In the realm of European media, no one spun fiction with more audacity than the British press. In the pursuit of headlines, they would fabricate stories, blur the lines of personal privacy, and twist half-truths into front-page scandals.
And in Britain, there was no subject more sacred—or more exploited—than football.
What's the most popular sport in the United Kingdom?
First: football.Second: football.Third: still football.
The obsession ran so deep that newspapers, tabloids, and television networks alike had built entire empires on the back of the game. The two were inseparable. The media could manufacture legends, just as easily as they could destroy them. It was no exaggeration to say that part of Manchester United's rise in the Busby era—"The Busby Babes"—was due to the timing of televised football entering British homes. Had another club dominated the same era, English football's entire cultural identity might have shifted.
Aldridge understood this better than most. Coming from the future, he knew the media's power wasn't just in what it reported—it was in what it chose to ignore or distort. If he wanted Millwall to grow, he needed visibility. No project could thrive in the shadows.
So, on the eve of the new First Division season, Millwall held an official press conference.
Aldridge's goal wasn't to break news or unveil major plans. It was to make the club visible. A chance to put Millwall in the public conversation before a ball was kicked. But as the event began, he couldn't help but smile wryly.
None of the major broadsheets had bothered to show up.
No Times.No Guardian.No Telegraph.No Independent.
In the UK, there were no dedicated national sports dailies like in Italy or Spain. Football coverage came from comprehensive newspapers with sports sections—and only stories with guaranteed pull would make it past the editors. A preseason press conference at Millwall? Hardly front-page material.
Even the tabloids—The Sun, The Mirror, Daily Mail—had sent only their interns. They sat stiffly in the front row, young, wide-eyed, and clearly low on the newsroom food chain. None dared ask tough questions. Most were just hoping to stumble onto something vaguely printable.
To be fair, Millwall's squad didn't exactly draw attention—at least not in the eyes of London's football media. The only headline-grabbing move had been the controversial arrival of Gareth Southgate from Crystal Palace, which the press had already milked dry with "traitor" narratives and dramatic speculation. But that story had lost steam days ago.
Even Aldridge's ownership had caused a brief stir earlier in the summer, but without consistent controversy, it had faded from the public mind.
Now, the room held maybe a dozen reporters, mostly young and unproven. They weren't here because they believed in the story—they were here because there was nowhere else to be.
Still, Aldridge kept his poise. If this was the game, he'd play it. Even a dull press conference was better than obscurity.
Eventually, one of the older freelancers broke the silence with a question.
"Mr. Hall, Millwall spent over £10 million this summer—the highest in England, even among Premier League clubs. What exactly is your goal for the upcoming season?"
Aldridge answered without hesitation, his tone calm and serious.
"We're a very young squad. Many of our players still need time to grow, to develop their game under real pressure. So our target this season is simple: survival. We aim to remain in the First Division."
There was a pause as reporters exchanged glances, clearly surprised.
The same journalist leaned in, skeptical.
"Survival? After finishing third last year and nearly gaining promotion, you dismantled the squad, spent a record amount—and your aim is just to stay up? Why sell off the players who got you here in the first place?"
Aldridge offered a small, confident smile.
"Because that team had no long-term ceiling. Sure, they could have finished mid-table again or maybe pushed for promotion—but nothing more. My current squad may struggle this season, but next year they'll be stronger, more experienced. In two years, we can target promotion. And three years from now, I believe we'll be a genuine force in the Premier League. At that point, the average age of our squad will still be under twenty-four."
He paused, letting that land.
The real intention behind Aldridge's "modest" goals wasn't lost on him. He wanted other clubs to underestimate Millwall. If this message made it into rival dressing rooms—if they thought Millwall would be weak or disorganized—they might let their guard down. He was planting the seed of false confidence in his opponents.
Unfortunately, most of the reporters weren't clever enough to read between the lines. A team that broke transfer records just to avoid relegation? That wasn't front-page news. It was… boring.
The energy in the room dipped.
Sensing the lull, one of the younger interns tried to lighten the mood.
"Can you tell us more about your three new forwards—Ole Gunnar Solskjær, David Trezeguet, and Henrik Larsson?"
The atmosphere picked up slightly, and Aldridge leaned forward. He answered each question patiently, elaborating on the players' styles, development plans, and what roles they'd play in the system. As the session wore on, the questions drifted away from tactics or team talk. The interns—perhaps a little starstruck—began asking about Aldridge himself.
After all, there was something undeniably intriguing about him: the teenage club owner, young, confident, with a composed demeanor and model-like features.
He answered their questions with warmth and humor. There was no arrogance, only calm control.
And truth be told, Aldridge didn't mind the attention. He wasn't worried about how tomorrow's articles would frame him. Fame, even of the tabloid variety, would only boost Millwall's public image. As long as they didn't cross the line into defamation or force him to involve lawyers, he could tolerate speculation and gossip.
The next morning, several tabloids gave him prominent coverage. But rather than focusing on Millwall, they spotlighted Aldridge himself: the "rich boy chairman," "handsome playboy with a football toy," or "posh prodigy of the terraces."
The articles were shallow. But Aldridge didn't flinch.
They printed his name. That was enough.
...
At exactly 3 p.m. on August 13th, The Den was filled to the brim. Though modest in size, the stadium pulsed with energy, and every corner echoed with the fierce voices of Millwall supporters singing the club's anthem with unwavering pride.
Inside the home dressing room, the atmosphere was calm but focused. Millwall's starting eleven sat in full kit, listening closely as they awaited their manager's words.
The tactical board at the front of the room remained completely blank. Aldridge stood beside it in a clean, well-fitted navy suit with his shirt collar casually unbuttoned. His hands rested in his pockets as he took in the sight of the young players assembled before him—players who were about to begin a new chapter under his leadership.
He had not come into the dressing room to repeat tactical instructions. Every key detail had been rehearsed during weeks of preparation. Instead, he began by checking on the players' physical condition, asking briefly if anyone felt tight, unwell, or needed last-minute treatment.
Once those formalities were out of the way, he addressed the group with calm authority.
"Everything related to how we will play today has already been covered many times in training. There is nothing more to say about formations, positioning, or movement. You know what you have to do. If you apply what we've practiced, follow the tactical plan, and remain focused and committed from the first whistle to the last, that will be enough."
He paused for a moment, then continued with a shift in tone, speaking from a more personal place.
"Before you walk out there, there is one thing I want to say."
He allowed his eyes to sweep across the room, meeting the gaze of each player in turn.
"I believe in every single one of you. Even if someone held a knife to my throat and demanded that I say otherwise, my answer would not change. Ask me a hundred times, and I would tell you a hundred times: you are the best."
His voice deepened as he continued.
"Like many of you, I arrived here with nothing but ambition. I don't have the history or legacy that this club holds. Millwall has existed for more than a century, and that history is greater than any one of us. But the moment you step onto that pitch, you begin contributing to that history. You begin shaping your own legacy."
He took a step forward, his tone becoming more impassioned.
"I want you to leave something behind here. Don't arrive in obscurity and leave in silence. Make your mark. Write your name into the story of this club. Let the memory of your effort and your determination live on through the supporters who sing your name, through the records we break, and through the victories we earn."
He raised his chin slightly and added with conviction.
"This is just the beginning, and we all have room to grow. But if we keep going, if we keep working together, I truly believe that nothing will stop us. Not here, not in England, and not in Europe. Let's chase that dream together."
Without waiting for applause or reaction, Aldridge turned toward the door and pulled it open.
The players immediately rose from their benches and shouted in unison, "Let's go!"
With adrenaline rising and spirits aligned, the Millwall squad exited the dressing room with purpose. They moved together down the tunnel, passing through the narrow corridor that led to the pitch. Aldridge followed at the rear of the group.
When they reached the end of the passageway, the match officials were already waiting in position. On the opposite side, the players of Southend United were lined up and ready to take the field.
Several Southend players looked directly at Aldridge as he approached. Their eyes carried the same skepticism that many around the league still held. To them, he was merely a privileged teenager—an amateur dressed in expensive clothes, trying to manage professionals in a league that did not forgive mistakes.
Some of them smirked, exchanging subtle glances of amusement. Others wore open expressions of disdain. They had clearly heard the stories. They expected failure.
Aldridge stood still at the tunnel's exit and closed his eyes for a brief moment.
He took in every detail around him. He could hear the muffled stomp of boots on concrete, the low murmur of anticipation from the stands above, and his own breathing—measured but heavy with anticipation. His pulse was steady, but he felt the weight pressing down on his chest, as if the stadium itself demanded something from him.
Then the Millwall anthem reached his ears, louder now as the crowd swelled in volume. He imagined the scarves raised in the air, the unified chants, the pride radiating from thousands of loyal supporters. It was overwhelming—but in the best possible way.
He exhaled slowly, calming the last trace of nerves in his chest.
When he opened his eyes again, his expression had changed. His face no longer showed tension. It now displayed confidence, readiness, and clarity.
He walked out of the tunnel and into the sunlight of The Den.
The roar of the crowd grew sharper, clearer, and more immediate. It was no longer a distant hum but a full-throated welcome. The supporters in the stands were not cheering for him personally—but in that moment, they were welcoming the beginning of something new.
With all eyes on the players entering the field, Aldridge moved to the technical area. However, in his focused state, he had not realized that he had walked toward the wrong side of the pitch.
As Aldridge emerged from the tunnel and walked onto the pitch, he instinctively turned toward the technical area on his right. Without thinking, he took three steps forward before he noticed something was off.
The faces seated along the bench were unfamiliar. A group of coaches and substitutes he didn't recognize were watching him with mild confusion. That was when he realized he had walked in the wrong direction—he was heading toward Southend United's bench.
For the briefest of moments, Aldridge considered turning around and correcting himself quietly.
But pride got the better of him.
Instead of retreating, he kept moving forward and approached the man standing at the front of the technical area, who was whispering something to his assistant.
It was Peter Taylor, the manager of Southend United.
Aldridge extended his hand with a composed expression, intending to mask his mistake behind a show of courtesy.
He told himself it was a respectful gesture, a professional greeting between two managers.
In truth, it was nothing more than an attempt to cover up an embarrassing misstep.
But it seems that things were not going in the direction he expected.
...
Southend United had finished 16th in the First Division last season. The team had no stars to speak of, and their survival in the league could largely be credited to a group of committed "blue-collar fighters" who had stuck together for years. Their style was unbalanced—lacking cohesion between offense and defense—and they typically alternated between narrow wins and narrow losses. On average, they managed about 1.5 goals per game.
Their head coach, Peter Taylor, had taken over after retiring as a player. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his squad. To most observers, Southend served as little more than background characters in the First Division—a team that made up the numbers while others chased glory.
Still, as Millwall's opponent in the opening game of the season, Peter had done his homework. He had taken note of Millwall's summer spending spree and had read the tabloid coverage from the day before, which included a short feature on Aldridge. What stuck with him most was a line from Millwall's young boss: despite the club's heavy investment, he said he simply hoped the team could avoid relegation.
To Peter, that suggested Aldridge had some self-awareness. A young man who knew his place. A pragmatist. But even so, Peter had little respect for him.
He looked down on managers who had not come through the traditional English football system. Aldridge may have held a coaching license, but he had never been formally trained in the domestic coaching pathway. Worse still, he had never played the game professionally. In the eyes of men like Peter, that made him a complete outsider—a textbook example of someone who didn't belong.
As he chatted casually with his assistant about potential loan signings, Peter mentioned that there was still over half a month left before the transfer window closed. Southend United would try to bring in players on loan from larger clubs—fringe players who weren't getting minutes. The core of Southend's squad had been together for years. Their quality was average, predictable, dependable—like the rhythm of a poor man's life: always scraping by, never changing.
The transfer window was their one chance each year to patch the holes.
Just then, Peter noticed his assistant go quiet and glance behind him with a strange expression. Turning with a slight frown, Peter—tall, broad, and the picture of a middle-aged English manager—found himself staring at a sharply dressed young man in a tailored suit.
Aldridge wore a soft smile as he extended his right hand.
"Hello—"
Before he could finish, Peter cut him off.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Peter knew exactly who he was speaking to. This was Millwall's new manager. But he had no interest in giving the young upstart any courtesy.
Aldridge was momentarily taken aback. He hadn't expected such hostility.
Thinking that Peter might have misunderstood—perhaps assuming he had been eavesdropping—Aldridge tried to clarify, still smiling politely.
"My name is Aldridge. I'm Millwall—"
His hand remained extended, but Peter interrupted him again, this time with open contempt.
"I know who you are. Now go back to your bench and stay there. Don't bother me. Do you even understand football? You think this is some kind of cocktail party? Coming over here to make conversation like some little girl? Idiot."
Aldridge's face stiffened.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Southend's substitutes and coaching staff watching from the visiting bench. Several of them were smirking. Peter's outburst had caught them all off guard.
For a second, no one spoke.
But the silence did not last long.
Aldridge did not withdraw his hand. Instead, he lifted it and pointed directly at Peter Taylor's face, his expression shifting to one of cold disdain.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" he snapped. "I came over to offer a respectful handshake. If this wasn't the league opener, I wouldn't even care where the hell you were hiding—let alone who you are. You? You're nothing. And your team? You're rubbish. Complete rubbish. Absolute trash."
He knew he couldn't simply turn around and walk away. To retreat now would mean surrendering every ounce of authority he had. The opposing coach would be emboldened. Even Millwall's fans might begin to doubt him.
Peter had not expected that kind of reaction. The young man's sudden aggression caught him by surprise. For a moment, his face was blank with shock—but that quickly gave way to fury. His expression twisted, and he lunged toward Aldridge, teeth bared and fists clenched.
Only his assistant's quick intervention kept things from boiling over. Grabbing Peter by the shoulders, the assistant struggled to restrain him as the older coach thrashed like a man possessed.
Seeing Peter try to charge him, Aldridge instinctively began rolling up the sleeves of his suit jacket. His own face was tight with emotion—not because he wanted to fight, but because he had been humiliated for simply trying to show respect.
He muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on Peter. "All I did was say hello… and he decides to shout at me like that? What is this nonsense?"
Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was just the sourness of an old-school coach who couldn't stand the idea of a teenage manager. Whatever the reason, a spark had been lit, and now there was no going back.
The confrontation had spilled over into the stands. Millwall fans seated behind the dugout had caught every word, and they roared with approval.
"Rubbish! You lot are rubbish!" shouted one supporter, pointing at Southend's bench. Others joined in, waving scarves and chanting profanities at the visiting coaches. Their rage fed off Aldridge's defiance, and soon his voice felt amplified by the crowd behind him.
Aldridge had no intention of throwing punches, but he stood his ground, refusing to move. Fortunately, Millwall assistant coach Jenson came running from the home dugout, flanked by two other staff members, and physically pulled Aldridge backward, putting space between the two head coaches.
Now both benches had erupted.
Peter and Aldridge were being held back by their respective staff, but neither had calmed down. Their shouting continued, voices overlapping and echoing across the technical area.
"You little bastard!" Peter roared. "Come here again and I'll put you through the ground!"
"You're pathetic!" Aldridge shot back. "You're not even worth my time."
Peter's face turned beet red as he snapped, "You call us rubbish? If we beat you, that makes you worse than rubbish!"
That line brought a sudden pause.
Even the fans in the nearby seats seemed to freeze for a second, processing what had just been said.
Aldridge blinked in disbelief. Then, without warning, he burst into laughter. He shrugged off the hands holding him back and casually began fixing his sleeves and smoothing his jacket.
"So you admit it," he said with a wide grin. "You really think you're rubbish? Well, if it smells like rubbish and talks like rubbish, I suppose it must be rubbish!"
Laughter erupted from the crowd behind him. The fans bellowed with amusement, pounding the railings and jeering at Peter Taylor, who now stood trembling with rage. His flushed face looked ready to explode.
Aldridge, meanwhile, turned toward the pitch and saw the referee team jogging over from the halfway line. He composed himself quickly, adjusted his lapels, and raised one hand to the crowd in a cheeky wave before heading calmly back toward Millwall's bench.
Behind him, Peter was still shouting furiously. One of the officials approached him to ask what had happened, but Aldridge didn't stay to listen. He was already walking across the turf in front of the home dugout.
Jenson and the other coaches stared at him in disbelief. This was their first time witnessing two head coaches nearly come to blows before a match had even started.
One of them leaned closer and asked in a low voice, "Did you do that on purpose? Were you trying to provoke him?"
Aldridge responded quietly, his voice even and steady.
"Not at all. I just went the wrong way. But when he tried to humiliate me in front of everyone, I had no choice. If I'd backed down, I would've lost the dressing room and the crowd. Now? At least we know the match will have some edge."
Jenson shook his head, half in exasperation, half in amusement, and returned to the bench.
A moment later, one of the match officials approached Aldridge and issued a formal warning. He told him to avoid provoking the opposing staff again. Aldridge nodded without protest and looked briefly toward the Southend bench.
Peter Taylor was still glaring at him, practically seething.
Aldridge's eyes narrowed, and his lips moved slightly. He didn't speak aloud, but the words were easy to interpret, even from a distance.
"Absolute rubbish."
Peter nearly leapt from his seat again, and it took both assistants to keep him down.
When the players of both teams came out of the player tunnel in orderly formation, the head coaches of both the home and away sides stood on the sidelines. Aldridge opened his suit jacket, placed his hands in his pockets, and stood still, his face completely expressionless.
As expected, the referee called the captain of Southend United forward for the coin toss. Aldridge watched the scene from a distance, and although he could not hear what had been said earlier between the captain and his coach, the Southend player's expression spoke volumes. His face was fierce and brimming with aggression—so much so that it looked like he was ready to bite someone.
The referee blew the whistle, and the match officially began.
From the first minute, Aldridge could see that Southend United's players were charging forward with manic intensity. They pressed recklessly, lunged into tackles, and chased every ball with the kind of adrenaline-fueled urgency that bordered on desperation.
Aldridge stood calmly on the touchline and allowed himself a faint, almost amused smile.
In truth, he felt grateful to Peter Taylor.
The farce before kickoff had completely dispelled the anxiety in his chest. The tension that had gripped him in the hours leading up to the match had vanished.
Now, he felt confident.
He believed he will win his first game.