Derby County had suffered a bitter disappointment at the end of the previous season. In the final of the promotion play-offs, they had been convincingly beaten by Leicester City in a match that lacked fire but not consequence. Missing out on promotion to the Premier League was a major blow for a club without any standout players or established stars. The weight of that defeat had lingered, casting a shadow over their preparation for the new campaign.
That shadow had been evident in their first two league matches, where they failed to register a win against teams considered to be among the weaker sides in the division. However, in recent days, Derby County's performances had shown signs of recovery. It appeared they had finally shaken off the psychological hangover and were beginning to rediscover their competitive edge.
On the afternoon of the match, Aldridge stepped out of the dressing room and made his way through the tunnel. As he passed along the players' corridor, he made a point of observing Derby County's squad. Their body language spoke volumes. Their posture was upright, their movements sharp, and their eyes carried a collective focus. It was clear that they had been mentally fired up by their coach before entering the pitch.
Aldridge viewed this as a positive sign.
He was never concerned about facing opponents who were aggressive or full of energy. On the contrary, he welcomed such encounters. The more intensity an opponent brought, the more it served to accelerate the growth and maturity of his own players. Tactically, too, such teams created the kind of open match environment where Aldridge's structured counterattacks and disciplined transitions could flourish.
What concerned him far more were the teams that approached games with caution, parking men behind the ball and stifling play. Against those sides, Millwall often found themselves restricted, struggling to find space or rhythm in attack.
As Aldridge stepped out onto the pitch, the familiar roar of The Den filled his ears. The crowd was already in full voice, their chants booming across the terraces in that signature South London tone—raw, unapologetic, and intensely loyal.
Just as he emerged from the tunnel, he heard a voice calling his name repeatedly from one of the stands nearby.
"Aldridge! Aldridge!"
He paused and turned toward the noise. In the front rows of the stand closest to the tunnel, a young man was waving a Millwall poster above his head and shouting with enthusiasm. When Aldridge focused on the fan, he immediately recognized the freckled face behind the call.
"Hey! Aldridge, it's me—Brady! Don't tell me you've forgotten! Get over here and sign this, you bastard!"
The sight made Aldridge smile involuntarily. Brady was the same age as him, and one of his childhood friends. Behind him stood a small group of familiar faces—boys he had grown up with in the local neighbourhood. Though Aldridge had spent the past few years traveling around Europe to complete his coaching education, he always returned to London during the off-season. During those trips home, he made it a point to meet up with these very friends.
He walked over toward the barrier separating the pitch from the stands. Brady handed over the rolled-up promotional poster and a pen. It was one of the club's official prints for the season: Aldridge was featured in the centre, arms folded with a confident expression, while the rest of the first-team squad stood behind him against the backdrop of the green pitch.
Aldridge signed his name neatly across the grass below his own image and then passed the poster back.
"How have things been going for you?" he asked as he handed it over.
Brady looked down at the poster and grinned.
"I've just started classes at the University of East London," he replied, still smiling broadly.
"That's good to hear," Aldridge responded with a nod.
Seeing Brady get a signature triggered a flurry of requests from the others nearby. Some handed over caps, others pulled out their matchday programmes, and a few even leaned in to get Aldridge's signature directly on their replica shirts. He obliged them all, signing one item after another with casual familiarity.
As he signed the last one, Aldridge said over his shoulder, "We should go for a drink after the game. Same place as always."
He continued signing autographs, but more fans had begun to take notice of the activity near the railing. The small group was growing, and Aldridge could see that if he stayed much longer, it might turn into a full crowd scene.
Brady leaned over the barrier again and asked with a cheeky expression, "Aldridge, are we going to win today? Derby County can be proper bastards, you know."
Aldridge didn't offer a verbal reply. He handed Brady the pen, offered a brief, apologetic gesture to the remaining fans still waiting for signatures, and turned back toward the home dugout.
Just as he was walking away, Brady shouted again, this time louder and with a wide grin, "Oi! If we lose today, don't come crying! We'll smash your face in, pretty boy!"
Aldridge paused for a moment, turned back with a smirk, and raised his middle finger in Brady's direction.
The surrounding fans erupted in laughter and surprise. A chorus of "Ooooh!" echoed through the rows. But Brady and his friends only laughed harder, clearly enjoying the joke.
"Aldridge! If we lose, we're coming for you!" one of them shouted between fits of laughter.
The rest of the fans began to catch on. They could see that the gesture was just part of a running joke between old friends. There was no insult—just South London banter between lads who had known each other since schooldays.
Millwall supporters, most of whom came from working-class backgrounds, had never cared for polished etiquette or public relations posturing. Rudeness, vulgarity, and brutal honesty were woven into the club's culture. A manager who raised his middle finger in jest was not someone they condemned—they saw him as one of their own.
If Aldridge had tried to act like a gentleman all the time, keeping a composed, polished exterior, many fans would have felt disconnected from him. They might have respected his results, but they would never have truly accepted him. But Aldridge, with his South London grit, raw humour, and total authenticity, was different.
Even the older fans in the terraces—those who had followed Millwall since the 1960s and 70s—smiled when they saw him joking with the lads in the stand. To them, he looked like a reflection of their own younger selves.
Fortunately for Aldridge, the television cameras had not yet begun broadcasting the match. The footage from earlier had been focused on pre-match commentary, so his gesture would not be making headlines across the back pages.
Once he returned to the dugout, Aldridge took his place in front of the home team's bench. With his hands tucked into the pockets of his club jacket, he stood quietly and waited for the match to begin, eyes fixed on the field ahead.
Before the match had even begun, the tension between the two sets of supporters had taken form in chants and mocking signs scattered throughout the stands.
From the visitors' section, the Derby County fans launched a jeering chorus.
"Five-one! Five-one! Five-one!"
They repeated the scoreline of their emphatic playoff win from three months ago like a mantra, weaponizing it in hopes of humiliating Millwall on their own turf.
Millwall supporters fired back with biting sarcasm.
"There was a coward at Wembley who bottled it against Leicester!"
Their message was blunt.
What exactly did Derby County gain from beating Millwall? Despite the supposed triumph, they were still stuck in the First Division—just like Millwall. Worse, while Millwall sat confidently at the top of the league table, Derby languished near the relegation zone.
This wasn't a deep-rooted rivalry. There was no historic animosity, no cultural divide. It wasn't Leeds or West Ham. It was simpler than that.
This was payback.
Three months ago, Derby had slammed the door on Millwall's dream of reaching the Premier League. Today, Millwall had a chance to answer, and perhaps, erase that pain.
The atmosphere inside The Den had become electric. The shouting battles in the stands had already erupted into full-scale tribal war, and when the referee blew his whistle to start the match, it felt like striking a match in a powder keg.
From the first touch, Derby County played with clear intent. They came forward with speed and aggression, determined to take the initiative. In the very first thirty seconds, they launched a speculative shot from outside the penalty area. It flew well wide of the post, but it was a signal—Derby had come to dominate, not to sit back.
Millwall, in contrast, appeared unsettled by the sudden onslaught.
Thuram, under pressure on the left flank, attempted a rushed clearance but sent the ball directly into the path of an advancing Derby player. This forced Makelele into a reactive foul just outside Millwall's defensive third, purely to stop the momentum.
Within the opening three minutes, Derby's high press had completely suffocated Millwall's build-up. Every attempted pass out of the back was contested, and their front line was forcing errors with relentless pressure.
In the stands, concern began to ripple among the home fans.
"What the hell are we doing?"
"This looks like we're setting up to lose!"
But on the sideline, Aldridge remained composed. His hands stayed buried in the pockets of his trousers. There was no shouting. No dramatic arm waving. He had expected this.
Derby's high press had been addressed in detail during the team's tactical briefing. Aldridge knew the difference in rhythm between Derby and their earlier opponents—Southend and Sunderland—was massive. While Southend had relied heavily on long balls and aerial duels, and Sunderland had lacked tempo, Derby had played nearly 50 matches last season and almost earned promotion. They were battle-tested.
He knew his players were simply adjusting. The opening minutes were rocky, but that was normal against such intensity. As long as they stayed mentally composed, the flow would begin to shift.
In a league like the First Division, set pieces and second-ball situations were often decisive. When Derby earned a free kick in Millwall's half, they flooded the box with bodies. Their intention was clear—win the first header and crash the goalmouth.
The delivery was whipped toward the penalty spot with pace and dip. A crowd of players rose simultaneously, jostling and flailing in the air. In the chaos, Stam positioned himself expertly. He braced against his marker and timed his leap perfectly, nodding the ball cleanly away from danger.
His clearance didn't just escape the penalty area—it was purposefully directed toward the left flank, where the recovering shape was already forming.
The ball bounced twice on the turf, skimming along the surface as a Derby player sprinted forward to intercept. But before he could reach it, Robert Pirès stepped in. With his right foot, he flicked the ball delicately over his opponent's head, executing a flawless sombrero touch. The ball soared in a smooth arc over the Derby player and landed just ahead of Pirès, who had already burst forward.
Now he had space.
Immediately, Aldridge yanked his right hand from his pocket and began waving vigorously toward Derby's goal. His voice pierced through the noise: "Keep going! No delay!"
But the instruction was unnecessary. After two matches and countless training sessions, the attacking four of Millwall had already internalized their trigger movements.
Pirès surged into the space down the left.
Henrik Larsson and David Trezeguet immediately sprinted into advanced positions through the central lanes, maintaining staggered distances to maximize options and force the Derby defenders to split.
On the opposite flank, Bernd Schneider accelerated down the right, hugging the sideline to stretch the pitch laterally.
In the space of a few seconds, Millwall's four-man front line had exploded into a full sprint across three channels. The Den erupted with noise, and the supporters who had been anxious moments ago were now on their feet, roaring in approval.
Just seconds earlier, Derby's set piece had posed a threat. Now, the momentum had swung with violent speed. Millwall's counterattack unfolded with precision and commitment.
Pirès drove the ball forward until he approached the halfway line. With defenders sprinting back toward their own goal, he didn't hesitate. He lifted his head and launched a long diagonal pass with his left foot, sending the ball across the pitch and into open space on the right wing.
The pass cleared both the backpedaling midfielders and the high defensive line. It was perfectly weighted, cutting through the air like a javelin.
Schneider was arriving at the end of the pass at full tilt, completely unmarked.
It was a golden chance—but also a demanding one.
Controlling a ball over that distance while sprinting at full speed was no easy task. The risk of a poor touch, a heavy bounce, or a misread trajectory could ruin the move entirely.
Millwall fans held their breath.
Aldridge stood motionless on the sideline, eyes fixed on the ball's flight.
This—this was the counterattacking pattern he had drilled relentlessly. Quick vertical movement. Minimal touches. Exploitation of unsettled defensive lines. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement. Only direct execution.
If the pass had been overhit, there would have been nothing to blame. But it wasn't.
Schneider judged the flight with composure and met the ball with a deft touch using the inside of his right foot. He cushioned it cleanly into his stride without breaking rhythm. The ball didn't roll two metres away. It stuck to him like a magnet. It was a perfect first touch—technical, composed, and aesthetically elegant.
Instead of taking the ball deeper down the flank, he recognized that continuing to carry it would slow the attack and allow Derby's defenders time to recover. Instead, he released it early, whipping a diagonal ball across the top of the penalty area.
It flew from right to left in a low, controlled arc, curling into the space just outside the six-yard box.
Both Larsson and Trezeguet were already in motion.
One of Derby's defenders lunged desperately to intercept, diving into a slide tackle near the penalty spot. But he missed by inches, unable to hook the ball away with his outstretched boot.
Trezeguet, marked tightly moments earlier, had slipped free. His defender, caught off balance by the failed interception, was now trailing behind.
Larsson, who had reached the left side of the penalty area first, met the cross with a soft one-touch layoff using the inside of his foot. Rather than attempting to turn and shoot, he redirected the ball into the middle of the box, placing it perfectly in Trezeguet's path.
It was an act of selflessness. A simple touch, but one that elevated the entire move.
Trezeguet took a single step forward and, with barely a moment to compose himself, struck the ball cleanly with his right foot.
The shot flew low, hard, and unchallenged toward the far post.
The Derby goalkeeper, caught mid-shuffle, didn't even have time to dive. The net rippled before he could react.
Goal.
Aldridge turned toward the dugout, raised his fist, and let out a laugh of pure satisfaction.
From defensive clearance to the back of the net, the entire move had taken just eleven seconds.
The Den exploded into chaos. Supporters hugged, screamed, and waved scarves in the air. Flags rippled across the terraces. Blue and white confetti fluttered from the upper tier.
Millwall's players, roaring with adrenaline, celebrated together in front of the home fans.
They had just scored a textbook counterattack—clinical, beautiful, devastating.
In that moment, they weren't just players. They were the blue lions of the club crest, charging as one.
And The Den? It roared in kind, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of South London.