Since taking over Millwall during the summer, Aldridge had barely had a moment to breathe. Each day blurred into the next, leaving him almost dizzy from the sheer intensity of it all. Within just two months, he had completed a full-scale restructuring of the club, tearing down the old framework and building an entirely new team from the ground up.
Once the season began, his schedule became even more demanding. On weekdays, he devoted himself fully to first-team training—especially to the tactical drills he personally supervised with painstaking detail. Even at night, he buried himself in match data, analysing upcoming opponents and searching for any edge he could find. And that was only half of his job.
Outside of the first team, Aldridge made it a point to attend every home game played by the reserves and the youth squad. He did this not just for scouting, but as a deliberate message to the players waiting in the wings.
He wanted young talents like Ballack, Van Nistelrooy, Gattuso, and the rest to know that their arrival at Millwall was not random or careless. Aldridge's presence at those matches was a clear signal: they mattered. The club had plans for them.
During regular training sessions, when the first-team players were given a breather, Aldridge often took time to speak with the younger players. His advice was concise, never rambling, always direct. But that small gesture made all the difference.
It was this steady, personal approach that earned him unquestioned authority in the dressing room. In the eyes of the players, Aldridge was the head coach—completely and absolutely.
The following day, Millwall would face another away fixture in the midweek league schedule. By the training pitch, Aldridge stood dressed in his coaching tracksuit, speaking with Jenson about the latest developments.
"Six players recommended to rest?" Jenson blinked in disbelief. "Seriously? That's a bit much, isn't it? Physically, they all seem fine. Sure, the schedule's been tight, but they've pushed through so far. Two more matches over the next seven days, then we get a full week to recover."
Aldridge folded his arms and looked out across the training ground, watching his players carefully. He spoke calmly, almost to himself.
"Larsson joined us right after the World Cup. Trezeguet's only been in England for less than two months. Lucas is still seventeen. Pires, Schneider, and Makelele have all played in every match so far. Dr. Sampson thinks they need rest—and honestly, I agree."
He turned back to Jenson. "You're right, they could probably grit their teeth and survive another week. But Dr. Sampson made a good analogy that convinced me."
"Oh?" Jenson tilted his head. "What kind of analogy?"
"A spring," Aldridge replied. "He said the body's fatigue load is like a spring being compressed. If you don't combine work with proper rest, you keep pressing the spring down little by little. Eventually, you reach the limit. And when that spring rebounds, the force explodes back into the body, damaging it. Worse, each time it reaches the limit, the spring weakens. The next time it's compressed, it might just break."
Jenson stared at him, slightly wide-eyed. "Sounds dramatic. Isn't he exaggerating a little?"
Aldridge smiled and shook his head. "He's a sports medicine expert. If we don't listen to him, who should we listen to? And besides, he convinced me. Long-term, I want these players to have healthier, longer careers. That matters more than scraping out one or two results now."
Jenson could see Aldridge had made up his mind. He exhaled slowly, eyebrows furrowed.
"If we take six starters off the pitch, we can replace most of them. Two strikers? Phillips and Solskjær can handle that. Wings? Grønkjær and Beckham. Zambrotta can slot in at full-back. But Makelele's position… that one's difficult. Vieira's not ready, and I doubt Gattuso's consistent enough yet."
He paused, mentally running through the options.
But Aldridge had already moved on. "Don't overthink it. If we're going to rotate, let's go all in. No half-measures. I'll leave the main eleven in London to rest. Tomorrow, we take the full second team to Tranmere. If the bench isn't deep enough, we'll call up two or three players from the reserves."
Jenson looked at him, astonished. He hadn't expected that level of decisiveness.
If the regular starters needed rest, most managers would try to balance things—half starters, half subs. But Aldridge wasn't interested in balancing. He was committing fully to the rotation.
And suddenly, it made sense.
The first-team squad had only been assembled two months ago. In training, the starting eleven and the bench had clearly developed separate rhythms and patterns. Mixing the two could disrupt everything.
Pairing Vieira with Nedvěd in midfield might sound fine on paper, but that didn't mean the chemistry would work. As a transitional bridge in midfield, Nedvěd might not connect well with Beckham or Grønkjær.
Rather than bring a patchwork lineup into a difficult away game, Aldridge would hand the reins entirely to the second string. That way, he avoided resentment from bench players who felt overlooked and ensured tactical coherence on the pitch.
Jenson nodded, seeing the logic.
If the team walked onto the pitch disjointed, frustrated, or unsure of themselves, they would likely lose the match anyway. So why not give the backup squad a proper run?
He found himself genuinely admiring Aldridge's courage and clarity. Every point in the league mattered—but Aldridge clearly wasn't going to obsess over individual results.
Jenson looked ahead toward the training ground and exhaled deeply.
Perhaps Aldridge was right. If this team matured the way he believed it would, then the wins would come. Naturally, inevitably and in time.
Morning training was drawing to a close. Aldridge stepped onto the pitch, clapped his hands sharply, and brought the session to a halt. As the players turned their attention toward him, their faces still dripping with sweat, Aldridge addressed them calmly.
"The eleven players who started the last league match will not participate in this afternoon's session," he said. "You'll return to the hotel, and Dr. Thompson will oversee your recovery training. You also have tomorrow off. The rest of you—be back here this afternoon as usual. That's when I'll announce the starting lineup and tactical instructions for tomorrow's game. Any questions?"
The players glanced at one another, slightly puzzled.
Southgate raised an eyebrow. "Boss, aren't we playing away tomorrow? You mean we're not even on the squad list?"
Aldridge smiled. "That's right. Dr. Thompson recommended rest, and I agree. Consider it a short break. Spend time with your families, see friends, go for a walk. But understand this clearly—it's a recovery period, not an excuse to indulge yourselves. In five days, we have another league match. If any of you fail to meet Dr. Sampson's fitness expectations by then, don't be surprised if you find yourselves on the bench."
The mention of recovery training with Dr. Thompson actually drew some excitement from the regular starters.
They liked Dr. Thompson. His sessions often included therapeutic massages, light hydrotherapy, and relaxation routines at the hotel—hot baths, swimming, and muscle care that left them feeling refreshed and comfortable. The only consistent complaint from the players was the hotel's bland and health-focused diet.
Still, the word "holiday" caught many of them off guard. Their immediate reaction was to wonder whether Aldridge was dissatisfied with their narrow wins in the last few games.
But once they listened carefully to his explanation, they understood—this was not punishment, but part of a long-term, balanced plan.
Even players like Keller, Nedvěd, and Southgate—none of whom felt physically fatigued—accepted the decision without protest. They knew the season was long. With forty-six league games on the schedule, pacing themselves was not just smart, it was necessary.
Meanwhile, the players who had been on the bench were thrilled. With no reserve or youth matches this week, their only chance to prove themselves was on the training ground. But now, unexpectedly, they had the opportunity to start in a league match.
Although they had featured in the earlier rounds of the League Cup, those opponents had been from the lower leagues—Third and Fourth Division clubs. Playing against proper First Division opposition was a different level entirely.
They were eager, motivated, and determined to prove that they belonged. This was their chance to show Aldridge they could compete for a place in the regular starting eleven.
After the team disbanded and returned to the hotel, the players had lunch and took a short rest. In the afternoon, when Aldridge arrived at the training ground, something important crossed his mind—something he had overlooked.
Who would wear the captain's armband in tomorrow's match?
He quickly realised that all three of Millwall's current captains were part of the main lineup and therefore resting.
In the League Cup, Solskjær had worn the armband. As one of the more experienced substitutes, he had been a natural choice. But cup matches were one thing. A league fixture required more than a temporary solution.
It needed a clear leader—someone with authority and presence.
On the pitch that afternoon, only fifteen first-team players were present. The other eleven remained at the hotel.
The group stood waiting, full of energy and expectation. Everyone assumed Aldridge would begin outlining the tactical plan for the upcoming match.
But instead, they watched curiously as their manager paced back and forth, deep in thought.
Their eyes followed him left to right, then right to left again. His silence and repeated pacing made them restless.
Aldridge appeared completely absorbed, his head slightly lowered, as if he were mentally reviewing a battlefield map.
One by one, he began to eliminate candidates in his mind.
The primary substitutes—Dean Richards, Zambrotta, Butt, Ballack, Solskjær, Phillips, and Grønkjær—were ruled out. These players might need to step in for injured or suspended starters in future matches. In other words, they were too close to the core of the main squad to serve as permanent leaders of the backup group.
That left only a few names.
Beckham and Neville were quickly excluded. Both were still too young and too new.
The decision now came down to just two options: Vieira and Materazzi.
Aldridge stopped walking.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the captain's armband. Without a word, he walked straight up to the tall, imposing figure of Marco Materazzi and handed it to him.
Materazzi blinked in confusion. "Boss? Me?"
He instinctively glanced toward Solskjær, who had captained the side in the League Cup. Why the change?
Aldridge answered matter-of-factly. "If one of the main strikers gets injured or suspended, Ole is the first name off the bench. But this group—this lineup—is the foundation of our backup unit. It needs a dedicated captain. From today on, Marco, you're the fourth team leader."
He looked Materazzi in the eye. "I'm not asking whether you're qualified. I'm asking whether you want it. Can you take responsibility for this team? Can you lead?"
Materazzi's qualities were well known: aggressive, fearless, and physically dominant. He had come up through the rugged regional leagues of Italy, where survival meant strength and sharp elbows. His temper could flare quickly, and his style was not always elegant. But Aldridge saw something else in him—potential.
If Materazzi could begin to internalize the meaning of leadership—team before self, discipline before pride—he might grow into a true pillar of the squad.
Materazzi grinned and slipped the armband into his pocket. Then he turned to his teammates with a wicked smile.
"From today, I'm the captain," he declared. "Anyone slacking in training or taking it easy on the pitch—I'll knock your teeth out."
Laughter erupted around the group, and Aldridge smiled to himself.
...
...
The following day, away from home against Tranmere, Aldridge's Millwall suffered their first league defeat.
Before the match, both Aldridge and his entire coaching staff had approached the fixture with a sense of calm. Following the opening round of the league, the internal plan was clear: avoid defeat in the next seven league matches leading into the international break. Even a string of draws would be acceptable. As long as they reached seven points from rounds two to eight, Aldridge would be satisfied.
In the five rounds following the opening game, Millwall had recorded three wins and two draws, collecting eleven points during that stretch. Combined with the three points from their opening victory, they now stood on fourteen points in the league table.
More importantly, through the first six rounds of the season, Millwall had not conceded a single goal. The team's defensive structure had been firmly established, and as they approached the seventh round—fielding a rotated, second-string lineup—Aldridge placed little emphasis on the result. For him, the priority was to give match experience to his bench players and observe their individual development.
However, this round proved more challenging than anticipated. Playing away to Tranmere, Aldridge regretted overlooking them during pre-season evaluations. A side he had not regarded as a serious threat had quietly built strong momentum, particularly at home, where they had won four of their opening six matches. Their two defeats had come away from home, not at Prenton Park.
Tranmere's strength on their home turf gave Aldridge second thoughts about rotating too aggressively. Yet even when deploying a defensive-minded 4-4-1-1 formation, with Solskjær dropping deeper as a second striker and wide midfielders like Beckham and Grønkjær prioritizing defensive responsibilities, it wasn't enough. Ballack operated in central midfield, while Vieira anchored the holding role.
Despite the conservative setup, Tranmere mounted an aggressive, high-tempo attack that tested Millwall repeatedly. Their performance at home was anything but inconsistent. It was sharp, direct, and relentless.
Over the course of the match, Tranmere registered 25 total shots, with 10 on target. Millwall, by contrast, had fewer than half that number.
The final score was 2–1. Millwall's undefeated run came to an end.
Yet Aldridge felt no disappointment—only a quiet acknowledgment that the outcome had fallen within expectations.
After all, Grønkjær, Zambrotta, Ballack, Beckham, Neville, Vieira, and even Solskjær and Butt had only just begun their professional league journeys this season. Most of them had little to no experience at this level prior to the campaign.
Expecting such a youthful, inexperienced squad to secure an away victory against a Tranmere side that had been perfect at home was unrealistic. If they had managed it, professional football would have seemed far too easy.
Their two consecutive wins in the League Cup were due in part to opponents underestimating them—many fielded weakened lineups, and both matches had taken place at The Den, giving Millwall the advantage of home support.
Losing by a single goal away to a team like Tranmere didn't bother Aldridge. In his eyes, the purpose of this match had been achieved. The young players had experienced the intensity of a competitive away fixture. They had begun to adjust to the rhythm of league football. Though they left with no points, they gained something far more important: experience.
After the match, the visiting team's locker room had been wrecked—smashed apart by Materazzi.
It was his first time wearing the captain's armband, and he had failed to lead the team to a victory. Not even a draw had been salvaged. The hot-tempered Materazzi did not blame any of his teammates, but the sense of frustration was overwhelming. When he returned to the already shabby dressing room after the final whistle, he could no longer hold it in. By the time he had calmed down, the visitors' locker room had been left in ruins.
In the mixed zone, Aldridge faced the press for post-match interviews. The reporters, many of whom seemed eager to cause discomfort, bombarded him with aggressive questions.
"Millwall came here with a lineup full of bench players to challenge Tranmere. Wasn't that underestimating the opponent? Did the unbeaten run in the first six rounds make you believe that every match could be won easily?"
"Tranmere accuses Millwall of dirty play. Materazzi should have been sent off in the first half. Do you agree with that view?"
Despite the loss, Aldridge showed no sign of agitation. He responded with a faint smile and maintained a calm demeanor.
He acknowledged Tranmere's strong spirit and performance at home, praising them as the best home side in the First Division so far. However, he never said anything directly about his own team.
When asked about Materazzi's aggressive defending, Aldridge answered carelessly, "This is the United Kingdom. I think Materazzi's performance is in line with the English standard for defenders. If every one of his actions counts as a foul, then central defenders in the First Division can only play about ten matches per season and would spend the rest suspended."
The attempts by reporters to provoke him failed. Even after suffering the team's first defeat in the league, Aldridge showed no loss of composure or class.
There was nothing to be gained from losing the match and then losing his dignity as well. Aldridge was not someone who would allow that kind of loss to happen.
After finishing the interview, Aldridge returned to the away team's dressing room, expecting to find the players preparing to leave. However, by the time he arrived, the coaches and squad had already gone. Only one person remained—Materazzi sat alone on the bench, staring blankly into space.
Looking at the smashed door and the pieces of broken wood scattered across the floor, Aldridge walked over slowly and took a seat beside him.
Materazzi had played well. That was clear in Aldridge's mind.
The team had been repeatedly breached by Tranmere, but most of the threats had come from the exposed flanks, particularly the gaps left behind Neville and Zambrotta. With the midfield's ball-winning capacity declining late in the game, it was not the fault of the central defenders that the back line had been placed under pressure.
"We lost. Are you unhappy?" Aldridge asked in a low voice.
"Should I be happy?" Materazzi replied, his tone filled with discomfort.
Aldridge responded gently, "I'm happy. Because I saw the results of the last two months of training. Marco, you performed well today. I would give you nine out of ten. This is professional football. It's not a video game. You can't expect a team with an average age under twenty to become invincible after less than three months of work. On the road to becoming the strongest team, there must be defeats. But if every defeat is better than the one before it, then that means we are making progress."
Materazzi lowered his head slightly, but his expression softened. He nodded in silence.
"I know why you're unhappy. Part of it is the loss itself. The other part is pride—your pride as captain. But that's exactly why, as captain, you cannot stay like this. You need to lift your head and square your shoulders. You need to show your teammates through your actions: we lost today, and we lost fairly, but next time, we'll win with our heads held high."
Aldridge's words carried no tone of lecturing. It felt more like a sincere conversation between two men, one of them trying to guide the other back onto his feet.
With a small chuckle, Materazzi turned toward him and asked, "Boss, you gave me nine points today. What about everyone else?"
Aldridge pursed his lips and replied, "Richards got eight. Butt also got nine. The two forwards each earned seven. The two full-backs got six. Beckham and Grønkjær earned seven."
Aside from Beckham and Grønkjær, whose performances were barely acceptable in his eyes, the progress shown by the rest of the players had been clear. Aldridge's evaluations were reasonable and fair, even generous in some cases.
Materazzi shrugged and spread his hands. "Boss, didn't you say you were happy? Then why didn't anyone get full marks?"
Aldridge stood up and stretched his back. With a sly grin, he looked back at Materazzi and said, "I'll tell you a secret. No one will ever get a ten from me. That means I'll never be satisfied. You always have room to grow. No matter how well you play, I expect you to keep pushing forward."
Materazzi widened his eyes in disbelief and cried out, "Are you some kind of fox?"
Aldridge laughed and waved him off. "What I am doesn't matter. What matters is what you are. And I want you to be like the lions on Millwall's badge. Now get up. Stop acting like a princess. Are you planning to live here?"
Materazzi picked up his coat and pulled it over his shoulders. As he stepped out, he glanced one last time at the mess he had created in the locker room. The Tranmere staff waiting outside were glaring at him with cold, furious stares.
"Boss… what about this?" he asked in a low voice.
Aldridge didn't even turn around. He simply waved and said, "Don't worry. If Tranmere wants compensation, they can fax the bill to the club. A few hundred quid, deducted from your wages. We're all men here. If you break something, you pay for it. Don't overthink it."
Materazzi smiled and raised his eyebrows at the stunned Tranmere staff standing outside in the corridor.
Their faces turned red with frustration.
The man in the clean-cut suit, who looked more like a university student than a football manager, had just casually condoned the destruction of club property.
He was calm and defiant—shameless and bold.
Now they were left in an awkward dilemma. Should they actually fax a compensation list to Millwall?
A broken locker room door and a shattered bench didn't cost much—probably just a few hundred pounds. But should they really demand it? Would that make them look small? Petty? Who had really lost face here?
The Tranmere staff could only watch as Aldridge and Materazzi walked away, all thinking the same thing: just let it go.
When the squad boarded the bus, Materazzi stood up and gave a public apology to his teammates. He admitted that his outburst in the locker room had gone too far. He was worried that others might have misunderstood him, thinking he had blamed them for the defeat.
Aldridge didn't reprimand him. When he boarded the bus, he clapped his hands and praised the players. He expressed his satisfaction with their performance.
Losing was not the end of the world.
There was no reason to scold players after a defeat—especially when no one had been lazy or gone against the game plan. Everyone had played their part.
They were on the road to progress. That was enough.
Back in East London, Aldridge put the defeat behind him and turned his full attention to the next match: a home fixture against Burnley.