Monaco, the glamorous principality nestled along the Côte d'Azur, kissed by the Mediterranean Sea, basked in the height of its tourist season. Under the golden summer sun, the streets were packed with well-dressed visitors and locals, their laughter and chatter carried on the soft breeze. Luxury cars purred past grand hotels, and yachts gleamed in the harbor like polished ivory.
In stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of the boulevard, a quiet café sat tucked away on a narrow stone side street, shaded by old olive trees and protected from the noise. Here, the air was cooler, calmer.
Aldridge strolled into the café dressed casually in a light tracksuit, hands resting comfortably in his jacket pockets. A pair of dark sunglasses covered his eyes, concealing the sharp glint of intent behind his relaxed demeanor. He scanned the room briefly before heading to a secluded corner booth, where a man in his early fifties sat alone, sipping espresso while staring out the window at the sea beyond the promenade.
The man's presence radiated elegance—his navy blazer was immaculately pressed, his posture refined. His greying hair was neatly combed, and though lines creased his forehead, they only added a certain gravitas to his expression.
Aldridge approached with a warm smile, slid into the seat opposite him, removed his sunglasses and greeted him with an almost boyish charm.
"Bonjour, Arsène."
Arsène Wenger turned to him, a glint of mild surprise giving way to fond recognition. His lips curled into a faint smile as he replied, his tone light but edged with irony.
"Four years since I last saw you, and the boy's turned into a man of influence. You've timed your visit well—any later and I would have been in London to find you. So... tell me, what trick did you use to steal my player?"
Aldridge put on an exaggeratedly innocent expression and raised his hands as if in surrender. "Monsieur, I'm afraid I have no idea who you mean."
"The young Frenchman," Wenger replied with narrowed eyes. "I put in a request to bring him back from Argentina just yesterday. When I contacted the club, I was informed he'd already packed his bags and left. After asking around, I found out he signed for Millwall."
The man before him was indeed Arsène Wenger, now head coach of AS Monaco. Aldridge had witnessed his tactical brilliance years ago when Wenger guided Monaco to the Ligue 1 title. But since then, Marseille had asserted a near-monopoly on French football, clinching five consecutive titles and turning the domestic scene into a personal fiefdom. Wenger's job had become significantly more arduous.
Aldridge knew precisely who he was referring to: David Trezeguet.
He grinned. "What can I say? I'm getting greedy. It's time I started poaching talents myself. As for the 'trick,' it was hardly magic. My brother already knew David from his youth academy days, and I simply offered him a first-team contract with a weekly wage of £3,000."
Wenger's brows drew together, clearly unimpressed. "He's only 17."
"Exactly," Aldridge replied, resting back into the booth with a hint of mischief in his tone. "Seventeen—the perfect age for rebellion. It's when a young man wants to define himself, and that begins with financial independence. Being paid like a professional builds not just confidence but credibility—especially in front of family. Come on, Arsène, the game is changing. You may think I'm throwing money around like a madman, but don't forget what we discussed on the phone six months ago."
Wenger's expression softened as he searched his memory. "You mean... the Bosman ruling?"
Aldridge nodded. "Exactly. When that case wraps up next year, everything changes. Until then, let the critics laugh. They'll call me a fool, a waster—but time will vindicate me."
He leaned forward, tone shifting to a more serious register.
"But I'm not here just to reminisce. I came for a reason. I need your help, Arsène. I want you to let someone go."
Wenger's eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring. "You're here to poach another one?"
"I've already submitted a formal offer of £500,000 to Monaco," Aldridge said matter-of-factly. "I want Henry. Frankly, the club hasn't invested more than £10,000 in him yet."
Wenger's chair scraped slightly as he leaned forward, clearly agitated. "No. Absolutely not. Thierry is the future of this club. £500,000? You think we're some backwater team who's never seen a proper bid?"
Aldridge simply smiled, unbothered by the flare of emotion.
"I've followed your moves since you joined Millwall," Wenger continued. "And frankly, I've been disappointed. You're building a squad from the scrap heaps of the lower leagues. I understand that small clubs need to sell talent to survive, but Monaco isn't in that bracket. We're not the German second division or the Dutch Eerste Divisie. This is Ligue 1."
"Relax, Arsène. I'm not here to lecture," Aldridge replied. "I just want to talk."
"There's nothing to discuss," Wenger said sharply. "Henry is not for sale."
Aldridge paused briefly, then asked, "What if I offer £1 million?"
Wenger stared at him, visibly conflicted. The silence lingered.
Eventually, he exhaled heavily. "Marseille's tried to lure me. So has Paris Saint-Germain. And now you, of all people. Everyone wants something from me."
Wenger had managed to keep Monaco competitive despite relentless talent raids from wealthier clubs. His ability to maintain some semblance of consistency under constant pressure was admirable. But Aldridge knew even the best chefs couldn't cook without ingredients. Wenger's situation now was not so different from the challenges he'd later face at Arsenal post-Invincibles.
Aldridge, sensing the fatigue in Wenger's voice, softened his tone.
"Okay. Not Henry then. Let's talk about Thuram."
Wenger blinked, momentarily caught off guard.
"£1.5 million," Aldridge said clearly. "Forget Henry. Give me Lilian Thuram. Monaco can't hold onto him forever, and I'm offering above market value. I'll also give him a weekly salary of £8,000. That's not just competitive—that's elite."
The figure gave Wenger pause. Aldridge's phrasing had struck a nerve—Would you rather wait for someone else to come poach him?
He'd seen it happen too many times already. George Weah had been one of his greatest success stories, and yet even that loyalty hadn't stopped the inevitable departure.
"You want to take my captain... for £1.5 million?" Wenger asked, still hesitating.
Aldridge raised an eyebrow. "I'll double it. £3 million."
That silenced Wenger completely.
In this era, £3 million was the going rate for a top-tier player. It was just under the global record—Gullit had commanded £5 million from AC Milan a few years back, and even Maradona's transfer fee had been around £3 million. For a central defender, it was an almost unheard-of amount.
But Aldridge wasn't just selling a number. He knew that his offer would appeal to Thuram as well—£8,000 per week was superstar money. Only the likes of Baggio or Gascoigne commanded that kind of media presence and income in the UK.
And Aldridge's contract wasn't static: it included annual raises, performance bonuses, and image rights clauses—an unheard-of structure at that level of football. It was revolutionary, even reckless, but it was effective.
Wenger sighed once more and gave a slow, reluctant nod.
Thuram would go.
As for Henry... Aldridge knew that window had closed. The young forward would explode in Ligue 1 soon enough, and when he did, his price would skyrocket. And once the Bosman ruling came into effect the following year, the transfer market would enter a new era altogether.
Until then, Aldridge had to move fast, think ahead—and when necessary, push hard.
...
After spending the better part of the day deep in discussion with Wenger at the café in Monaco, Aldridge wasted no time. The next morning, he boarded a flight northbound to the Atlantic coast of France, where another vital piece of his project awaited him.
The city of Nantes, with its picturesque riverbanks and its crisp summer air, was calm compared to the glittering frenzy of Monaco. But Aldridge wasn't there for the scenery. In his briefcase was a formal transfer offer for one of Ligue 1's most underrated midfielders: Claude Makélélé.
The bid Millwall submitted to FC Nantes stood at £1.5 million. Negotiations didn't take long. Nantes, though reluctant, recognized the financial pull and the growing ambition behind Millwall's offer. The final fee was settled at £2 million.
Makélélé, impressed by the club's long-term vision and the clear intent behind their rebuild, accepted the offer—especially after Aldridge extended a generous wage package, one far above what he was earning in France. For a player still largely unrecognized outside of France and Spain, it was a huge step forward in both visibility and compensation.
But Aldridge wasn't one to offer blind generosity. Every contract he issued to key players that summer contained a firm clause: automatic termination if Millwall failed to gain promotion to the Premier League next season. It was both a promise and a challenge—ambition baked directly into their agreements.
Returning to London just two days later, Aldridge was finally able to catch his breath. But only briefly.
That evening, a call came through from an Italian number. The voice on the other end was heavily accented, the English choppy but intentional.
"Mr. Hall, forgive me for calling out of the blue. Your club has expressed interest in my son. I would like to understand what this means. Although you are in England's second tier, I know the level is certainly higher than Serie C. I want Marco to grow. But I also want to hear your sincerity—and your project."
Aldridge raised an eyebrow as he leaned back in his chair, surprised but attentive. He replied calmly, "Pardon me, may I ask who's speaking?"
"Oh, my apologies—I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Giuseppe Materazzi."
That name struck a chord. Aldridge immediately straightened up.
"Signor Materazzi, thank you for reaching out. It's a pleasure. I do intend to bring your son to Millwall. Marco is not just a target—he's a key part of our long-term plan. If you've followed our activity this summer, you'll notice we're building something different. A foundation built on youth, on potential. We've signed players from all over Europe, all under 23. Marco fits this perfectly."
There was a pause. Then the Italian coach responded cautiously, "But I do not want Marco to settle in England for too long."
Aldridge expected as much. In the eyes of many Italian coaches, English football was chaotic, primitive—a proving ground at best, not a long-term home for refined defensive talent.
"I understand," Aldridge said. "But staying in Serie C doesn't help Marco's development. If he comes to Millwall, he'll play in the First Division next season. If all goes to plan, the season after that he'll be competing at the top level against Arsenal, Manchester United, Liverpool. That's exposure and pressure he can't find at a provincial Italian club."
Giuseppe's tone grew more serious. "Can you promise he'll play?"
"In England, we have 46 league fixtures in the First Division, plus the FA Cup and League Cup. In a normal season, we can expect over 50 competitive matches. Marco is 21—young, but mature for a centre-back. I can guarantee he'll get at least 20 appearances, if not more. Not just bench time—real minutes, real responsibility."
Silence again.
Then Giuseppe spoke more softly. "Mr. Hall, thank you for your sincerity. But I would like one more assurance. If, one day, a bigger Italian club—perhaps in Serie A—comes for Marco, I want to be certain you will not stand in his way."
Aldridge understood the subtext. This was not an overprotective father. Giuseppe Materazzi was a seasoned manager himself, a man who had coached in both Serie B and Serie A. He wasn't just weighing opportunities—he was managing a career trajectory.
Aldridge leaned forward slightly, his voice firm but sincere.
"Signor Materazzi, I give you my word. If Marco wants to leave one day, I won't stop him. I've always believed that clubs and players should part ways with mutual respect, when the time is right. That's my philosophy—build something together, and when it's time to move on, do so with dignity. No hard feelings."
There was a long pause. Then Giuseppe chuckled lightly, his tone noticeably more relaxed.
"Mr. Hall… You're coaching this team yourself?"
"Yes. I've been preparing for this for eight years. The day has finally come."
"Well then… I wish you good fortune. I hope to see you one day on the touchline, in Europe. Grazie. I won't take more of your time. Goodbye."
...
...
Millwall's summer transfer business was far from finished.
In fact, Andrew was proving even more active than Aldridge himself. After wrapping up his duties in Italy, he took a detour through Scandinavia—and returned with two promising young players who had yet to sign their first professional contracts.
From Norwegian side Molde, he brought back 21-year-old Ole Gunnar Solskjær, a clinical forward still flying under the radar in Northern Europe. Alongside him came 17-year-old Jesper Grønkjær, a pacey and technical winger from Denmark with no first-team experience but flashes of raw brilliance.
Both were unpolished, but Aldridge saw what most others couldn't: intelligent movement, adaptability, and a deep hunger to break through.
Meanwhile, the club continued adding depth across the board.
Although Millwall already had two goalkeepers on the books, Aldridge believed a third was essential for insurance—especially in the physical grind of England's First Division. So he moved to secure 17-year-old Richard Wright, a youth prospect from Ipswich Town with excellent reflexes and composure beyond his years.
And in attack, the rough-and-tumble nature of League One demanded a broader strike force. For just £10,000, Aldridge plucked Kevin Phillips from non-league side Baldock Town, a forward released by Southampton's youth system but still brimming with potential. The gamble was minimal—the upside, significant.
Defensively, Millwall made a major statement by poaching Dean Richards from Bradford City for £250,000. A commanding centre-back with good anticipation and aerial ability, Richards had impressed in the lower leagues and would offer both depth and rotation potential.
Long before the 1994 World Cup had kicked off in the United States, Aldridge had already sent a formal offer to Feyenoord for one of their most gifted forwards: Henrik Larsson.
While Ajax continued to dominate Dutch football with a Champions League-caliber squad, Feyenoord struggled to match their financial muscle. They had tradition, but not the resources. Aldridge's initial bid was £500,000. Feyenoord declined, but the tone of their reply revealed hesitation rather than outright rejection.
When Aldridge raised his offer to £1 million, negotiations resumed in earnest. The two sides eventually agreed on a final transfer fee just over £1.25 million.
This figure had been locked in half a month before the World Cup began. Had Aldridge waited until Larsson's performances in the tournament turned heads, Feyenoord would almost certainly have pushed the fee to £2 million or more. Timing, once again, had worked in Millwall's favor.
As Millwall unveiled a string of heavy signings—Southgate, Thuram, Makélélé, each at or above £2 million—some media critics began to paint a picture of Aldridge as a reckless spender. Even more dismissively, they mocked the Austrian club who'd sold their 18-year-old wonderkid to Millwall earlier that summer for a modest fee. Those critics had clearly underestimated the depth of Aldridge's vision.
To put things in perspective: just a year earlier, Manchester United had broken the British transfer record by signing Roy Keane for £3.75 million. The entire combined transfer expenditure of all 22 Premier League clubs that summer was barely over £60 million.
Aldridge was spending like a top-flight manager—except he was building a team in the First Division.
But the Larsson deal remained in limbo. The World Cup had complicated things. On one hand, the player was still representing Sweden in the United States. On the other, he wasn't entirely sold on dropping to a second-tier English club, despite the generous salary and contract flexibility Aldridge had offered—including a performance-based release clause.
Larsson's hesitation opened the door for Feyenoord to change their mind. After the World Cup, they privately sent a club representative to Sweden, urging Larsson to reject Millwall's approach. They weren't trying to keep him—they simply wanted to leverage his transfer into a bigger payday.
But the move backfired.
By trying to exploit the situation, Feyenoord damaged their relationship with Larsson. Like most professionals, he understood football was a business. But no player, especially one of growing reputation, enjoys being treated purely as a tradable asset—something to be flipped for profit after an agreement had already been made.
Aldridge, recognizing the situation, personally flew to Sweden.
He didn't need to sell dreams. Millwall's actions spoke for themselves: bold investment, a youth-focused project, and a clear route to the Premier League. Larsson, at 22, would be a leader among Millwall's frontline—not just a prospect, but a cornerstone.
The sincerity, vision, and direct communication won the striker over. They shook hands in a quiet training complex just outside Helsingborg.
In the coming season, Henrik Larsson would wear the lion badge of Millwall.
As the Ligue 1 season prepared to kick off on August 12, Aldridge granted Larsson extended leave after his World Cup campaign. The Swede would report to training in early August, giving him two weeks to rest before preseason preparations intensified.
On July 19, Aldridge sat in his London office and reviewed the finalised first-team squad list. He tapped a pen against the desk, pausing to absorb the weight of the transformation he'd orchestrated in just two months.
Millwall First-Team Squad – 1994/95 Season
Goalkeepers:
Kasey Keller
Hans-Jörg Butt
Richard Wright
Defenders:
Gareth Southgate
Jaap Stam
Dean Richards
Marco Materazzi
Lilian Thuram
Gianluca Zambrotta
Lucas Neill
Midfielders:
Patrick Vieira
Pavel Nedvěd
Gennaro Gattuso
Claude Makélélé
Michael Ballack
Forwards:
Robert Pirès
Jesper Grønkjær
Bernd Schneider
David Trezeguet
Luca Toni
Ruud van Nistelrooy
Henrik Larsson
Kevin Phillips
Ole Gunnar Solskjær
Total: 24 Players
Aldridge scanned the list with a blend of satisfaction and concern.
The full-back roles looked slightly under-resourced—only three players were natural fits. But Lucas Neill and Zambrotta could both play on either flank, and Makélélé, though now a defensive midfielder, had been developed as a full-back earlier in his career. Still, Aldridge planned to play him strictly in midfield. Anything else, he believed, would be a waste of his potential.
His core axis was clear:
Southgate to marshal the defence
Nedvěd to dictate from midfield
Larsson to lead the line up front
But one area remained uncertain—the wings.
Grønkjær, though talented, was raw. If either Pirès or Schneider got injured, Aldridge would have to shuffle Nedvěd to the left, weakening the center. The right wing was especially thin, and he wasn't eager to place too much pressure on inexperienced players.
Team transformation was a process. Tactics needed to be adapted to the brutal nature of the First Division. Attractive, technical football would always be vulnerable to rough defending and inconsistent refereeing. The key, Aldridge knew, was balance.
Even as football evolved toward more fluid systems where wide defenders and inverted wingers played greater attacking roles, the traditional wing play—pace, crosses, overloads—would remain vital in English football well into the next two decades.
And so, as he scribbled notes in the margins of his depth chart, Aldridge kept repeating a single thought: right wing, right wing, right wing...
Then a name came to mind.
Someone he couldn't buy outright—not yet—but perhaps… he could borrow.
If he wanted to do it, he'd have to call in a favour.
That meant visiting an old Scotsman in Manchester.
...
After a chaotic and transformative month, things were finally beginning to settle down at Millwall Football Club. For supporters, it had been a rollercoaster—one filled with anxiety, surprise, and growing anticipation.
First came the sweeping changes to the backroom staff. Then, Aldridge initiated a ruthless overhaul of the first-team squad, releasing familiar faces and ushering in a new era. That alone had raised eyebrows. But what followed took the fanbase by storm.
News of new signings arrived with dizzying frequency. While many of the incoming names meant little to the average Millwall fan—players like Jaap Stam, Patrick Vieira, or Henrik Larsson were not yet household names in England—the arrival of Gareth Southgate, the captain of local rivals Crystal Palace, was a different matter altogether.
What could be more exhilarating than snatching the leader of your fiercest derby opponent?
It was a statement of intent—and it earned Aldridge instant credibility with the fans. In many ways, it echoed what Florentino Pérez would do years later at Real Madrid: make audacious moves that disrupted rival clubs and captured public imagination.
Some supporters even tried tallying up the cost of the transfer window so far, and the final figure left them stunned.
£12.6 million.
A record-shattering investment for a club in England's second tier.
To put it in perspective:
Manchester United's entire summer spend the previous year was £3.75 million (mostly on Roy Keane).
The year before that? Just £1.1 million.
Even across all 22 Premier League clubs, the combined total transfer spend the previous summer had barely crossed £60 million.
Of course, comparisons only went so far. United and others were fine-tuning competitive squads. Millwall, under Aldridge, was being torn down and rebuilt from the ground up. A revolution rather than an evolution.
The only recent example of such wholesale change was Blackburn Rovers, who had splashed money after Jack Walker's takeover. But even then, they had focused on acquiring a few well-established stars.
Pundits and football writers remained skeptical. To them, Millwall had gone from afterthought to anomaly. Aldridge's headline-grabbing activity forced them to take notice—but few believed it would yield success.
Meanwhile, outside the club's main entrance, Aldridge waited for Andrew, who was to accompany him on yet another trip—this time a personal one.
He wasn't heading abroad. He was heading north.
Moments later, Andrew pulled up in a sleek black Mercedes. He rolled down the window and greeted Aldridge with a smirk.
"Where to this time?" he asked.
"Manchester," Aldridge replied casually. "I want to meet with the gaffer at United."
Andrew raised an eyebrow, surprised. He tapped the steering wheel for a moment, thinking. "That won't be easy," he said. "Let me make a call first."
He stepped into the club's reception to use the phone, returning a few minutes later with a nod. "Alright," he said. "Let's go to the station."
At London Euston, Andrew purchased three train tickets to Manchester. Aldridge noticed immediately but didn't ask. He simply followed, intrigued.
In the waiting lounge, a sharply dressed man approached them. He wore a dark blue suit, gold-rimmed glasses, and his hair was neatly curled and styled. Polished and precise—but not pretentious. The man greeted Andrew warmly, embracing him before turning to Aldridge with a courteous smile.
"Jason Ferguson. A pleasure," he said. "I've heard Andrew mention you more than once. You're the Hall family's prodigy, aren't you?"
The compliment was direct—perhaps too much so—but Aldridge handled it with polite modesty. He extended his hand.
"Aldridge Hall. Good to meet you, Jason… though I assume you're not that Ferguson."
Jason laughed and nodded. "No, no, that's my father you're thinking of."
The three of them boarded the train together.
As they found their seats, Jason turned toward Aldridge. "I called home before we left. My father just happened to have a gap in his schedule today. You're in luck."
Aldridge nodded in appreciation, though his thoughts were already racing.
He hadn't expected Jason Ferguson—son of Sir Alex Ferguson—to be Andrew's contact. But upon reflection, it made sense.
Jason had once worked at Sky Sports following the formation of the Premier League, but his standing in football came primarily from being Sir Alex's son. Without his father, his presence in football circles might have faded. But in London, where football, media, and management intersected, it wasn't surprising that he and Andrew—who ran his own sports agency—had crossed paths.
In fact, Aldridge suspected Jason had once competed against Andrew in the agent world. And given Andrew's financial backing and family legacy, it was easy to imagine which of them had won that duel.
Still, Aldridge knew where Jason's career would eventually lead.
Even in his original timeline, Jason Ferguson would later become the figure behind Elite Sports Group, the agency that would land several United players and become embroiled in controversy—particularly around the sudden, surprise sale of Jaap Stam to Lazio in 2001. That deal had blindsided the Manchester United board and even led to internal tensions. Though Sir Alex had stood by his son, the matter had left even icons like Sir Bobby Charlton uneasy.
And here Jason was, quietly helping facilitate a visit between Millwall's new manager and Manchester United's legendary boss.
Aldridge couldn't help but reflect on the strange threads of football's future already being woven—in a different time, perhaps, but with many of the same names.
As the train pulled out of Euston Station and into the rolling countryside of England's north, Aldridge stared out the window in silence, the wheels already turning in his head.
He wasn't going to Manchester for sightseeing.
He had a request to make. One that, if successful, would complete his summer masterpiece.