While preparing for the next round of training, Aldridge invited Wenger to visit Millwall's facilities.
The outdoor training ground offered little to impress—dusty, unremarkable, and typical of lower-division English football. But once inside, Wenger found much to admire. The indoor training hotel, the modern sports science and medical setup, the attention to dietary planning, the structured scouting reports, and the dedicated tactical meeting rooms—all of it left a deep impression. These were things Aldridge had discussed with him years ago during their first meeting. Back then, it had been theoretical. Now, it had become reality—built with Aldridge's own hands.
On the pitch, Wenger—who usually refused invitations to observe weekday training—stood quietly at the edge, saying nothing, simply watching. Aldridge carried out his usual work without fanfare, which puzzled some of the coaching staff. But no one commented on it. Wenger's presence alone never caused disturbance.
Before the group match began, Aldridge called the players together.
"We've done well these past two months," he began. "Only two goals conceded in eight league matches. But our goals at the other end have dropped off a little lately. So in today's session, I want the wide players to try taking on defenders more. Let's add a few new ideas to the attacking phase."
His message instantly lit up the eyes of players like Pires and Schneider.
Until now, Millwall's tactical framework had emphasized simplicity in attack. Forwards were expected to play concise passes, keep possession cleanly, and generate movement through coordinated runs. The team relied on quick ground combinations and pace to open up defences, with as little risk as possible. That method had brought results—but also left little room for flair.
But in modern football, individual breakthroughs remained essential. People often praised the beauty of flowing team goals built on one-touch passing, but those moments were rare. In reality, personal initiative—especially from wide areas—was often the spark that led to chances.
Aldridge had previously restricted wing dribbling and solo runs for a reason. Attacking down the flanks was never an isolated act. Once a winger pushed forward, the entire shape of the team had to shift to support that move. If the ball was lost high up the pitch and the recovery failed, the defensive system would collapse under pressure.
To build a stable system, Aldridge couldn't allow improvisation from the beginning. The players first needed to master their compact shape, learn the habits of retreating and pressing as a unit, and understand what defensive sacrifice meant. Once that foundation had been laid, the next step was to loosen the grip—bit by bit—and give freedom back to the attackers.
This was the progression he had envisioned from the start.
On the touchline, first-team coaches Torop and Craig stepped forward with tactical diagrams. They laid out the training focus for the day with direct clarity.
They explained the timing and angle of wide crosses. At the 45-degree mark, look for the far post. When reaching the byline, aim low for the near post. The positioning of the two strikers would depend on the ball carrier—one pulling defenders away, the other arriving late into space. Their off-ball movement would be key to unbalancing the defensive line.
Tactics would always be rigid on paper—but on the pitch, they had to be tailored to the team's strengths.
Millwall's forwards were quick, sharp in the box, and had excellent instinct. Naturally, wide play would benefit them.
Perhaps it was the freshness of the ideas, or the chance to attack with fewer restrictions—but the players' enthusiasm was unmistakable. As soon as the explanations were finished, they eagerly split into two teams and prepared for the internal match.
Aldridge walked across the field and came to stand beside Wenger. The Frenchman was watching intently, eyes fixed on the movement of the players.
After more than half the session had passed, Aldridge spoke softly without turning his head.
"Well?"
Wenger exhaled slowly before replying. "They're young. But they have real potential. Aldridge, your eye for talent is something I truly admire."
There weren't many players on the pitch who could be called technically gifted. But that didn't matter—not here. Aldridge's system didn't rely on tricks or flair. The ball moved quickly, passed along the ground from one player to another. Fancy footwork wasn't required. What mattered was clarity—short, sharp passing, precise movement, and mutual understanding.
Even in a short intra-squad match, Wenger could see it clearly. These players had a future.
In the days that followed, training was more spirited than ever. The atmosphere was electric. With their attacking instincts finally unleashed, the players responded with energy. After weeks of restraint, the floodgates had opened—and they weren't holding back.
...
In the ninth round of the First Division, Millwall hosted Luton Town at The Den.
Because the visiting side was seen as a weaker opponent, Aldridge finally decided it was time to loosen the tactical restraints and allow the team to attack more freely.
As always, he chose not to deliver any tactical instructions in the dressing room before kickoff. Instead, he focused solely on igniting the players' fighting spirit before walking out. He understood well that, the closer a match came, the less impact last-minute tactical instructions had. They often only increased tension. Real preparation had to be done the day before. If players had not absorbed it by then, reminding them now would only clutter their thoughts.
The Den was packed. The crowd had embraced this young Millwall side, and the recent run of results had earned their full support. Among those in attendance, Wenger was seated in the stands once again. And in the southern end, a group of spirited young fans had raised a hand-painted banner that read:
"If you love Millwall, then roar! We are the Lions' Roar!"
The banner was held high by Brady, Fred, and Eva, all dressed in Millwall's traditional dark blue kits. Their seats had not been purchased through regular means—Aldridge had quietly set them aside. Fifty tickets had been handed to Brady in advance, enough to formally organize the newly founded "Lion Roar" supporters' group. Within just one week, the group had grown to nearly a hundred members. They stood in neat formation, their chants and energy forming a new backdrop to the Millwall matchday atmosphere.
Aldridge, now familiar with the routine of being asked for autographs or clapped on the back by passing supporters, walked through the tunnel as usual. It was no longer surprising when fans patted him on the shoulder or shouted encouragement in his direction.
But unlike previous matches, once the game began, Aldridge did not take up his usual post on the touchline. Instead, he sat calmly in the manager's seat, watching the field with a composed expression.
The stands remained lively. The Den had become a fortress, and fans were full of confidence. For working-class supporters, there was nothing more cathartic after a long week than chanting and singing with abandon in support of their team.
Yet despite the festive mood, the match itself was tense from the beginning.
Luton Town, although not strong overall, had come to The Den without fear. They didn't sit deep or park the bus. The real issue was not their resistance—it was Millwall's inability to build meaningful attacks.
Aldridge glanced toward the Luton bench. Their head coach was also seated, partially hidden behind a pitchside barrier. Aldridge couldn't read his expression.
On the field, Millwall had placed Nedved centrally. In past matches, the Czech midfielder rarely ventured into the box. His role was to serve as a transitional hub through the middle, connecting defense to attack. That meant most of Millwall's offensive thrust came from the flanks—where Schneider and Pires were expected to create the danger.
Knowing this, Luton had prepared accordingly. Both full-backs stuck tightly to the two wide men from the first whistle. It was almost like watching a chess game: direct pairings, move for move.
Schneider and Pires had been granted freedom to dribble in today's match, and it showed in their enthusiasm. But rather than mixing their decisions or drawing defenders out, they became predictable. Every time they received the ball, they attempted a take-on. First action: dribble. Second action: dribble again. Then try to pass—if the ball wasn't already lost.
After two or three consecutive turnovers, their decision-making deteriorated further.
By the 30th minute, even the fans could see the problem. Every time Schneider or Pires received possession, the outcome became easy to guess. The next action would be a 1v1 attempt—sometimes against two defenders—and the result was often a loss of possession.
They lacked the raw pace and acceleration to burst past their markers. Trying to beat seasoned English full-backs on footwork alone, especially when those defenders were already expecting it, was naïve.
It began to look like arrogance—treating opponents like training cones.
"Do you want to remind them?" Jenson leaned toward Aldridge and asked in a hushed voice.
He found the situation strange. Even a casual supporter could see that Millwall's attacks were breaking down because the wingers kept trying—and failing—to beat their men. But Aldridge remained seated, showing no intent to intervene.
He simply shook his head.
"No point yelling now. Let them play through it. I'll talk to them at halftime."
In the stands, Wenger frowned. Just a few days earlier, he had praised Aldridge's eye for talent. But right now, the two wide players looked completely lost. The same Schneider and Pires who had been so smooth in training now seemed disjointed and ineffective.
Still, Wenger was more curious than concerned. He wanted to see how Aldridge would handle the situation. Would he scold them? Make substitutions? Or simply shut down their freedom to dribble?
By the time the halftime whistle blew, the crowd had grown quiet. The tempo of the game had drained the excitement from the stands. Many fans leaned back with tired expressions, some barely keeping their eyes open.
Millwall had looked toothless.
They managed only two shots in the entire first half, and both strikers were isolated, starved of service, and completely anonymous.
In the dressing room, Aldridge didn't alter the overall tactical structure. Instead, he pulled out the board and plotted the positioning of a few key Luton players, reminding his defenders to be alert to their movements in transition.
Then, as the players prepared to head back out, Aldridge quietly pulled Schneider and Pires aside.
The three of them were the last to exit the tunnel. Aldridge walked between them, arms draped around both their shoulders.
After a moment of silence, he leaned in close.
"You two were really tired in the first half," he said.
"Huh?"
Both Pires and Schneider looked up, startled. Was that praise? Or sarcasm?
They stared at Aldridge's face, a little confused.
"Tired…?" Pires repeated.
Aldridge rolled his eyes. "It was exhausting just watching you. Everyone in the stadium knew exactly what you were going to do after receiving the ball. What's the most important thing for a defender?"
"Physicality?" Schneider offered.
"No. It's anticipation. Reading the game. If you show your next move before you even take your first touch, you're doing the defender's job for him. All they had to do was wait for you to lose the ball."
Both players dropped their heads.
They had spent weeks complaining—quietly, but persistently—that Aldridge's system didn't allow them to express themselves. Now that they had finally been given the chance, they had squandered it. Their performances had been embarrassing.
"I'm not changing the tactics," Aldridge continued. "But you need to change the rhythm. Listen carefully—when you receive the ball, pass it. Do that three, four, maybe five times. Then try your move. Once, not every time. Get the defender guessing. You need to earn the right to dribble."
He paused, then added, "Once you've developed more awareness and better instincts, it'll come naturally. But for now, stick to this method. It's stupid, yes, but it works."
He gave each of them a quick pat on the back and motioned them forward.
It was time to fix the mess.
...
Before the second half began, there was a subdued air across the stands. The dull, uneventful first half had left the crowd uneasy and frustrated.
But from the South Stand came a sudden, rhythmic sound of applause.
Brady had rallied the young members of the "Lion Roar" supporters' group. All fifty of them clapped their hands twice in perfect unison, then raised their palms overhead and began shouting in sync:
"Millwall!""Clap clap, Millwall!""Clap clap, Millwall!"
The chant started as a ripple. But as it echoed through the stadium, it caught fire. Row by row, the entire home support joined in. Within moments, the whole of The Den was clapping and chanting in perfect rhythm.
Even the broadcast camera panned across the swelling crowd, and the commentator's voice rose with surprise.
"Perhaps we've become used to the passion of Millwall's support—the noise, the raw energy. But what we're seeing now is something more grounded. Something purer. At this moment, a single voice echoes across the stadium… and it says: Millwall."
On the pitch, the players were already lined up for the second-half kickoff. But they paused, listening. The rhythm of the chant wrapped around them, steady and powerful. It climbed under their skin. It filled their lungs.
A fire lit inside them.
Larsson and Trezeguet stood side by side, their brows furrowed, their eyes meeting with a flash of mutual resolve. There was no need to speak. The message had already been delivered.
On the touchline, Aldridge returned to the coach's area. His face was expressionless, but his thoughts were not. Quiet appreciation mixed with gratitude as his eyes scanned the South Stand. He nodded silently to Brady, who was leading the chants like a conductor.
This was only the beginning—but it was a damn good one.
The referee blew his whistle. The second half began.
Millwall kicked off and immediately shifted into their attacking shape. The ball was cycled calmly through the back line, then into midfield, before arriving at Nedved, who had peeled into space near the right channel just inside the attacking third.
Nedved turned with one touch and released the ball out wide without hesitation.
On the right flank, Schneider received the pass and pushed up the wing. The same Luton full-back who had smothered him throughout the first half was already closing him down, body tight and confident.
The defender's posture said everything—he expected another heavy first touch followed by an attempted dribble. He was reading Schneider's pattern from earlier: right foot control, slow turn, then an easy steal. The defender had timed his approach to intercept at the exact moment of that expected turn.
In one-on-one defending, especially in tight zones, success often came from reading habits. Force a winger onto his weaker foot. Close the space he prefers to attack. If he likes to cut in, show him the touchline. If he prefers the byline, push him inside.
Luton's defender had done his homework. He wasn't rushing in blindly—he was waiting for the cue, planning to stretch his foot across Schneider's first touch and disrupt the entire sequence.
And then Schneider did something unexpected.
He shaped to control the ball with his right foot—exactly as he had done before—but instead of stopping it, he let it run across his body and gently knocked it back toward the center.
The ball rolled back into the path of Nedved.
The defender lunged, caught off guard, but it was too late. His weight was committed forward, and his momentum dragged him past Schneider.
Before he could recover, Schneider was already sprinting behind him.
It was a simple one-two. Nothing elaborate. But it punished the Luton full-back's mistake with brutal efficiency.
Millwall flooded forward.
Pires broke inside from the left, darting toward the far post. Trezeguet dropped into the central channel, dragging one of the centre-backs with him. Larsson made a diagonal run from left to right, slicing across the penalty area like a blade.
The defenders scrambled.
Schneider reached the byline on the right side. Instead of stopping the ball, he allowed it to roll just ahead of him, then swept a sharp, low cross toward the front of the six-yard box.
It was a move they had drilled all week in training: hit the space early, catch the backline mid-shift, let the forwards attack the ball.
Trezeguet's movement acted as a screen. His run into the middle dragged the deeper defender away, opening the near-post channel for Larsson to burst into.
Larsson arrived in stride. He met the pass with the inside of his foot—no hesitation, no wasted motion. The ball struck his instep cleanly, kissed the underside of the crossbar, and bounced down into the net.
The Luton goalkeeper was frozen.
The Den erupted.
Larsson sprinted to the South Stand, arms raised high, overcome with adrenaline. The supporters went wild, their chants now drowning out even the referee's whistle.
But then something unexpected happened.
Seven members of the "Lion Roar" supporters' group turned around to face the pitch. They pulled up their shirts, revealing capital letters printed on the backs. Together, they spelled out a single name:
L A R S S O N
On either side of them, more fans raised number 9 jerseys into the air. And beneath them, someone unfurled a large banner with a hand-painted image of Larsson mid-stride—arms extended, jaw clenched, eyes burning with focus.
Larsson froze.
He stood there with his hands still raised, stunned by the sight in front of him. The goal had brought him joy—but this display of support shook something deeper.
It wasn't just celebration. It was recognition.
In that instant, something changed. His heartbeat slowed. The roar of the crowd faded into a warm hum. He had scored before. He had celebrated before. But this—this moment—was unforgettable.
The cameras caught everything. The broadcast zoomed in, and the commentators fell briefly silent before one of them spoke with quiet awe.
"Millwall is changing. What we're seeing here—this... this isn't just a club on the rise. It's a club beginning to feel something bigger. These are images we'll remember for a very long time."
On the sideline, Aldridge applauded gently. Part of that applause was for his players—who had executed the tactics exactly as planned. But part of it was for the fans. For their heart. For their timing.
The second half had barely begun, and Luton were already behind. Their defensive shape, so solid in the first half, now showed visible cracks.
The match had turned.
In the first half, Millwall's players had grown increasingly passive. Their energy was low, and their play was hesitant. But after Larsson's goal, everything changed. The team's morale rose visibly, and the players began to approach the game with renewed confidence. That goal became the turning point of the match.
Most notably, the two wingers began to shine in the second half.
After receiving a pass from Lucas, Pires took the ball without hesitation. Instead of playing short or looking to combine, he struck a long diagonal pass toward Trezeguet, who was making a run behind the defense.
The pass dropped perfectly into space, giving Trezeguet the momentum to sprint from outside the penalty area. He charged forward and launched into a diving header, meeting the ball at full stretch. The Luton defender running parallel to him couldn't get close, and Trezeguet's powerful contact sent the ball hurtling toward goal like a missile. Although the shot lacked a difficult angle, the sheer force made it dangerous.
But Luton's goalkeeper reacted brilliantly.
Diving full-length, he stretched and managed to tip the ball just over the crossbar. It was an outstanding save—one that earned a loud cheer even from the neutral sections of the crowd.
Trezeguet rose from the turf, shaking his head in mild frustration. Still, he didn't let the moment linger. He immediately jogged into position for the resulting corner.
By now, the match had completely tilted in Millwall's favor. With the wide players no longer locked into the predictable patterns of the first half, the front line began to move with real fluidity. The attacking players were brimming with energy and purpose.
From his seat in the stands, Wenger watched with growing satisfaction. He had already recognized Aldridge's eye for talent. Now, he was seeing something even more valuable—the ability to read a match in real time and make subtle adjustments without overreacting.
There had been no substitutions. No drastic tactical shifts. Just a controlled change in rhythm. And now Millwall's attack had come alive.
On the right wing, Schneider received the ball again. The full-back marking him, who had struggled earlier, was now visibly more cautious. Instead of pressing high, he took a step back, preparing to track a possible give-and-go or delayed overlap.
But Schneider had something else in mind.
He controlled the ball calmly, and the hesitation from the defender gave him a narrow window. In that instant, Schneider shifted the ball diagonally into the inside channel, slipping it into the half-space just outside the penalty area.
The move forced Luton's central defender to step up and challenge—but Schneider had already anticipated it. Without pausing, he played a perfectly weighted through ball behind the defender's stride.
Trezeguet was already on the move.
He arrived unmarked, adjusted his body, and struck the ball on the turn. His low volley came off his boot cleanly and skipped across the turf.
The Luton goalkeeper reacted, covering his near post. But the shot was aimed at the far corner. It curved just beyond his reach and nestled into the back of the net.
2–0.
Trezeguet let out a triumphant shout, pumping both fists as he ran toward the South Stand. Once again, the supporters turned around, revealing shirts and banners with his name.
The Den was in full celebration now, a stadium transformed into a sea of blue and white.
On the touchline, Aldridge turned away from the pitch and walked calmly back to the bench, a small smile forming on his lips.
Compared to his age, his composure and timing continued to surprise even his own staff. Jenson, watching from beside him, couldn't help but admire the way a minor shift—just a few words at halftime—had completely unlocked the flanks.
Schneider, now with two assists to his name, was still in disbelief. As he leapt onto Trezeguet's back in celebration, his mind flashed back to Aldridge's voice during the interval.
He had felt exhausted in the first half. Frustrated. He had even begun to believe that his marker was unbeatable. Now, he realized the problem had never been the defender.
He had simply been playing the wrong way.
And Aldridge—without yelling, without blaming—had reminded him of what football should feel like.
In those few words, he had helped Schneider rediscover the most important thing of all: joy.
"The boss is incredible," he thought.
Before the final whistle, Pires added the finishing touch. Shifting inside from the left, he took one touch to settle the ball and fired a curling effort from outside the box, sending it into the far corner. The strike sealed the result.
3–0.
Millwall had claimed all three points at home in the ninth round of the First Division. More importantly, they remained top of the table.
The victory mattered. But for Aldridge, what mattered more was the change in spirit.
By releasing the team's attacking freedom—even slightly—he had reignited their hunger. They played with more energy, more purpose. The risk had been worth it.
It had paid off.
As the sun dipped low in the sky, Aldridge bid farewell to Wenger outside the club's entrance.
Andrew had attended the match as well, and Aldridge asked him to drive Wenger to the airport.
Outside the main gate, Andrew loaded Wenger's suitcase into the car, then took the driver's seat and waited quietly.
Under the amber glow of the setting sun, Wenger and Aldridge stood facing one another. The light caught their shoulders and faces, casting them in gold.
Wenger smiled softly.
"Aldridge, your team is excellent. These young players—if you continue to guide them like this—they will be challenging for silverware in the future."
Aldridge smiled in return.
"We're still far from trophies. For now, our only goal is to reach the top flight."
Wenger extended his hand. "Then I wish you promotion as soon as possible. Thank you for your hospitality. These past few days have been truly valuable."
Aldridge shook his hand firmly. "I wish you a smooth journey as well."
Wenger turned toward the car. Andrew gave a wave through the driver's side window. Moments later, the vehicle pulled away from the curb.
Aldridge stood watching until the car disappeared from view.
As Wenger departed for Japan—where he would soon take charge of Nagoya Grampus Eight and guide them to a second-place finish—Aldridge smiled quietly beneath the fading light.
That would be a meaningful journey for Wenger. A worthy chapter.
But it would not be his final one.
When the car finally vanished over the horizon, Aldridge turned and walked slowly back into the club. A small, confident smile played on his lips.
He murmured under his breath.
"Professor... we'll meet again in the Premier League."