Among the three sons of the Hall family, Barnett was the most admired in the eyes of outsiders. He had built a fortune worth hundreds of millions through his business ventures. The second son, Andrew, had a respectable career as a lawyer, earning steady praise from those around him. But three years ago, Andrew had shifted focus and quietly launched a sports agency. So far, the company had only seen expenses, with no visible returns. Many saw it as little more than a vanity project.
As for the youngest son, Aldridge—he was an enigma. Always abroad, rarely seen, and seemingly without any academic accolades or business milestones, most in the family's circle overlooked him entirely.
But inside the study at the Hall family estate, Aldridge and Andrew sat side by side, calmly mapping out the future of Millwall Football Club. The same Aldridge that many considered aimless had, in fact, been quietly working behind the scenes for years. Andrew had poured £100,000 into setting up the agency, and despite the lack of profit, he never lost patience. He believed—fiercely—in his younger brother's vision. To him, Aldridge was more than a brother; he was a genius.
Sometimes, Europeans indulge in superstition—lucky colors, rituals, habits. For the Hall family, Aldridge had long been seen as a charm. When the three brothers were children, they'd earned over £10,000 in a single summer at age ten, all under Aldridge's lead. Since then, they jokingly referred to him as the family's lucky star—but beneath the jokes was genuine belief.
It was now 1994. The Bosman ruling had yet to reshape European football. Contracts still tied players tightly to clubs, even after expiration. Players held little power, wages were modest, and free transfers were a fantasy. In such an environment, agents played a minor role—unless a player became a cultural icon like George Best.
But Aldridge knew what was coming.
He understood that once the Bosman ruling passed at the end of next year, everything would change. Players would chase better contracts, mobility would increase, and agents would become indispensable. That's why, even now—before the revolution began—he urged Andrew to prepare.
Over the past few years, Andrew had done just that. His small firm had built a global scouting and contact network. He had no clients yet, but his staff had traveled across Europe, South America, and Africa, creating relationships with youth coaches, clubs, and communities. It was groundwork—painstaking and slow—but Aldridge knew it would pay off.
The two brothers worked in tandem. Whenever Andrew came across a youth player's profile—no matter how obscure—he would send Aldridge the full file: stats, photos, background. If Aldridge saw potential, Andrew would reach out personally. And in cases where the player's family was struggling, Andrew would even offer small financial support—£20 a month in some cases. It wasn't charity. It was early investment. Aldridge believed that signing even one future star could repay the effort a thousand times over.
Now, with Millwall's first team about to be cleared out, they needed fresh players—young, hungry, and willing to listen. Naturally, Andrew brought up one of the most promising prospects on his radar.
"Remember that kid up north in Brazil?" Andrew asked, leaning back in the armchair. "He's still hesitating. Might sign with Corinthians, but says he's got other offers coming in. He asked what I think last month—I didn't commit. If you want him, I can get in touch."
Aldridge paused, then shook his head.
"No, not for now. We can't bring him over without a work permit," he replied. "And even if we could, he hasn't signed with you yet. Once he does, though, let him know we're serious. Promise him that we'll help him move to Europe and earn proper money. But he needs to be patient."
The player Andrew had mentioned wasn't a known name in Europe. In fact, almost no one outside Brazil had heard of him. But Aldridge knew exactly who he was: a future World Cup winner, Ballon d'Or recipient, and global icon—Rivaldo.
Back in 1994, Rivaldo was still an unknown talent playing in difficult conditions. After the death of his father, his mother struggled to support the family. Andrew had been quietly supporting him for a while, sending £20 a month—enough to ease the burden in Brazil. It was a gesture that meant a lot to both parties, and it showed the foresight Aldridge had drilled into his brother.
"Once he qualifies for a work permit, maybe we can bring him to Millwall," Andrew said hopefully.
Aldridge raised a hand immediately. "No. Don't even think about it. If he can go to a big club, let him. That'll be your stepping stone. Your reputation. If people find out that you've got future stars and just hand them to your brother's second-division club, they'll never trust you."
Andrew scratched the back of his neck, understanding the point. "Fair enough," he said. "So, what's in the Netherlands?"
Aldridge cracked a slight grin. "I'm building a coaching staff."
...
Amsterdam, The Netherlands.
Aldridge arrived at the world-famous Amsterdam Arena in casual clothes. Tucked away within the same grounds stood De Toekomst—Ajax's renowned youth academy. In 1994, before La Masia had risen to global prominence and before the Bosman ruling changed European football forever, Ajax's academy was unrivaled. Its name in Dutch—De Toekomst—meant The Future, and at the time, that name still carried the full weight of prophecy.
Of course, in just a few years, Bosman would turn that future on its head.
On the sprawling training grounds of De Toekomst, dozens of players from various age groups moved in sync under the guidance of their coaches. You could spot scouts from clubs across Europe observing quietly at the sidelines, and parents clung to the fences, watching their children dream on the pitch. The air was filled with shouts, whistles, and the sharp clatter of boots on turf.
Aldridge had been here once before, during Ajax's draft day. That event had drawn a crowd—parents hoping their children would be chosen for the famed program. But even then, the selection criteria under the TIPS model (Technique, Insight, Personality, Speed) were so strict that only a few kids made the cut. He still remembered seeing children cry when they weren't selected. Even now, he could recall the look in their eyes—hope turned to heartbreak.
From outside the fence, Aldridge spotted a young coach directing training with calm authority. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, "Jenson!"
Jenson Bernard, dressed in a relaxed Ajax training outfit, turned toward the voice. When he recognized Aldridge, he grinned and jogged over, waving off a hug. "It's way too hot for all that. I'm soaked. What brings you to the Netherlands—back studying again?"
Aldridge smiled. "Still a coach here? No promotion yet?"
Jenson laughed as they both looked out at the training session. The young Dutch players worked hard, each trying to prove they belonged. Ajax's football identity was unmistakable—fluid, attacking, always 4-3-3.
Jenson shrugged with a sigh. "Too many talents in line. I've been passed over more times than I can count."
Aldridge nudged him in the ribs. "Come on, that's not the Jenson I remember—the one who used to talk about managing Ajax someday."
Jenson Bernard had always been a curious case. Once a promising player in Ajax's youth system, his development had plateaued. After six years, the club converted him into a coach rather than releasing him—a common practice at Ajax. Now, at 23, he was already a familiar face at the youth academy, though his own ambitions had outgrown the role.
Jenson rubbed his ribs and chuckled. "I'm burning out. I didn't think I'd be growing old surrounded by kids. It's exhausting."
Aldridge turned to him, suddenly serious. "Come with me. I'll make you an assistant coach."
Jenson blinked, caught off guard. "You're joking."
"I'm not. Oh, right—I should introduce myself properly. I'm Aldridge Hall. My family's based in London. I recently bought a football club—Millwall. We'll be in the English First Division next season."
His tone was steady, confident, sincere.
They had lived together once, as flatmates. Late-night conversations about tactics and football theory had filled the walls of their shared apartment. They had watched tapes, argued about formations, and dreamed. And Jenson—though trapped in the Ajax youth system—had continued to study every angle of the game. He was eager, curious, and most of all, untapped.
Aldridge could have hired a seasoned assistant, but that would come with problems—ego, resistance, an unwillingness to accept his authority as an 18-year-old manager. He didn't need a mentor; he needed a partner who believed in his ideas and could grow alongside him.
He planned to clear out Millwall's coaching staff, especially the ones involved in tactical planning. Physical coaches could stay; those weren't a threat. But the tactical core had to be rebuilt from scratch. He needed his own people.
Jenson squinted at him. "Assistant coach?"
Aldridge nodded.
"What's the pay?"
"One thousand pounds a month. Renewed annually."
"Housing?"
"Club-provided."
Jenson burst out laughing. "You bastard!"
But he was already grinning from ear to ear, nodding in acceptance.
In Ajax's youth system, £300 a month was considered generous. What Aldridge offered wasn't just more—it was a future. A chance to escape the developmental loop and step onto the real stage.
Still buzzing, Jenson asked, "You want anyone else?"
"As many as you can bring. But keep it under 25—I don't want a generation gap, and I won't deal with some veteran throwing his weight around."
"There are a few lads I know. I'll go talk to them now. Same salary?"
"Assistant coaches, £600 a month. Housing covered."
"I'll be back with names."
Jenson took off at a sprint, his Ajax badge bouncing on his chest as he ran.
Aldridge tilted his head back and looked up at the summer sky. With two months to go before the season began, he finally felt a sliver of something rare in football.
Confidence.
...
...
In Ajax, there were many young coaches working on temporary contracts, especially in the youth ranks. So it wasn't difficult to recruit people—at least not for someone like Aldridge.
Most of these young coaches had once been players selected by Ajax's academy, only to fall behind in their development. Failing to make it as professionals didn't mean they lacked football intelligence. On the contrary, this was Ajax: even the turf here seemed to hum with football wisdom. In such an environment, tactical literacy was in the air. If you spent years immersed in it, some of it would stay with you.
Jenson reached out to several of his peers. Most of them lived nearby in Amsterdam. When Aldridge had come here to study a few years ago, he'd built up friendships with many of them—though none quite as close as the one he had with Jenson, his former roommate.
Thanks to Jenson's persuasion—and the promise of a real first-team coaching job—many of them were tempted. The jump from youth coach at Ajax to a role with a professional first-team, even in England's First Division, was too good to ignore. The pay bump was significant, yes, but more than that, it was a chance to escape the limbo of development coaching and enter senior football.
Even at a club as respected as Ajax, being stuck in the academy wasn't the same as being in the first-team setup. And in such a competitive environment, few had any real guarantee of advancement.
Aldridge didn't have much time. He hurriedly arranged a meeting that same evening, spoke with the interested coaches, and made clear offers. He promised to fly back to London the following day.
Back home, Millwall was already in turmoil.
The head coach had resigned. The club had made it official with a notice. Fans gathered outside The Den, waiting anxiously for a statement from the club. The mood was tense. The team looked like it was teetering on the edge of chaos.
Yet, because the Hall family were a known quantity in the local community—and now the owners—there was no outbreak of protest or hostility. Just uneasy silence.
Aldridge returned to Millwall accompanied by Adam, his trusted aide. Together, they toured the club's facilities.
The picture wasn't pretty.
The infrastructure was outdated, resembling a football club stuck in the 1960s. The training ground was basic to the point of embarrassment. It felt like players simply showed up, kicked a ball around, and left without much thought for recovery, fitness, or development. This, sadly, was still the norm in English football. Even national team players were often living undisciplined lifestyles, far removed from what elite preparation demanded.
The Den—nicknamed The Lion's Den—was still usable. Though slightly small by modern standards, it would serve for now. Aldridge understood he couldn't change everything overnight. Still, disappointment flickered across his face as he walked the grounds.
He turned to Adam.
"The training ground needs to be renovated within six weeks," he said firmly. "And around it—I need you to look into hotels in the area. Modern facilities only."
"Hotels?" Adam blinked. "You want the team living there?"
"Not living. Training. I want a full-service environment. The hotel needs a gym, meeting rooms, swimming pool, sauna, massage space, a proper restaurant—everything. Once next season starts, I want the players training either on the pitch or in the hotel. Nowhere else."
Adam hesitated. "That's going to be expensive..."
Aldridge didn't flinch. "Until we build a proper training base, that hotel will have to do. If renting isn't cost-effective, then buy it. Whether it's under the club's name or the Hall family's, the funds come from the club account. I want this done quickly."
Land in London was expensive. East London was cheaper than the rest, which was why so many different social classes had mixed there. But even so, purchasing a hotel would require careful planning.
Still, Aldridge believed the long-term value would outweigh the short-term cost. If he had more time, he'd have preferred to build one from scratch. But that could come later—alongside the club's eventual custom-built training complex.
Adam pulled out his notebook and wrote it all down, noting each instruction methodically.
Aldridge turned to him again.
"What about the transfer negotiation team?" he asked.
"They're all out," Adam replied immediately. "Since we listed players, several clubs have submitted offers. Some have even sent direct bids."
Aldridge nodded. "Let them finish what they're doing. Once they're done, I want them in my office. The next few weeks will be intense."
He paused, then added, "Also, we need new departments in the club. Start with the medical department. I want specialists in sports medicine—proper ones."
Adam kept writing.
"Then," Aldridge continued, "a nutrition department. From now on, the club controls player diets. I want qualified professionals preparing all meals. Scientific, nutritionally balanced menus. No more fried fish, chips, or puddings on the dining table. None."
Adam looked up, his pen stopping briefly. Then he nodded, jotting it all down.
"What about the current coaching staff and the scouts?" he asked.
Aldridge didn't hesitate. "You don't need to worry about them. I'll handle that personally."
...
In the days that followed, Aldridge personally met with every staff member at the club. His presence, focus, and clarity of direction quickly brought internal stability to Millwall. Within a week, the chaos had settled.
Meanwhile, the transfer department was wrapping up its work. Over a dozen players from the original first team had been sold, bringing in only £1.8 million in total. The low figure wasn't entirely surprising. It reflected not just Millwall's eagerness to offload, but also the reality of the football market in 1994—player valuations simply weren't high across the board.
To put it into perspective, Crystal Palace's top striker, Ian Wright, had moved to Arsenal for just £2.5 million. And three years earlier, Teddy Sheringham—a future Premier League icon—had transferred for only £2 million.
As the 1994 World Cup in the United States approached, Aldridge sat in his office alongside Andrew, filtering through scouting reports and planning the next phase: player recruitment.
Andrew leaned forward anxiously, frowning as he spoke. "Aldridge, the first-team squad is almost empty. And the press… they're hammering you. Adam's off buying a hotel, and the training ground's under reconstruction. You know what the papers are saying? That you've gutted the squad and turned Millwall into a holiday resort. They think you're joking. That you're just playing around."
Aldridge didn't even look up from the sheet of names in front of him.
"I'll bring players in," he said flatly.
"But will they come?" Andrew asked, exasperated. "Millwall has no reputation. It's a Second Division club. We're in chaos. Who would willingly jump into this fire?"
Aldridge raised an eyebrow. "What if I offer £1,000 per week?"
"That's already a solid wage."
"£3,000?"
Andrew hesitated. "Honestly, there are maybe four or five players on that list who might be worth that."
"No. I'm giving each player a minimum of £3,000 a week. Maximum? £8,000."
Andrew stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"You're insane. That's what top Premier League players are making!"
Aldridge finally looked up and met his brother's eyes.
"I borrowed £30 million from Barnett. £10 million is for transfer fees. The other £20 million is strictly for wages—for the next two years. By the third year, if we still haven't achieved results, we'll already have had two full seasons of revenue to help cover salaries into Year Three. If I can't get Millwall to the Premier League by then… I'll walk away. I'll admit I was just chasing a childhood fantasy and go live the empty rich kid life. That's my deal with myself."
Andrew was momentarily speechless.
Eventually, he let out a long breath. "Well… if you're planning to lure players with Premier League wages, I doubt anyone will refuse. Who would say no to that kind of money?"
Aldridge knew exactly what he was doing.
Millwall had no prestige. No tradition. Not even a reputation as a dangerous team of bruisers anymore. They offered no glory, no silverware, no fanfare. In any other era, trying to recruit players here would be suicide.
But Aldridge had spotted the gap.
This was still the transitional era of football, on the eve of massive commercial transformation. Few people in the game—players included—had truly grasped the financial wave that was coming.
The Bosman ruling hadn't yet passed. Players were still tethered to restrictive contracts. Free movement was limited. Salaries, even at the highest level, were modest by modern standards.
Roy Keane, arguably the best midfielder in the country, earned £5,000 a week at Manchester United. Even post-Bosman, when David Beckham broke into the England squad, he and Keane were both reportedly on less than £4,000 per week.
In that climate, what was the going rate for a lesser-known player? For a kid in the reserves? For a domestic name without caps?
Most of the players Aldridge was targeting likely earned less than £100 per week.
That meant when they sat down with a Millwall contract offering £3,000 per week—pre-tax—it would feel like winning the lottery. The logic would be simple:
One year at Millwall is like earning ten years of wages elsewhere.
Maybe the math wasn't perfect, but the effect would be the same.
Aldridge's idea was to pose as a fake "moneybags" club. A paper tiger swinging heavy pounds. If people mocked him now, so be it. The journalists could sneer. The fans could wonder. But Aldridge knew what was coming.
Once the Premier League matured and the commercial floodgates opened, English football would be the center of the storm. The first to taste the money—would be those who'd arrived early.
Aldridge didn't intend to be left behind. Nor did he plan to cling to the old frugal traditions that had kept English clubs conservative in a stingy era.
He was going all-in.