The match between Millwall and Sunderland had quietly entered the 85th minute, yet the deadlock remained unbroken. Both sets of players, and even many among the coaching staff and supporters, had begun to accept the inevitability of a goalless draw.
From the touchline, Aldridge Hall stood with arms folded, his gaze steady but resigned. As pragmatic as ever, he knew that while the draw wouldn't set pulses racing, it was a fair reflection of the match. Millwall had not carved out many clean chances. Their attacking play, while structured and occasionally threatening from distance, lacked the fluid sharpness needed to crack open Sunderland's low-block system.
But football rarely adheres to expectation. And when a breakthrough arrives, it often does so quietly—hidden in a routine moment, disguised as just another phase of play.
On the right flank, young Schneider received the ball under little pressure. After over 80 minutes of action, Sunderland's defenders had grown accustomed to his pattern: a quick look up, then a predictable delivery from the channel—either a curling cross from 45 degrees out or a low driven pass angled between the opposing full-back and centre-back. But this time, Schneider broke script.
He shaped to whip it in early but threw in a sudden feint, dragging the ball with the outside of his foot and gliding inside, pulling his marker with him. The Sunderland right-back stepped forward to close down the expected pass, but Schneider, quick on his feet, shifted laterally across the edge of the final third, delaying the delivery just long enough to disrupt the opposition's line.
Then came a disguised pass—angled diagonally toward the right edge of the box, just outside the D.
A solitary figure peeled off the shoulder of the centre-backs to receive it.
Solskjær.
Since coming on for Trezeguet, the Norwegian forward hadn't occupied traditional striker spaces. Instead of drifting behind the backline, he hovered at the edge of the final third, darting between pockets and searching for soft spots in Sunderland's compact defensive shape. Though he hadn't yet been involved in a major threat, his movement unsettled defenders—forcing them to check their lines more often than they'd like.
Now, in the dying moments of regulation time, he emerged in precisely the kind of position he'd been hunting all game. Arriving at the top of the penalty arc, he found himself in several square yards of unclaimed space.
He received Schneider's pass cleanly on the half-turn. But he didn't stop to adjust or set himself. He didn't need to.
His instincts had already processed the entire sequence before the ball even reached him.
With the penalty area crowded and no space to bring the ball under control, Solskjær opted for a first-time shot. He rolled his right foot over the ball and swept it low with the inside of his foot, dragging it diagonally across his body—aiming for the top right corner of the Sunderland goal, where the keeper's reach would be weakest.
From the touchline, it looked like a rainbow beginning to rise—not in flight, but in its shape: a curving arc gliding toward glory.
But just as the ball arced inside the box, it clipped something.
Solskjær's eyes widened in disbelief as the shot deflected violently and popped back out of the penalty area. A touch too sharp, too unnatural. It wasn't a block. It was a ricochet.
He immediately spun toward the referee, his right hand shooting up in appeal while his left smacked his bicep for emphasis. "Handball! Ref! That's handball!"
Several of his Millwall teammates echoed the cry, raising their arms and sprinting toward the edge of the area in protest. From their angle, the contact was clear—the ball had struck the arm of Sunderland's retreating defender, who had leapt to close down the shot.
At almost the exact moment, the referee's whistle pierced the noise at Roker Park. He jogged forward with purposeful strides and pointed firmly toward the spot.
Penalty!
The reaction was instant. Groans exploded from the stands, and a small circle of Sunderland players rushed the referee in protest. But the official's expression didn't flinch. His decision had been made. The defender's arm was raised unnaturally during the block, and the deflection altered the shot's trajectory entirely. It was a textbook handball under 1994 regulations.
Aldridge, standing near the technical area, couldn't see the contact clearly from his angle. But instinct took over. The moment Solskjær began his appeal, Aldridge shouted, "That's handball!" without hesitation. When the whistle confirmed the penalty, he offered no further commentary—just a sharp, approving clap and a flicker of a smile.
Henrik Larsson stepped forward to take the spot-kick. Despite the rising wall of jeers and boos cascading from the stands, his expression remained unreadable. He placed the ball with care, glanced once at the goalkeeper, and waited.
The whistle blew.
With his trademark calm, Larsson sent the keeper diving the wrong way and slotted the ball low to the opposite side.
Millwall 1, Sunderland 0.
Aldridge let out a long, quiet exhale and began clapping from the sidelines, urging composure and defensive shape. A draw would have been acceptable, but a win—away from home and earned late—was far more valuable. Not just for points, but for belief.
Three minutes remained in regulation time, with an expected five minutes of stoppage to follow. Sunderland, desperate not to lose on home soil, threw everything forward in the final push. They committed numbers, overloaded both flanks, and tested Millwall's back line with a barrage of long balls and crosses.
But Millwall held firm.
Makelele harassed every second ball. Stam dominated the aerial duels. Thuram, calm and clinical, played with the focus of a general guarding a fortress.
Then, in the final minute of injury time, the counterpunch came.
Sunderland, fully stretched and vulnerable, pushed their centre-backs high. A desperate lobbed cross from the right was met by Stam, who rose with typical command and nodded the ball firmly out to the right. Thuram stepped up and met the bounce with a first-time clearance, launching it deep into the centre circle.
Larsson, retreating from the front line, challenged for the header. He didn't try to control it—just nudged it backwards into open space.
And there was Solskjær again.
Timing his run to perfection, he burst past the half line just as Sunderland's defenders tried to reset. The linesman kept his flag down—he had timed the release to the millisecond. Now it was a footrace with only the goalkeeper left to beat.
Solskjær didn't hesitate.
Just outside the penalty arc, with the keeper rushing out to close the angle, he glanced up once, then passed the ball firmly into the bottom-right corner—calm, accurate, composed.
2–0.
In under twenty minutes on the pitch, Ole Gunnar Solskjær had changed the game. One penalty created, one goal scored. And with it, Millwall secured a precious away victory.
As the final whistle sounded, the players ran to embrace the young Norwegian. Aldridge remained still for a moment, hands behind his back, nodding slowly. He wasn't surprised. This was precisely why he had brought Solskjær in.
After the final whistle, Aldridge briskly made his way toward the opposing technical area, extending a firm handshake to Sunderland's manager. He offered a polite nod—there was no need for words—and without lingering, turned and walked straight down the tunnel, his thoughts already shifting to what came next.
In the mixed zone, he stopped only briefly for media duties. Reporters jostled behind the barriers, hoping for soundbites, but Aldridge—calm and unflustered—gave them little.
"Sunderland were very organized throughout," he said evenly. "We won thanks to the team's consistency, but also—let's be honest—there was a touch of luck involved. I just hope that good fortune continues to follow us."
With that, he moved on, leaving the reporters scribbling down what few words he'd offered.
The win marked Millwall's second consecutive victory to start the league campaign—two matches, six points—and temporarily kept them atop the First Division table. But for Aldridge, early standings meant little. His eyes weren't fixed on weekly rankings; they were fixed on performance, development, and sustaining momentum across a long and grueling season.
And the schedule was about to turn unforgiving.
What followed was the beginning of a demanding stretch: a run of midweek and weekend fixtures that would test both stamina and squad depth. The team had just three days to recover before returning to The Den to host their first match of the League Cup campaign.
The opponent: Plymouth Argyle, a Fourth Division side—two tiers below Millwall.
Aldridge saw it as an opportunity.
Not to underestimate the fixture, but to rotate heavily and assess the readiness of his younger players.
He submitted a lineup that would raise eyebrows for its boldness.
Starting XI vs. Plymouth Argyle (League Cup, 1st Round)
Goalkeeper: Hans-Jörg Butt
Defenders: Phil Neville , Dean Richards, Marco Materazzi, Gianluca Zambrotta
Midfielders: David Beckham, Patrick Vieira, Michael Ballack, Jesper Grønkjær
Forwards: Kevin Phillips, Ole Gunnar Solskjær
The average age of the starting eleven was just under 20. A raw, energetic unit—brimming with potential, short on experience.
Aldridge didn't place much sentimental value on the League Cup. He was well aware that for clubs outside the top flight, the tournament rarely presented a realistic opportunity for silverware. Still, that didn't mean he intended to throw away the fixture.
Even in defeat, lessons had to be learned. He demanded that his players leave something behind on the pitch—growth, experience, resilience. A loss without value was unacceptable.
From the very first whistle, Aldridge prowled the touchline with intensity, offering constant directives and adjustments. This wasn't just matchday—it was a developmental crucible.
The attacking emphasis of his rotated side came largely from the centre and right flank. Unlike the first-choice lineup, Aldridge didn't deploy Nedvěd, whose creative influence often carried their build-up down the left. Instead, he granted Ballack freedom to push forward aggressively through the middle, while David Beckham—positioned wide on the right—functioned like a long-range tactical missile. Although his iconic curling crosses had yet to achieve fame, Aldridge knew what Beckham was capable of. If ten or twenty of those long diagonals could carve open even a few threatening moments, it would already validate his inclusion.
On the opposite flank, Grønkjær provided pace in abundance. The Danish winger's acceleration was startling—his raw 100-metre sprint time could match a track athlete's—and Aldridge gave him a license to exploit that speed freely.
The match itself was far from a spectacle. Against lower-tier opposition like Plymouth, there was no coherent rhythm, no tactical chess match—just a scrappy, vertical contest with the ball frequently airborne, bouncing between lines, bypassing midfield.
But Aldridge wasn't looking for poetry. He was watching for personality.
And some players stood out.
Kevin Phillips led the line with hunger, netting a well-deserved hat-trick. His movement off the ball, instinct inside the box, and cool finishing displayed a level of sharpness beyond his years. Beckham, meanwhile, provided a passing clinic. His distribution was inch-perfect, repeatedly launching precision long balls from wide and central zones alike—stretching Plymouth and unlocking space.
Despite the final scoreline of 4–3, the match revealed plenty of defensive frailties. Ballack's advanced positioning frequently left Vieira isolated in front of the back four, and although the Frenchman handled his duties with effort, it was clear he couldn't plug every gap on his own. Millwall's young and inexperienced defence was stretched time and again, especially in transition.
Plymouth, to their credit, generated more clear-cut chances than Millwall. Were it not for several crucial saves from Hans‑Jörg Butt, Millwall's cup campaign might have ended before it began.
After the match, Aldridge addressed the media with reserved satisfaction. He praised the spirit of his youthful side, particularly those making their professional debuts.
"For many of these lads, this was their first senior game," he said. "Winning's always a bonus, but the real value tonight was what they learned. And they showed they belong here."
But there was little time to rest.
In four days, Millwall would return to league action at The Den—this time against a team that still left a bitter taste in the mouths of the fans: Derby County.
Just three months earlier, Derby had crushed Millwall's Premier League dream, dismantling them 5–1 on aggregate in the promotion play-off semi-finals. That humiliation, coupled with minor clashes between fan groups, had left a scar.
And Aldridge hadn't forgotten.
Tactically, he planned to stick with the same framework that had brought three straight wins to start the season. But mentally, emotionally—he knew the squad needed to be fired up.
At the team meeting the night before the game, Aldridge delivered his usual tactical breakdown, going over Derby's shape, recent results, and danger men. But when he finished the whiteboard session, he didn't dismiss the squad immediately.
Instead, he paused.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room as the players looked at one another. Aldridge stood still, arms crossed, lips slightly pursed. His expression hardened. Then, after several seconds, he raised his chin and scanned the room slowly.
"Do any of you," he began, "know what Derby County means to this club?"
Most of the squad remained quiet. The majority had only been in England for two or three months—many of them still learning the language, let alone the club's history. Even Beckham and Neville appeared unsure.
Aldridge's gaze landed on Southgate, who sat near the front, arms folded thoughtfully.
"Gareth?" Aldridge prompted.
Southgate gave a small shrug. "They beat us in the play-off semi-final last season. It's a revenge match."
Aldridge nodded. "Exactly."
But he didn't stop there.
His tone sharpened, and the edge in his voice carried across the room.
"Yes. Last season, they stood in our way. If we'd beaten them, we might be playing in the Premier League right now. Instead, we're still here—still in the First Division—because we collapsed against Derby County. And do you know what they've done since?"
He grabbed the marker and scrawled three results on the board.
Lost to Barnsley. Drew with Luton.
Then he turned back to the team.
"A joke. A complete joke. Derby took just one point from their first two games. And now, they're coming to our ground. To The Den."
He paused again.
"They think they can walk in here and take three points. Why? Because they crushed us three months ago. They humiliated this club and used us as a stepping stone to Wembley. They didn't even win the final—lost to Leicester, in case you forgot—but that doesn't matter. What matters is they walked through us. And now, they think we're still soft. Still weak. Still the same team they destroyed."
The room was now silent, the players' attention fully locked.
"What do we do?" he said coldly. "Do we let them stroll in here and pretend nothing happened? Tell them it's water under the bridge? Shake their hands and say, 'Welcome back to The Den'?"
His voice rose slightly.
"Hell no. I want to see tears. I want to see them suffer. They should leave here wondering how the hell they ever beat Millwall. They should go home shattered, broken, and humiliated."
He swept his eyes across the group.
"If we want this league—if we want to rewrite last season's story—it starts tomorrow."