After winning the league opener, Aldridge did not mention Peter Taylor in the post-match interviews. In his heart, even if Taylor was a proud and self-satisfied man, Aldridge had no interest in using him as a stepping stone.
As the first round of the English First Division came to a close, Millwall unexpectedly found themselves at the top of the table, followed closely by Sheffield United, Oldham, Middlesbrough, and other strong sides.
Aldridge gave the players a day off. He returned home and worked late into the night. The following morning, he arrived at the hotel where the club was holding its training camp to convene a full staff meeting and discuss the development plans for the younger players.
They began by listing the fixture schedules for the three squad tiers in the conference room.
Jenson pointed toward the projection on the big screen and said, "Before the international break in mid-September, we have seven league matches: Sunderland, Derbyshire, Bolton, Reading, West Brom, Burnley, and Tranmere. Two of those are midweek fixtures, so we'll have to play twice in some weeks. On top of that, we'll also face the first round of the League Cup next week. If we progress, the second round will be scheduled for the last week of August."
Aldridge studied the schedule on the projection screen in silence, deep in thought.
The weekend trip to Sunderland wouldn't be too difficult. Sunderland didn't possess the quality to compete for promotion this season. They had only finished mid-table last year, on the same level as Southend United, and they had made no significant signings over the summer. Their strength was middling—neither particularly strong nor particularly weak. The result would depend on performance on the day.
However, the run of matches that followed would truly test Millwall.
Last season, in the promotion play-off semi-final, Millwall had lost to Derby County by an aggregate score of 5–1. Derby went on to lose to Leicester City in the final, narrowly missing out on promotion.
Reading and West Brom had both earned promotion to the First Division last season. While they might not seem intimidating on paper, they had performed consistently and effectively in their respective campaigns.
In this stretch before the international break, Aldridge knew that stabilizing the team's mentality was paramount. The challenge wasn't simply to win—it was to avoid defeat and, more importantly, to avoid discouragement. And that kind of mental conditioning wasn't something that could be achieved just by words alone.
After a pause, he said, "We'll assign the League Cup to the bench squad. The starting lineup will focus solely on the league this season—unless we somehow reach the final, which, realistically, is very unlikely. The season is long, and I want to preserve the main lineup as much as possible with just one match a week. These players are still young. The match load needs to be managed appropriately. As for the next seven games, our objective remains unchanged: avoid defeat, and minimize the number of goals conceded. Even if all seven end in draws, I can accept that."
Upon hearing what sounded like a lack of ambition, the other coaches exchanged glances. Jenson frowned and said, "Just seven unbeaten games? Isn't that a bit low? We just won 4–0 last week. In my opinion, out of these seven opponents, we can realistically beat at least two. Drawing with teams like Tranmere and Burnley doesn't mean much. Seven draws only give us seven points. But if we win three and lose four, that's already nine points."
Everyone in the room seemed to agree with Jenson's argument. But Aldridge shook his head and calmly explained, "Last season, Nottingham Forest earned promotion in second place with 83 points. Crystal Palace finished first with 90. Out of 46 league matches, we have plenty of room to drop points early. I don't want to apply unnecessary pressure on the team at this stage. And we have to acknowledge that yesterday's 4–0 win against Southend was largely the result of the opponent's tactical flaws—not a massive gulf in overall quality. Jenson, your logic is valid. Winning three and losing four does indeed give us more points than seven draws. But I still disagree."
The coaching staff quieted down, waiting for Aldridge to continue.
"Our starting eleven yesterday had an average age of just 21. If we exclude our 25-year-old goalkeeper, Keller, then the average age of the remaining ten outfield players is probably just 20. These players cannot afford to experience failure—not now. And neither can we afford to let them fail. Failure invites questions, distrust, disappointment, loss of motivation. It scatters a young player's focus. At this critical stage of building confidence and mutual trust, defeat is the worst thing that can happen. A draw, even if it's not ideal, won't demoralize them. For a young side like ours, it could even be seen as a small success. One loss breeds regret. Two losses can be explained away as bad luck. But by the third defeat, the damage sets in. A fourth loss creates lasting psychological scars, and that doubt spreads—first from player to player, and then across the entire squad. That is how confidence collapses, and failure takes root."
Aldridge's composed tone left the entire coaching staff in stunned silence.
In truth, they were all relatively young themselves. And when tasked with managing a team, it's easy to focus on league points and standings. Maximizing results often seems like the most immediate responsibility. But Aldridge's perspective reminded them of a deeper reality—building a team was not just about accumulating points. It was about forging a mindset that could withstand the demands of a long, grueling campaign.
Aldridge gently knocked on the table and said in a composed voice, "Alright, from this moment on, we have to forget yesterday's victory. Stop looking at the standings. It doesn't matter that we're currently top of the table. Our real priority is to build this team—bit by bit. Not just through the individual development of players, but by shaping the collective spirit and temperament of the squad. That's where our attention must be. If we do that well, then victories will come as a natural result."
The coaching staff collectively exhaled, exchanging subtle smiles. At that moment, they all shared the same unspoken thought—Aldridge didn't carry himself like an 18-year-old manager. Even as they, more seasoned in age, found themselves tempted by the idea of quick success, Aldridge was astonishingly composed and methodical.
It was Babu who spoke next, clearly concerned. "Patrick made a costly mistake in the last match. He's calmed down, sure, but I'm worried this might weigh on him moving forward. I suggest easing him in—let him get comfortable with English football first. Give him some minutes with the youth team or reserve side. But right now, maybe it's best not to expose him to the pressure of another first-team match so soon."
Aldridge nodded in agreement. "Exactly. That's actually the main point I wanted us to discuss today. We've got several young players who've never played in a professional league before. Some of them have only featured at youth level. That's why I want us to properly review the reserve and youth team schedules, and come up with a clear progression plan for these boys to gain experience step by step."
Historically, Millwall had not even participated in the reserve league. Their youth setup existed more for formality than for function, and its recent impact had been minimal. However, after Aldridge took over, the philosophy shifted. He wasn't planning to immediately sell the young talents in the first team, nor did he want to leave them stagnant. Instead, he delegated several of them to the newly registered reserve side for structured development. There were now enough players to field a full team, and Millwall had officially joined the reserve league for the current season.
Jenson laid out two different schedules on the table—one for the reserve team and one for the youth team.
Aldridge spoke firmly. "Bring in the coaches of both squads, and have them bring full player profiles. We need full coordination. Our plan isn't just to get these young players minutes—we must align the reserve and youth teams with the tactical identity of the first team. That way, when a player is ready to step up, it won't feel like a completely different game to him."
In truth, this was a well-known but rarely spoken-about practice in English football. Even top clubs like Manchester United did it. A handful of lesser-known young players would be rotated into reserve teams, while the club's top prospects—the so-called "princes"—would be surrounded by supporting cast members essentially serving as practice partners. It wasn't glamorous, but it was effective.
At Millwall, the youth and reserve setups had long been little more than symbolic. Now, with Aldridge driving this internal rebuild, they were becoming vital components of the club's structure. And under his guidance, even those behind the scenes began to feel they had a meaningful role to play in the club's future.
Over the next two days, Aldridge and the entire coaching staff threw themselves into the process. They studied every young player's technical characteristics in detail, designed tailored tactical setups to help them improve, and drilled these frameworks into the reserve and youth team coaches with precision.
By Wednesday, Aldridge had shifted his focus back to the first team's immediate challenge—preparing for the away trip to Sunderland. The entire coaching staff worked tirelessly. During the day, Aldridge personally supervised training. Once the players left the pitch, he regrouped with his staff to review scouting reports, design match strategies, and plan for the weekend.
Even though he rose early and returned home late every day, Aldridge didn't feel the slightest bit fatigued. On the contrary, the sense of purpose and momentum energized him. His days were packed—training, planning, refining tactics—and when he finally returned home at night, he had no time for distractions. Sleep was his only reprieve before starting all over again.
At the Friday pre-match meeting, Aldridge noticed something different. The atmosphere in the room had shifted from a week earlier. The players sat straighter, their faces more focused. No one slouched. No one fidgeted. All eyes were fixed on him, waiting to hear what came next.
It was then that Aldridge realized—this was the beginning of real trust. The 4–0 victory over Southend had not only won them three points; it had built something far more valuable. The players now believed in him.
That was enough. He had their ears. Now he had to deliver.
Jenson stepped up to the whiteboard and began mapping out Sunderland's typical formations. Meanwhile, Aldridge addressed the squad directly.
"Our opponent this weekend is Sunderland. Last season they were a mid-table side, and nothing I've seen suggests they've improved much. Their style is hard to define because it's quite conservative. Among the top twelve teams in the division last year, they scored the fewest goals. Defensively, they were solid—conceding around the average for that group."
He gestured calmly toward the board as Jenson illustrated defensive shapes and passing lanes.
"They drew 1–1 away to Bristol City in the opening round. From what we've seen, they're putting even more emphasis on defense this season. That said, they're playing at home. So we must be careful. One lapse in focus and we could hand them the initiative."
Then Aldridge began breaking down Sunderland's typical attacking sequences and defensive behavior. After covering the key points, he stepped back toward the board and began outlining Millwall's tactical response.
"Defensively, their backline stays compact. They rarely leave space behind. That means our forwards—Henrik and David—you two need to keep moving, pulling defenders around to open channels. Robert and Bernd, your diagonal passing lanes will be critical. When our forwards make diagonal runs into the half-spaces, time your delivery. Don't force it. Once the ball's played in, if a shot isn't on, pull it back to the edge of the box. You'll both need to be ready to arrive and strike if it comes loose."
He turned to Nedvěd.
"Pavel, you're free to advance and support the attack when you see an opening. Link the midfield to the final third. Keep the ball circulating. Don't let it stagnate on one side, and don't hold it too long under your feet. Keep us fluid."
Then, stepping back to look at the whole room, he asked, "Is everyone clear?"
A unified response came from the players: "Yes, boss!"
Aldridge clapped his hands once, concluding the session.
"Excellent. The meeting's over. Let's go out there tomorrow and play a beautiful game. But remember—this is not Southend United. Treat every match as if it's the most important game of your career."
...
...
By the early 2000s, most football clubs across England were playing in newly constructed stadiums—facilities that had been either rebuilt or significantly renovated during the late 1990s. This transformation was driven by the Taylor Report, a government-backed inquiry published in the aftermath of the Hillsborough disaster, which mandated that all stadiums in the top divisions be converted into all-seater venues to ensure the safety of spectators. As a result, throughout the 1990s, clubs across the country were compelled to either redevelop their historic grounds or construct entirely new ones.
Millwall, like many others, initially had plans for a new stadium. The blueprint called for a modern, seated venue with a modest capacity of just 20,000 spectators, at a projected cost of under £20 million. However, Aldridge swiftly put a halt to those plans. Despite the financial feasibility, he felt the proposed stadium lacked ambition. From his perspective, such a project did not align with the long-term vision he had for the club. A 20,000-seat ground might have sufficed for the First Division, but Aldridge envisioned Millwall eventually playing on much bigger stages.
Sunderland was in a similar transitional phase. Their future home, the Stadium of Light, was still under construction at the time. For now, they continued to host matches at Roker Park, an aging stadium with a capacity just over 10,000. The venue had long since become unsuitable for redevelopment. Its surroundings—densely packed residential neighborhoods—left no room for expansion, a problem faced by many clubs throughout the country. After nearly a century of football history, most old stadiums were hemmed in by city growth, and the only viable solution was to find new land elsewhere and start afresh.
There was no historical enmity between Millwall and Sunderland. The fixture did not carry the weight of a rivalry, and the atmosphere at Roker Park reflected that. The local fans were relatively composed and respectful throughout the match. As Aldridge stood on the touchline, issuing instructions with calm authority, the noise inside the stadium dipped to a murmur. When he occasionally glanced toward the stands, he noticed that many Sunderland supporters were watching him with quiet curiosity. There was no hostility in their expressions—just a sense of intrigue toward the young manager who had unexpectedly taken the English football world by storm.
From the very start of the match, Aldridge realized he had made a miscalculation.
Almost immediately after kickoff, it was Millwall who seized the initiative. Despite playing at home, Sunderland showed no desire to take control. Their offensive setup was minimal, and their attacks amounted to little more than hopeful long balls launched from deep within their own half toward Millwall's back line. Time and again, their strikers failed to control these aimless deliveries, and Millwall would quickly regain possession to launch another foray forward.
But Sunderland's defensive shape was extremely conservative. Their entire back line remained compact in their own third, and the four midfielders dropped back as well, effectively forming a low block. Although Millwall had more of the ball and dictated the tempo, they committed only five players in attack. Possession advanced to the final third multiple times, but fluidity was lacking. Sunderland consistently broke up passing moves at the decisive moment, frustrating Millwall's efforts to create clear chances.
Aldridge stood on the touchline, frowning as he glanced toward Sunderland's technical area. Their coach was unfamiliar to him—just another unremarkable figure in the chaotic carousel of lower-division management.
He couldn't help but wonder: Is this supposed to be a display of weakness? Are they baiting us into overcommitting?
He folded his arms and watched in silence for a few minutes longer before returning to his seat on the bench. His brow furrowed as he muttered under his breath, "What the hell is Sunderland playing at?"
This was their home ground, and yet they were playing as if they were the away team. Was their only intention to scrape out a goalless draw?
Jenson leaned in close and whispered, "I overheard some of their fans talking. Apparently there's tension inside the club. The manager they've got now—he's new this season."
Aldridge was aware they'd changed coaches, but the internal strife was news to him. He glanced sideways at Jenson and asked quietly, "You think this is deliberate? That they're trying to lure us forward?"
Jenson gave a hesitant shake of the head. "Hard to say. But if we assume wrong and adjust too early, and it backfires, it'll be on you."
Aldridge returned his eyes to the pitch. Trezeguet had just been muscled off the ball in the box, the clearance spilling out to Pires near the edge of the area. Pires struck it cleanly on the volley.
Gasps erupted from the stands.
Aldridge instinctively straightened in his seat as he tracked the ball's flight. It was a well-timed strike, powerful and clean—but it rose just a touch too high, narrowly clearing the crossbar and thudding into the advertising boards behind the goal.
He sat back with his mouth slightly open, saying nothing.
The pace of the match remained slow and cagey. Millwall's ground-based attacks were repeatedly snuffed out by Sunderland's compact lines. Wide play was ineffective; crosses lacked penetration, and occasional shots were speculative at best.
As the clock ticked past the half-hour mark, Aldridge felt increasingly certain: Sunderland had no real intention of winning. Whether they were genuinely playing for a draw or merely feigning weakness to lure Millwall into overextending, it made no difference. Aldridge wasn't going to change his setup without reason.
Still, he felt a tinge of frustration. He couldn't afford a loss here—not because of points, but because of the psychological weight it would carry. This team was still being shaped. The confidence of young players was delicate, and momentum could swing on the smallest of setbacks.
He forced himself to stay composed. The game plan was clear. A draw was acceptable. There was no need to panic. Risking everything now might cost more than it was worth.
Yet as he watched the match unfold, his eyes narrowed.
At the top of the formation, Henrik Larsson was still running tirelessly, moving intelligently to create space and press defenders. But Trezeguet was fading. He had become increasingly isolated, his movement labored. Instead of making smart runs or linking up, he had fallen into predictable physical duels with defenders—shoulder to shoulder, back to goal—desperately trying to wrestle for control of the ball in tight areas. It wasn't working.
Aldridge sighed.
If the system remains, the personnel must change.
He turned and waved toward the bench, calling for Solskjær.
The young Norwegian had been watching the match attentively. When he noticed Aldridge gesturing to him, he looked momentarily confused. He pointed at himself, as if to ask, Me?
Aldridge nodded.
Solskjær rose immediately, half-expecting to be told to warm up. It was only the 35th minute, but given the game's rhythm, anything was possible.
Instead, Aldridge motioned for Jenson to slide down and give up his seat. Solskjær sat next to the manager, unsure of what was happening. It felt strange, even awkward, to be seated next to the boss during a live match.
Aldridge kept his eyes on the field and asked quietly, "You want to play?"
Solskjær didn't hesitate. "Of course I do."
"Then tell me—once you're on the pitch, what are you going to do?"
"Score," Solskjær replied, instinctively.
Aldridge turned toward him, speaking more firmly now. "And how will you do that? The ball won't roll itself under your feet. It won't float into the net with a single touch. So how are you going to make it happen?"
Solskjær had no immediate answer.
Aldridge's voice dropped a little, becoming more serious. "Ole, you're a clever footballer. Even from the bench, you can use your intelligence. Sit here and observe. Look closely. The only thing you need to care about is scoring, yes—but to do that, you need to understand the space. You need to read their defense. Where's the weakness? When do their lines drift apart? Watch. Think. When you do get your chance, I want you to already know exactly what to do."
Solskjær's initial excitement cooled. He no longer thought about warming up. He sat quietly next to Aldridge, eyes fixed on the pitch, trying to absorb everything—the defensive movements, the timing of transitions, the angles opening up between the lines. In a game this stale, it would be the subtle moments that counted.
When the halftime whistle blew, the score was still 0–0.
Back in the locker room, Aldridge addressed the squad with calm conviction. He praised the team's composure and organization in the first half, acknowledging the difficult circumstances created by Sunderland's ultra-defensive approach. No tactical changes were ordered. It was clear to everyone that Sunderland had parked numbers behind the ball, with little intention of playing. And unless Aldridge decided to push someone like Nedvěd further forward or unleash full-backs into aggressive overlaps, breaking down such a block was nearly impossible without leaving gaps behind.
But Aldridge wasn't going to compromise his defensive shape. Not at this stage of the season. Not away from home. Not when the psychological risk of conceding on the counter was too high. They would maintain the structure.
As the players prepared to return to the pitch, Aldridge caught up with Trezeguet near the tunnel, placing a hand on his shoulder to hold him back as the others jogged ahead.
"David," he began in a quiet, level tone, "you're our striker—the one the crowd watches, the one defenders are always chasing. Your goal can destroy the entire balance of their team. But listen carefully—your job is not to beat your man. It's not to win a duel or show who's stronger. The only battle that matters is the one between the ball and the net. Don't get caught up trying to win personal contests. Lose the defender, find space, and finish. That's how you beat them."
Trezeguet, slightly flushed and still sweaty from the first half, rubbed his shaved head in frustration. He was well aware of his underwhelming performance before the break. His movement had been sluggish, his decisions reactive rather than intelligent. He had spent more time wrestling with defenders than playing football.
"I understand, boss," he said softly.
Aldridge gave his back a firm pat. "Good. Don't pressure yourself too much. Just stick to what we talked about before the match. Go on."
When the second half kicked off, Trezeguet's energy was noticeably different. His runs were sharper, his anticipation more focused. He stopped engaging in fruitless physical battles and instead began making angled movements to drag defenders out of shape.
But Sunderland, having gained defensive confidence from their first-half performance, held their line deep and firm. Despite the improved effort from both Larsson and Trezeguet, the back four continued to frustrate them, keeping clear chances to a minimum.
Then came the 55th minute.
Larsson received the ball inside the penalty area, shifted his weight, and delicately lifted the ball with the outside of his boot—a disguised chip that floated behind the defensive line.
Trezeguet had already timed his diagonal run to perfection. He slipped past the center-back marking him, leaned forward, and powered a header toward goal.
Aldridge jumped to his feet instinctively, eyes locked on the ball's flight.
That's it. That's the one.
The ball soared toward the far post, curving just enough to beat the keeper's outstretched fingers.
In, in, just go in—
Clang!
The ball struck the inside of the post and ricocheted out, skipping along the goal line before rolling out of play for a goal kick.
Aldridge clenched his jaw in disbelief. "Bloody hell! Sunderland's got angels on their crossbar!"
On the pitch, Trezeguet remained on his knees, hands pressed to his bare head in disbelief. He had done everything right—lost his marker, timed the run, connected with purpose—and still, it hadn't gone in. The frustration was visible in every inch of his posture.
By the 70th minute, Aldridge made his move.
He gestured toward Solskjær, who had already been warming up. It was time.
As the substitution board went up, Aldridge waited by the touchline for Trezeguet. The young Frenchman jogged off slowly, looking dejected. Aldridge stepped forward to meet him, speaking with quiet encouragement.
"David, I'm satisfied with your performance. You were in the right places, and you kept their defenders working. You just didn't get the break today."
Trezeguet shook his head stubbornly. "Give me five more minutes, boss. Just five. I can score, I swear."
Aldridge smiled faintly. "Don't be dramatic. We've got forty-four more matches to play this season. If I let you burn yourself out every week chasing that one goal, you'll be finished by December. You want that?"
Trezeguet exhaled heavily and gave a small nod, knowing Aldridge was right. Millwall had a congested fixture list ahead—especially with the league's relentless two-games-a-week rhythm just around the corner.
As the Frenchman took his seat on the bench, Aldridge remained standing near the technical area. He wasn't going to relax—not when the game was still hanging in the balance. His presence alone served as a reminder to the players: the focus had to stay sharp. The last fifteen minutes were critical. Any lapse could undo the disciplined work they had put in.
Aldridge had come to terms with the idea of a draw. Given how tightly Sunderland had played, it wasn't a result to be ashamed of. As long as they didn't concede, he could walk away without regret.