The Den reverberated with the relentless chants of Millwall supporters. From the first whistle, the home crowd created a wall of sound, pushing their team forward with the kind of raw, tribal energy that only a club like Millwall could summon.
But the match itself opened in one direction.
Southend United came out aggressively, launching wave after wave of attacks. For the opening ten minutes, the ball rarely left Millwall's half. Southend controlled territory, pressed high, and forced Millwall's back line to scramble under pressure.
Peter Taylor paced the sideline, waving his arms and barking out commands. He demanded more runs, quicker balls into the channels, constant forward movement. His team followed suit—playing direct, eager to pin Millwall deep.
By contrast, Aldridge stood calmly with his hands in his coat pockets, unmoved. His expression didn't shift, not even slightly.
From his perspective, the situation on the pitch wasn't nearly as one-sided as it appeared. Southend might have possession and territory, but they were not creating real danger. To Aldridge, it was controlled chaos—exactly the type of game he had expected.
Southend United lined up in a traditional 4-4-2. Their attacks originated either from deep in midfield or from the back line, where the full-backs and central midfielders launched long diagonal balls into the final third, aiming to find their strikers early. It was classic English direct play.
Ironically, Aldridge was using the same shape.
People often criticized English football for its continued use of the 4-4-2, calling it outdated and rigid. But Aldridge disagreed. In his eyes, the formation itself wasn't the problem—it was the way people misunderstood it.
Footballers weren't static chess pieces. A 4-4-2 didn't mean each player stood still in two flat lines for ninety minutes. It was all about fluidity and adaptation.
With the right players and instructions, the 4-4-2 could morph into countless variants mid-match. One forward dropping deep could create a diamond midfield. If the full-backs stayed narrow while the wide midfielders pushed forward, it became a tight 4-3-3. A deep-lying playmaker and double pivot could turn it into a 4-2-3-1 or even a lopsided 4-1-4-1 depending on transition moments.
Anyone who judged a team's tactics purely by their formation at kickoff was looking at the game far too simplistically.
In Italy, tactical fluidity was a science. Top managers there made three or four formation changes in a single match, adapting minute by minute. To Aldridge, this constant flexibility was one of football's greatest strategic joys.
A sudden roar rose from the stands, interrupting his thoughts.
"Hoo, that kid's really something!"
"Yeah, yeah! That's Claude Makelele, he used to play in France!"
"Makelele! Makelele!"
Fans began chanting his name in unison, and even Makelele himself turned his head slightly, surprised by the growing applause.
Peter Taylor shouted furiously from the Southend bench, frustrated at how stalled his team's attacks had become.
On paper, Southend were dominating the ball. But in truth, every time they launched a pass toward their forwards—long balls from the back line or switches from the wings—the end result was the same.
Their two strikers, who tried to pin defenders and win aerial duels, were being physically stifled by Southgate and Stam. The few times the ball dropped into dangerous areas, a quick blur of movement would arrive from the side.
That blur was always Makelele.
Time and again, the Southend forwards would try to hold up the ball or turn toward goal. But before they could take a second touch, Makelele would arrive like a shadow—intercepting the ball cleanly, stepping in from the blind side, or swiping it away without a foul.
Within the first ten minutes, the pattern was unmistakable. Frustrated by the midfield pressure, Southend's forwards began to drop deeper in search of space. But even when they did, Makelele was already there, cutting out passing lanes or dispossessing them before they could turn.
It wasn't showy. It wasn't violent. It was just ruthlessly effective.
Aldridge wasn't surprised. In modern football, people were obsessed with attacking flair. They loved talking about elegant passes, dribbling, and flashy goals. But what Makelele offered was something just as beautiful: a defensive performance that turned destruction into an art form.
He was not tall—barely 175 centimeters. He had no sculpted physique, no media-friendly appearance, and no marketing appeal. Visually, he was unremarkable.
But his anticipation, positioning, and ball-winning instincts were exceptional.
He didn't rely on brute force. His timing was perfect. His sense of danger was uncanny. And once he recovered possession, his short passing always found the right man to launch the next phase.
At his peak, Aldridge knew, Makelele would be the kind of player who could singlehandedly elevate a team's entire defensive structure. In some matches, his interceptions and transitions could be as valuable as a hat-trick.
In fact, it was no exaggeration to say that players like Casillas, years later at Real Madrid, would look back and say: If I could keep just one teammate from the Galácticos era—not Zidane, not Figo, not even Ronaldo—I would keep Makelele.
That was the kind of presence he had on a pitch.
Thanks to Makelele, every time Southend tried to play through their forwards, their momentum died in the same way. A pass into the striker. A touch. And then—gone. Makelele would either dispossess the man from behind or shut the door before the attack could begin.
There was no breakthrough.
Southend United gradually shifted their approach. After failing to break through centrally, they began attacking down the wings, aiming to swing crosses into the box and find their strikers' heads with lofted deliveries. It was an old-school aerial assault—one that had brought them goals in the past.
Jaap Stam, still young and not yet the towering general he would one day become, remained a slight liability in these moments. His biggest weakness was emotional: he often panicked in chaotic situations, rushing his decisions when placed under aerial pressure. But as long as Makelele was patrolling in front of him, Stam was shielded from facing strikers driving at him with the ball. That allowed him to stay focused on what he did best—physical duels and aerial contests.
Now, with Southend trying to isolate the full-backs and deliver balls into the box, Stam and Southgate had to be alert.
After a long period of one-sided possession, Peter Taylor began to grow visibly anxious on the touchline. He knew better than most: long spells of attacking pressure, especially away from home, often ended in disaster if not converted into goals.
"Long attacks always lead to conceding," Peter muttered to his assistant. "We can't afford to go behind here."
Another Southend push came down the right flank. Their winger sprinted past the halfway line and, just as Lucas Neill closed him down, whipped in a well-weighted cross. The delivery curled toward the penalty spot—an ideal area for a striker sprinting in from deep to rise and meet it with full momentum.
Both Southend forwards surged into the box, eyes locked on the descending ball. The crowd inside The Den collectively held its breath.
But then, a sudden cheer.
Southgate timed his run perfectly, rose above everyone, and met the ball cleanly with his forehead. He didn't try to nod it away aimlessly—instead, he directed the clearance down and out of the box, sending it bouncing toward the edge of midfield.
The ball landed cleanly at the feet of Makelele.
Applause broke out from the home stands—not just for Southgate's clearance, but for the presence of that little French destroyer, who always seemed to be where the danger ended.
And just as the applause rose, Millwall exploded forward.
Makelele didn't hesitate. With his back to goal, he controlled the ball with one touch, then turned away from the nearest pressing forward. As the Southend striker tried to close him down, Makelele shifted his weight, sold a feint, and calmly slid a pass out to the left.
The ball arrived at Lucas Neill's feet. Lucas didn't pause to dribble—he knew the script. He took a single touch and hit a diagonal ball into midfield, finding Nedvěd just shy of the halfway circle.
Nedvěd received the ball smoothly and accelerated with it. As a Southend midfielder began to close him down, he released the pass early—another sharp ball to the left, this time finding Robert Pirès, who had tucked inside from the wing and moved into the half-space outside the penalty area.
Pirès took the ball in stride.
Just outside the box, he slowed briefly—his mind flashing back to yesterday's training session.
He remembered Aldridge's tactical directive clearly: for the first thirty minutes of the match, the two wingers and the central forward were not to stretch the line or push deep into the penalty area. Instead, they were to drop, find the ball in pockets, and if there was space, attempt a shot.
Pirès had spent hours during the week mastering this pattern, but he still found it difficult to accept. He was a natural dribbler, a wide attacker who lived to beat his man down the flank and whip in crosses. Now, Aldridge was asking him not only to abandon his natural instincts—but to avoid taking players on entirely.
The same restrictions had been placed on Schneider on the opposite wing. It felt like handcuffs to players with such refined technical ability.
Pirès hesitated.
He's still young, he thought to himself. This manager... does he really know what he's doing?
But then he shook off the doubt.
I'm new here. It's his plan, not mine. Let's see what happens.
Pirès shifted the ball onto his right foot and struck a long-range shot toward goal.
It had power, but the angle was too central. The Southend goalkeeper read it well and caught the ball cleanly without needing to dive.
A collective sigh swept through The Den, followed quickly by warm applause. It wasn't a goal—but it had been the cleanest buildup so far.
On the touchline, Peter Taylor flinched. That was the fourth shot Millwall had taken in the first twenty minutes. Three of them had come from Trezeguet and Larsson. Now Pirès had joined them. None had seriously threatened the goal, but the pattern was becoming clear: Millwall weren't passive. They were waiting. Testing. Measuring.
Peter muttered something to himself and sneered.
"What is this, target practice?"
But he knew better than to laugh it off completely.
All it took was one clean hit. One ball to dip late. One deflection to wrong-foot the keeper. The danger wasn't just in the volume—it was in the rhythm.
And right now, Millwall's rhythm was growing.
He turned toward the pitch and shouted, "Push out! Don't let them wind up! Close them down!"
After Peter's sideline adjustment, Millwall's momentum began to slow. Their attacking rhythm, particularly down the right flank through Schneider, lost its edge. Positioned narrowly, operating closer to the half-space than the touchline, Schneider attempted two long-range efforts—both well struck, but neither posed a serious threat to goal. The Southend full-back, now reading his movement well, closed down his angles and gave him no space to shift wider or burst forward.
From the touchline, Peter Taylor observed all this with satisfaction. His defensive tweaks were clearly paying off. He shot a smug glance toward Aldridge, who still stood quietly with his hands in his coat pockets, his expression unreadable.
But Aldridge showed no frustration. In fact, he didn't mind the outcome of Schneider's shots at all. Even when, moments earlier, the full-back had offered Schneider the wide channel, he had deliberately refused it—just as Aldridge had instructed.
In these early stages of the season, Aldridge's priority wasn't individual brilliance or flashy wing play. It was structure. Discipline. Collective responsibility.
He knew that in this transitional phase, defensive integrity had to come before anything else. If he allowed his full-backs to bomb forward recklessly, it would leave the flanks exposed in transition. Without established chemistry or positional awareness, those gaps could be fatal.
To Aldridge, the team was a living grid. Every player, every movement, had to be part of an interconnected web. If one pushed forward, the others had to slide into shape. Until that understanding was instinctive, no one was given the freedom to abandon their role.
Now, with thirty minutes played, Aldridge checked his watch. The timing was right.
After a brief dead ball, he stepped forward to the edge of his technical area and made a subtle but clear series of gestures toward the field. His signals were sharp and pre-rehearsed.
Nedvěd caught it first. Then Pirès. Schneider saw it next. Trezeguet and Larsson exchanged a glance—then both nodded slightly.
The plan was shifting.
The first phase—restraint, patience, containment—was over.
From the corner of his eye, Aldridge looked toward Peter Taylor, who now stood calm, hands behind his back, perhaps believing the game was under control again.
Aldridge's lips curled slightly as he muttered under his breath.
"Now, we go for the kill."
...
Southend United continued to press high up the pitch, holding their defensive line near the halfway mark, but the body language of their forwards betrayed a creeping frustration. They had begun to lose heart. Time after time, they failed to win headers against the towering Jaap Stam, who dominated aerial duels with ruthless efficiency. On the ground, Claude Makélélé was constantly reading their intentions and picking their pockets with clean, perfectly timed tackles. With Gareth Southgate holding his line calmly and positioning himself smartly to cut off through balls, Southend's two strikers began to look increasingly disheartened—lost, almost defeated—each time they entered Millwall's defensive third.
On the left flank, one of Southend's wide men looked to whip in another high cross into the box. But instead of delivering early, he opted to drive toward the byline and attempt a low cut-back. His plan, however, was instantly ruined—Thuram stepped in confidently and blocked the move with a strong challenge, catching the ball cleanly as the opponent tumbled to the turf behind him. The ball remained under Thuram's control, just behind his trailing leg.
On the touchline, Peter Taylor exploded in fury, gesturing wildly as he barked toward the referee.
"What the hell was that? That's an obvious foul! That's a fucking foul!"
But the referee didn't flinch. He made no gesture, gave no signal—not even a glance toward the fallen Southend player. His expression was indifferent, and he simply waved play on. The fans inside The Den erupted in applause, their roars rising with delight at the official's decision.
Wasting no time, Thuram played it smart. Rather than charging forward recklessly, he calmly laid the ball off to the nearest teammate—Claude Makélélé. The Frenchman took the ball on the move and, before Southend's striker could fully retreat to pressure him, quickly released a short pass to Nedvěd in the centre.
Nedvěd, who had already begun turning as the pass came in, barely broke stride. He took two touches, looked up, and swept a precise long pass diagonally across the pitch to the left flank, where Robert Pirès was already starting his inside run.
Pirès shifted the ball with him as he drifted from the wing toward the half-space just outside the Southend penalty area. A defender was closing in quickly, only five meters away, ready to intercept or at least disrupt a potential long-range effort.
But Pirès remained composed. He remembered exactly what Aldridge had signalled from the touchline earlier—the game had just crossed the thirty-minute mark, and it was now time to switch gears.
His mind flashed back to yesterday's tactical session.
"In the first thirty minutes, we bombard them with long shots," Aldridge had said. "Force their line to press high. We keep them uncomfortable. When they try to push up to deny us those chances, that's when we strike. Full-backs cut inside, forwards hold their runs on the shoulder. When the defence steps out, you play it through. You and Bernd—straight ball in behind. Let them run."
Now, standing over the ball, Pirès glanced up and saw it just as Aldridge predicted.
The Southend defensive line had edged forward in response to Millwall's earlier bombardment. They were clearly trying to compress the space around the penalty area to prevent more long-range shots. In doing so, they had left a gaping pocket of space behind them—unguarded, completely exposed.
No hesitation. Pirès spotted Larsson already making his move between the centre-back and the full-back. With perfect weight and timing, Pirès slipped the ball through the gap with a low, curling pass that bisected the defensive line cleanly.
The pass wasn't particularly fast, but it was pinpoint accurate. The moment the ball was played, Larsson exploded forward. He had started his run just early enough to be level, and his acceleration was so sharp that the defenders had no time to react.
Southend's backline had grown used to Millwall's speculative long shots, and they were completely unprepared for this sudden shift in approach. Before they even realized what had happened, Larsson had already broken clear.
The centre-back tried to recover, but it was futile. With every stride, Larsson pulled further ahead. There wasn't even time to reach out, to foul—he was gone.
One-on-one.
The entire stadium rose to its feet in a wave of anticipation. All eyes were on the blond-haired Swede charging through on goal, with only the keeper left to beat.
On the sideline, Aldridge's heart pounded in his chest. His usual calm had vanished. His hands trembled slightly at his sides. For a moment, the pressure of it all—the plan, the tactics, the weeks of preparation—crashed into him.
Kick it. Kick it. Kick it!
Kick the fucking ball!
He screamed inwardly, but his throat locked. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. All he could do was breathe, eyes fixed on Larsson's every step.
The Southend goalkeeper, caught off guard, hesitated. He didn't rush out, unsure whether to commit. He stayed deep, then began creeping forward cautiously, trying to narrow the angle without overexposing himself.
Larsson reached the ball just inside the penalty area. He didn't break stride. No extra touches. No unnecessary adjustments. With elegant simplicity, he let the ball roll onto his right foot, then clipped it gently with the inside, slicing it toward the far corner with the lightest of touches.
It wasn't powerful. It didn't need to be.
The keeper, having shifted his weight to cover the near post, pushed off to his right in desperation—but the ball had already curved away. He turned his head, eyes wide, watching helplessly as the ball floated past him.
It curled softly into the far side netting. A whisper of a goal, but a deadly one.
The Den exploded.
The roar was deafening as fans leapt from their seats, fists pumping, voices breaking with joy. Grown men hugged strangers. Children danced in the aisles. The whole stadium throbbed with life.
Larsson peeled away in celebration, racing along the touchline toward the corner flag. Behind him, a wave of teammates surged in pursuit, engulfing him in a wild embrace of cheers, slaps, and grins.
The crowd at that end of the stadium unfurled hand-painted banners with player names scrawled in various national languages—Swedish, French, Czech. A beautiful, unexpected show of support. These players, new as they were, already had a place in Millwall hearts.
On the sideline, Aldridge lost all composure. He jumped up, punching the air with both fists, his face alight with raw emotion. Jenson and the rest of the coaching staff rushed over to him, caught in the joy of the moment. They shouted, laughed, bounced like teenagers. For a brief second, they were not coaches—they were fans.
It was Millwall's first official goal of the season.
And it was Aldridge Hall's first goal as a professional manager.
When the celebrations calmed, Aldridge stepped to the edge of his technical area, applauding firmly. Then, with both hands, he made a downward gesture, urging composure and focus. His voice rang out across the pitch, hands cupped around his mouth like a megaphone:
"Continue like this!"
The message was clear. Don't stop now.
On the pitch, something subtle changed. The players looked at Aldridge with renewed eyes. For weeks, he had been the intense young coach demanding discipline, structure, and repetition. But now, he was more than that—he was the man whose plan helped them score. The man who gave them belief.
In that moment, trust was forged.
On the opposite touchline, Peter Taylor's face twisted with frustration. He continued to complain bitterly to the assistant referee, convinced that Thuram's earlier tackle should have been whistled as a foul. He insisted that without that non-call, Millwall's counterattack never would have happened.
But Aldridge was no longer watching him.
He stood silently with his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, eyes still lingering on the spot where the ball had kissed the net. His heart swelled with admiration.
Henrik Larsson's finish had been sublime. A striker who could score with his head or feet, who didn't need brute force to find the net—just awareness, poise, and technique.
That finish had everything.
He didn't blast it. He didn't panic.
He simply stroked it into the corner with grace. The ball floated through the air with such elegant trajectory that for a moment, it almost shimmered.
After conceding the goal, the entire Southend United squad visibly slumped in frustration.
Perhaps in their minds, the opening thirty minutes of the match had given them the illusion of control—Millwall had posed no real threat beyond a handful of speculative long shots from outside the box. Time and again, Southend had pushed the ball deep into the opposition half and even inside the final third, yet they had nothing to show for it. In their eyes, they had been the dominant side.
And that made the goal all the more damaging, both tactically and psychologically.
On the touchline, Peter erupted, barking at his players with fury, urging them to respond with a more aggressive, unrelenting attack.
But Aldridge had already prepared for this exact moment. He quickly signaled to his players to remain composed and focused, and they responded exactly as instructed. Millwall's squad did not allow the emotion of the goal to sweep them away; instead, they maintained their structured defensive posture, every line holding firm, every player disciplined in positioning.
Southend United, for all their renewed aggression, still failed to muster anything truly dangerous. They had not managed to string together a single sequence that truly threatened Millwall's goal. In stark contrast, Millwall's own offensive rhythm was becoming increasingly fluid, sharp, and decisive.
As the first half neared its end, Millwall's attacks began to inch closer and closer to Southend's penalty area. David Trezeguet, filled with adrenaline and eagerness, mistimed a counterattack and ran too early—if not for that, he might've found himself clean through on goal with only the keeper to beat.
In first-half stoppage time, Pirès tried his luck from outside the box once more. His shot was on target but met with a solid save from the opposing goalkeeper. The rebound deflected wide, resulting in a corner kick for Millwall.
The man stepping up to the corner flag was none other than Bernd Schneider, one of the most technically refined players of his generation in German football. His crossing ability and precision on set pieces were exceptional.
Millwall's set-piece routines had been meticulously drilled during the past fortnight under Aldridge's guidance. With so many aerial threats in the squad, Aldridge had crafted multiple variations to capitalize on their strengths.
The front two—Larsson and Trezeguet—were both lethal in the air and had an uncanny knack for pouncing on loose balls during set-piece scrambles. In midfield, Nedvěd also posed a serious heading threat. And then there were the defenders: Stam, Southgate, and Thuram—all of whom had imposing presence and excellent timing on aerial duels.
Makelele and Lucas Neill stayed just outside the penalty area, tasked with guarding against any potential counterattacks. Pirès roamed between the edge of the box and the flanks, ready to react to second balls or loose clearances.
Southgate positioned himself directly in front of the Southend goalkeeper, obstructing his view and adding pressure. Larsson and Stam jostled for space inside the six-yard box, full of anticipation. Thuram floated near the front post, ready to disrupt and distract. And in the heart of the area, Trezeguet stood quietly, not engaging in a physical battle, but instead subtly shifting, almost unnoticed, away from his marker with each second.
Schneider raised his hand and extended a clenched fist into the air—a signal that all Millwall players instantly recognized. They adjusted accordingly, mentally locking into the practiced routine.
As the whistle blew and Schneider struck the ball, the delivery whipped into the area with speed—not too high, but driven with precision. As the ball sailed just beyond the reach of the nearest Southend defender, it began to dip rapidly, dropping into the danger zone at the near post.
And then, like a bolt of blue lightning, a bald-headed figure in Millwall's dark blue shirt and white shorts came diving in full stretch.
It was David Trezeguet.
He launched himself forward in a perfect diving header, his forehead meeting the falling ball with power and precision just under two meters from the goal line.
The Southend goalkeeper barely reacted. He was still rooted when the net rippled violently behind him.
The Den exploded into deafening celebration.
Trezeguet sprang up from the turf, eyes wide with delight, immediately pointing toward Schneider with an expression of shared triumph. Nedvěd wrapped his arms around him, and Pirès leapt joyfully onto his shoulders. Behind them, the stands were in chaos, fans practically leaning over the barriers to join in the celebrations.
It was the second goal—and it had come just before the break.
Aldridge, who moments earlier had been thinking about his halftime team talk, was blindsided by the timing of the goal. His eyes lit up, and with both fists raised high, he turned to the fans, motioning wildly for more noise, more celebration.
The crowd responded with roars that echoed around South London.
Jenson glanced over and laughed through tears of joy. For all his experience, he would never have expected an 18-year-old coach to exude such command. Where they had expected nerves and restraint, Aldridge showed confidence, even defiance.
He knew this squad was young, full of potential but still uncertain. They needed belief. They needed moments like this. And so, he stoked the fire, made them feel the energy, gave them affirmation from the touchline.
He led the orchestra.
Applause—warmer!
Cheers—louder!