As the sun dipped below the horizon, Aldridge stood on the edge of the training ground, whistling softly in the golden afterglow. His voice rang out over the pitch, sharp and insistent, as he barked instructions to his players during their short-passing drills.
"Robert, don't just stand there waiting for the ball! Run into space! The pitch is huge—what are you doing, rehearsing a dance routine?"
"Lucas, step up! Can you see where Claude is positioned? One more step forward and you're blocking Michael's shot!"
"Pavel, there's no open line in front of you! If you're closed down, don't just charge blindly—spread it wide or play it back! You're the core of midfield. Your first job is not to give the ball away. A misplaced pass in that position is fatal!"
The players trained hard under Aldridge's watchful eye, their shirts soaked with sweat as they pushed themselves to execute each movement to perfection. Every pass, every decision had to meet his exacting standards.
When the session finally ended, Aldridge dismissed the squad without ceremony. As the players dispersed, he and the rest of the coaching staff quietly began gathering the remaining equipment scattered across the pitch, cleaning up cones and training gear as the sky slowly darkened.
Once the work was done, Aldridge walked over to a shaded spot beneath a tree at the edge of the grounds. He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the trunk, exhaling into the cooling air. Jenson wandered over and caught sight of Aldridge's furrowed brow, a flicker of tension etched into his features that he hadn't quite managed to hide.
"What's the matter?" Jenson asked, his voice low and curious. "You don't look happy. We won two days ago. Five wins, two draws, and one loss after eight rounds—we're right at the top of the table."
Aldridge scratched his head and let out a long sigh. "I'm wondering whether it's time to unleash our attacking potential," he said quietly. "But I'm worried that if we open up too early, the defensive system we've worked so hard to build will fall apart."
Two days earlier, just before the international break, Millwall had beaten Burnley 2–0 at home. It had been a controlled, professional win—not spectacular, but effective. The team had created very few chances, but every one had been taken.
Against sides that defended deep or parked the bus, Millwall's counter-attacking opportunities had become rarer and rarer. Their positional attacks, though tidy, remained conservative. As a result, the mood around the team had started to feel a little flat.
Aldridge didn't need to ask to know what was on his players' minds. Pires and Schneider were attacking talents who longed to push higher up the pitch and impose themselves on the opposition. Nedved, the tireless engine in midfield, thrived when allowed to roam from box to box.
Yet Aldridge hesitated.
The main lineup had played eight matches, and in seven of them they had kept a clean sheet. That kind of defensive consistency was rare—dominant, even. In Aldridge's view, even with this conservative playing style, the team could finish the season near the top. If they stayed consistent, a place in the promotion playoffs—or even automatic promotion—was well within reach.
But the players clearly wanted more. These were young, ambitious men with dreams. They didn't just want results—they wanted to express themselves.
And Aldridge, deep down, wasn't satisfied either. He knew that attacking football was the future. It excited people. It inspired belief. But he also knew that defense wins titles. What troubled him was the fear that if he loosened the reins now, everything they had built could come crashing down.
Only eight rounds of the season had passed—not even one-fifth of the full campaign. His original plan had been to reassess the system once the league reached its halfway point. But the mounting pressure in the dressing room, the creative tension on the training ground, and the muted energy from his most talented players—all of it was forcing him to consider a much earlier shift.
Now, he faced a decision.
"I think we can give it a try," Jenson said. "The training reports from the past two months show clear progress—especially in team coordination and passing rhythm. At least among the first team, the improvement is obvious."
Aldridge nodded slowly, deep in thought. He knew he didn't command absolute authority over the team. It was one thing to win matches, but if he ever made a decision that triggered resistance from the players—if it made them feel he was holding them back or out of touch—then his position as head coach could be damaged. And he was still only eighteen years old. One wrong move could open an irreparable rift between him and the dressing room.
"Mr. Hall, there's a phone call for you!"
The shout came from across the training ground. One of the staff members waved toward him. Aldridge gave Jenson a nod and turned to leave, walking back to his office to take the call.
As soon as he picked up the phone, he heard a familiar voice on the other end—and after the brief moment of surprise, he realized immediately who it was.
The Professor was here.
Just outside the main entrance of the club stood a slender, composed middle-aged man—Arsène Wenger.
He was gazing at the old Millwall club building with a thoughtful expression, his eyes slowly scanning the surroundings, as if searching for something that might catch his interest.
"Arsène!"
Aldridge called out to him from across the road. Wenger turned around, smiling as he recognized the voice.
It was already dinner time, and Aldridge extended an invitation to have the evening meal at his home.
Barnett had long since moved to West London, and Andrew only returned home every few days. The large family villa now housed only Arthur and Amelia. When Aldridge walked through the door with a guest at his side, they were visibly pleased.
At the dinner table, Arthur formally thanked Wenger. Back when Aldridge was still in school, during his time studying in France, Wenger had looked out for him on more than one occasion. That kindness had not been forgotten.
After the meal, Aldridge invited Wenger to join him in the study.
"Monaco's form has been poor since the start of the season," Wenger said with a faint smile. "So I was dismissed. But luck hasn't abandoned me yet—another club has come forward and offered me a job. Aldridge, you're a clever one. Can you guess where I'm headed next?"
Though Wenger spoke in a relaxed tone, Aldridge could hear the underlying bitterness in his voice. After all, he had spent seven years at Monaco. Leaving was never going to be easy.
As for his next destination—of course Aldridge already knew. It would be Nagoya Grampus Eight in Japan's J-League.
But instead of answering, he simply smiled and shook his head. He didn't need to be a prophet in every conversation. Revealing knowledge from the future served no purpose here. All it would do was make him look strange or self-indulgent. Besides, he had no desire to dwell on the topic. Monaco's poor start to the season had many causes, and Aldridge knew full well that one of them was his own role in bringing Lilian Thuram back to Millwall on a high transfer fee and salary. That departure had hurt Monaco's defensive line deeply.
Wenger leaned back in his chair and said with a soft sigh, "I'll be leaving for Japan before the end of the month."
Aldridge offered no reply. Wenger looked at him with narrowed eyes, a little confused, and asked, "What's this? Aren't you surprised?"
Aldridge shrugged and replied under his breath, "I'm surprised. So surprised, I'm speechless."
"Hypocrite," Wenger muttered with a smile. "Forget it. Let's talk about your team. I came to London specifically to see them."
Wenger took a sip of hot tea and gave Aldridge a look filled with quiet interest.
Before coming, he hadn't expected Millwall to be leading the First Division table. Even if the gap between them and the teams below was minimal—and they were only ahead on goal difference—it was still a surprise. This was a newly formed side, filled with young players, and after eight rounds they had conceded only two goals. That kind of record did not happen by chance. It spoke volumes about the manager's tactical system.
Aldridge understood everything without needing it spelled out. He knew exactly what Wenger wanted to discuss. They spoke about his footballing philosophy, his methods for team-building, the structure of his tactical systems, and even the club's long-term vision beyond the manager's seat.
But no matter how wide the conversation stretched, it always circled back to one thing.
Millwall was still a second-tier club.
And so, before long, the discussion returned to the place that stood above it all—the Premier League.
Wenger had watched an England national team match at Wembley the night before. As he recalled the experience, one thing stood out above all else. It wasn't the game, the players, or even the atmosphere. It was the strange, almost ritualistic hostility directed toward one club.
Before kickoff, while Wenger sat in the stands waiting for the teams to emerge, he heard a chant begin to rise from the crowd.
"If you hate Man United, stand up!"
The line repeated again and again, louder each time. And within ten minutes, nearly the entire stadium was on its feet.
It left him genuinely confused.
Wenger, like many in continental Europe, had always seen Manchester United as England's most iconic club. In France, they were spoken of with admiration, even reverence. To see them treated as a national villain was difficult to reconcile.
Aldridge didn't seem surprised when he heard the story. He gave a helpless smile and shrugged, as if he'd answered the same question more times than he could count.
It was complicated. Manchester United really was the most popular club in the United Kingdom. That much was true. Across the country, each Premier League club had its own loyal base—tens of thousands of fans, even hundreds of thousands when you included the wider public. But there was an even larger audience made up of casual supporters, television viewers, and people living in places without a strong community club. Those people, more often than not, gravitated toward Manchester United.
When English football began reaching every home through live television broadcasts, Manchester United happened to be in the midst of rebuilding a dynasty. The Ferguson era was in full swing. Young talents were emerging. And the national team was starting to form around a core of United players. The timing had been perfect.
But at Wembley, the story was different. Because Wembley was in London.
And Londoners, by and large, hated Manchester United.
There were many reasons for this—some rooted in football, others far deeper. Politics played a part. Culture, class, and economics played a part. Manchester was loyal to the monarchy, conservative, rooted in old industrial traditions. London was the capital—a hub of finance, media, and immigration. Open, brash, liberal, extravagant. The two cities embodied opposite worlds.
It was the same kind of rivalry that existed between Manchester and Liverpool. Just half an hour apart, yet separated by decades of resentment and identity. The antagonism ran far deeper than football results. It was in the fabric of daily life. It could not be explained in simple terms.
Wenger murmured to himself that this was the birthplace of modern football.
And he wasn't wrong. Over the past century, football had become far more than just a sport in Britain. If it had remained a simple game, it would never have grown so large. It would never have dominated culture or captivated entire generations.
Football had become something else entirely.
It was a war in peacetime—a battlefield where cities clashed, where pride was tested, where history, politics, and identity were channeled into 90 minutes on the pitch.
A single glance at the map of the United Kingdom could show it clearly: rivalries shaped by more than just geography. Football had exposed every line of division—every scar, every ambition, every contradiction.
English football was never silent. Because there was smoke and fire everywhere.
The conversation drifted naturally toward the Premier League landscape. Manchester United and Liverpool needed no introduction. Their names were etched into European history. Leeds United and Newcastle were on the rise again, with passionate support and ambitious projects.
But one team, in particular, held their attention longer than the rest.
Blackburn Rovers.
Just a year earlier, they had finished second in the Premier League with 84 points, trailing only Manchester United. For a club with no recent pedigree and a hometown population of just over 100,000, the speed of their ascent had been staggering.
Blackburn had become a case study in what football was turning into.
Golden-dollar football.
That term had not yet entered the mainstream, but its shape was already forming. The idea that financial power alone could elevate a club to the top of the table was no longer theory—it was unfolding in real time.
In England, the origin wasn't in London, and it wasn't Chelsea. That would come later. The first true example was Blackburn.
Jack Walker, the local steel magnate, had returned to his hometown and poured £30 million into the club. In the early 1990s, that kind of money could transform everything. Before his investment, Blackburn could barely afford proper travel for away matches. With his support, they were suddenly able to challenge for the title.
Walker hired Kenny Dalglish as manager, a legend from his time at Liverpool, and backed him in the market. The club began signing players who were all internationals—many of them among the best in Europe.
Their rise was not just swift—it was terrifying.
Shearer and Sutton formed the most feared strike partnership in England. The SAS duo tore through the league. Blackburn played aggressive, high-scoring football. They had even beaten Bayern Munich in the UEFA Cup the previous season, delivering a statement that echoed across the continent.
This was the future. And the cracks in tradition were already beginning to show.
The Bosman ruling loomed on the horizon, threatening to reshape football from the ground up. Free agency, increased player power, exploding wages—everything that had once defined the old rules would soon become obsolete.
Aldridge had brought £30 million into Millwall as well. But he knew that wasn't enough. He couldn't rely on continued injections of cash. If he wanted to survive the era of transformation that was about to begin, he would need more than money. He would need a plan. A philosophy. A system that could endure.
And he would need to build it now—before the storm fully arrived.