he had read every book on football theory, history, and systems that he could get his hands on. But somewhere along the line, he had begun to feel the limits of self-study. It wasn't enough.
He needed structure.
He needed to learn how coaches were trained. What qualified them. What steps were required. And whether someone like him—a child in the eyes of everyone around him—could begin walking that path now, instead of waiting another decade.
It wasn't until the final months of 1987 that Aldridge began seriously preparing to turn that thought into action.
...
The day after Black Monday in October 1987, Barnett returned home late into the night, trembling with excitement. He stepped into the house, still flushed, and made one short announcement to the family:
"Fortune."
The crash had come like a tidal wave. The post-war decades of uninterrupted Western economic growth had finally hit their ceiling. Markets across Europe and North America fell into recession. But Barnett—armed with borrowed capital and leveraged positions—had made his move early. Despite starting with modest funds, he had managed to earn hundreds of thousands of pounds in a matter of days.
At Aldridge's urging, Barnett immediately reinvested the gains—buying up undervalued stocks Aldridge believed would explode in the near future. With the family's financial future secured, Aldridge did what he had been quietly planning for over a year.
He paused everything else and entered the formal training path to become a professional football coach.
Each year, he used his knowledge of past results to continue making money—betting strategically, never carelessly. 1988. 1990. 1991. 1992. Each year, carefully measured, each step compounding his resources.
Eight years had passed since Aldridge first arrived in the summer of 1986 and became the youngest son of the Hall family.
On May 20, 1994, Aldridge flew back to London from Zurich.
He had just completed a coaching seminar organized by FIFA—a teaching-intensive course designed to groom future instructors of the game. As he sat in the taxi heading east, he watched the London streets slide past the window, his own reflection flickering on the glass.
His youthful face—clean, composed, sharper than ever—looked distant. For a moment, he barely recognized himself.
In recent years, he had traveled across Europe, seeking experience. Studying playing styles, observing coaching methods, attending seminars and workshops. The journeys had given him a broad understanding of tactical frameworks—and more importantly, a direct sense of how football differed in culture and rhythm from country to country.
When the taxi pulled up outside the Hall family home on the eastern edge of London, Aldridge stepped out and paid the fare, adding a tip. With the help of the driver, he hauled two large suitcases from the boot—one full of clothes, the other packed tightly with books, folders, and match analysis notes.
He paused in front of the house.
The villa was expansive—more like a countryside manor than a suburban home. Wide grounds. Impeccably trimmed hedges. Two-tiered drive. Luxury cars lined both sides of the path. In the center, a fountain gurgled softly.
'It wasn't like this when I first arrived,' he thought.
The Hall family's rise in wealth had been meteoric. When the European economy faltered, Aldridge had urged Barnett to shift his focus to fast-growing Asian markets. It was a move few London investors understood at the time. But it paid off. In the years before the 1997 Asian financial crisis, those markets were booming—and Barnett rode the wave to full advantage.
By now, it was conservatively estimated that Barnett's net worth exceeded £200 million. He had become a familiar name not only in London finance circles but in transatlantic investment networks, building quiet but stable partnerships with North American business families.
The villa's front door was open.
Aldridge walked in with both suitcases, his shoes brushing over smooth marble. He passed the parked vehicles without a glance, rounded the fountain, and reached the doorway. Just as he set the bags down and lifted a hand to knock, the silence was broken.
Boom.
A firecracker burst above him—loud, colorful. Strips of metallic confetti rained from the ceiling and landed in his blonde hair.
"Son, happy birthday!"
It was Amelia. She stepped forward, smiling radiantly, and hugged Aldridge before planting a kiss on his forehead.
He smiled. Inside, the first floor was full of people.
Amelia stood in a stylish dress at the front of the crowd. Arthur, looking healthier than ever and smoking a cigar, gave his youngest son a nod from across the room.
Aldridge stepped forward and embraced his father lightly.
"Your stomach's getting out of control," he said with a grin.
Arthur chuckled wordlessly, puffing on the cigar.
Standing just to the side were Barnett and his wife Leah. They looked every bit the elegant power couple. Barnett leaned in for a tight hug and whispered in Aldridge's ear:
"Your birthday present's in your study. I think you'll like it."
Everyone knew Barnett spoiled his younger brothers whenever he could.
Aldridge smiled and moved on, catching eyes with Andrew—now in his early twenties as well. The two didn't hug. Aldridge simply took the glass of wine out of his brother's hand, and the two clinked glasses with a laugh. Nothing needed to be said.
The house was full. Neighbors, old classmates, family friends, business associates. Aldridge recognized only a few. He'd been away most of the year, and his appearances were rare. Those who didn't know him were curious: the mysterious youngest Hall, who had chosen to study football coaching abroad instead of entering finance or law like his brothers.
The party had been timed to coincide with his birthday.
He didn't mind. The Hall family was respected now, and appearances mattered. Letting people see that the youngest son had returned—well-spoken, polished, carrying himself with poise—only added to the family's growing reputation.
Throughout the night, Aldridge remained calm and courteous. He spoke only when approached, smiled appropriately, and never let the conversations drag. He said what was needed, then moved on. His manner was mature, effortless, and clean.
It was well past midnight when Aldridge finally made his way upstairs to his room.
He unpacked quietly. One suitcase full of clothing. The other, heavier, was stacked with printed materials, course binders, and coaching manuals. His first thought was to bring them straight to the study and organize them properly.
But as he entered the study, he noticed something sitting on the desk—a black folder.
He opened it casually, expecting notes or documents.
Then stopped.
His eyes scanned the contents. A thick stack of papers. Legal language. Signatures. Details of a transaction.
A contract.
His name appeared on the first line.
On the second line, the name of the entity:
Millwall Football Club.
He stared at the page for several seconds.
Then slowly set the folder down.