Veteran midfielder Mike Blackmore, once of Manchester United, was again the focal point of a Middlesbrough move. Stationed high in the middle third, he received a pass from Neil Cox and carried it forward. Two touches took him just beyond the centre circle before Nedvěd dropped back to block his path. Blackmore still tried to switch play with a long diagonal, but the ball clipped Nedvěd's calf and spun unexpectedly toward the byline, earning the home side a corner.
Millwall packed their penalty area for the set piece. Southgate, marshalling the defence, barked orders as the tension rose. This was the kind of moment where every man was on edge.
Hignett's delivery arced toward the near post, where Southgate tracked Graham Kavanagh's movement. Shoulder to shoulder, the two fought for position, both charging toward the ball as it dropped a little too close to the byline for a clean header.
Southgate felt confident — he had position, height, and leverage. Even if Kavanagh did get a touch, he'd block it. But to his surprise, Kavanagh pulled his head back and leaned away at the last instant, letting the ball glance off the top of his head and fly beyond the six-yard box.
A clever flick-on? Southgate wasn't sure, but he thought the danger had passed.
The ball dropped at a 45-degree angle from goal, into a soft spot where Millwall's defensive coverage thinned. Pirès stepped forward to claim it, but veteran defender Nigel Pearson arrived first. Without hesitation, Pearson lashed at the ball with a volley.
The shot was wayward, drawing a ripple of disappointment from the home crowd. It was sailing wide — or at least, it should have been.
Inside the crowded box, Schneider — sprinting back to help defend — had no time to get out of the way. The ball smashed off his calf, changing direction completely. It zipped past the wrong-footed Keller and into the Millwall net.
Ayresome Park exploded.
"GOOOOAL! Middlesbrough take the lead! 2–1! That puts them top of the First Division! We thought Kavanagh had set up a chance, but the ball actually fell outside the area to Pearson. His volley was going wide… until it struck young Bernd Schneider and deflected into his own net! What a cruel blow for Millwall — twenty minutes left, and their lead at the top is in danger!"
Pearson was mobbed by teammates by the corner flag, grinning in disbelief at the unintentional assist.
Schneider, meanwhile, stood rooted, hands on his head. He understood exactly what this meant — not just losing the lead, but potentially losing first place. He nearly dropped to his knees.
Southgate and Nedvěd, captain and vice-captain, were on him instantly, arms around his shoulders.
"Bernd, head up — no one's blaming you.""Come on, it's not over yet."
Their words pulled him back from the edge, and he looked instinctively to the touchline. Was Aldridge about to haul him off in anger?
Instead, the Millwall manager was motioning for him to come over, alongside Nedvěd, Pirès, Larsson, and Trezeguet. Aldridge wasn't watching Middlesbrough's celebrations — his focus was already on what came next.
When the goal went in, he had stood frozen for a heartbeat. Time seemed to slow: Robson and his staff charging out to celebrate, the roar of the crowd washing over the stadium. The goal was unlucky, but avoidable.
And then the realisation hit — the mistake wasn't Schneider's, it was his own.
He had told himself before the match that a draw would be a good result, yet his game plan had been tilted toward chasing victory from the opening whistle. Eight games without losing had bred a quiet arrogance beneath his modest exterior. He hadn't emphasised defensive caution; he'd been subconsciously pushing for all three points.
Robson, in contrast, had been conservative from the start, disciplined in serving the result he wanted. If Aldridge could replay this match, he would match that conservatism, relying on sharper counterattacks instead of prolonged positional play. Middlesbrough, as the home side chasing the leaders, would eventually have been forced to open up.
But there was no going back. Now, with the game turned on an own goal, Millwall were teetering on the edge. The outcome would shape not just this match, but the team's morale — and perhaps his own authority.
He could only gamble.
Schneider arrived with Nedvěd, still looking guilty. Aldridge's words were calm but firm:"Forget the goal. You've been excellent today, and I need you to stay that way until the final whistle."
The young German felt the weight lift from his shoulders. His guilt turned to fierce determination, pushing aside the exhaustion of seventy hard minutes.
Aldridge kept his instructions brief. The changes weren't revolutionary, but they required absolute coordination from his five attacking players. They nodded, absorbing every detail.
The restart was swift, and Middlesbrough, now clinging to a precious lead, sank even deeper into their defensive shell.
From the stands, the home fans' singing rolled over the pitch in waves. Brady's travelling Millwall contingent roared their "Lion's Roar" in reply, but twenty thousand voices swallowed their sound.
On the field, Nedvěd wasted no time, feeding Pirès on the left. The Frenchman cut inside and unleashed a shot from distance, skimming over the crossbar and jolting Middlesbrough's cold defensive rhythm.
Bryan Robson frowned.
Millwall were not retreating into caution — they were stepping harder on the accelerator.
Trezeguet occupied the central lane, Larsson drifted out left, Nedvěd pushed high in support, and Pirès was becoming the heartbeat of the attack.
Nedvěd found Pirès again. A one-two with Larsson sliced into the penalty area before being broken up. Pirès cut inside once more, this time combining with Trezeguet before firing a long-range effort.
In the ten minutes after the restart, Pirès was everywhere: four shots, three dribbles past his man, one headed chance created for Trezeguet. His close control and sharp passing kept forcing Middlesbrough's defenders to turn and chase.
But as the attacks piled up on the left, the home back line inevitably began to tilt toward that side. The right was becoming an afterthought.
Aldridge saw it all from the touchline and felt a measure of pride. His players hadn't wilted under pressure. Nedvěd, tirelessly orchestrating in midfield, was setting the standard — a steady pulse driving every teammate forward.
Even so, the clock was ticking. 88:27… 88:28…
The moment for the decisive strike is here.
The home crowd roared when Pirès was stopped on the flank. Neil Cox hammered the clearance forward, finding Blackmore. Legs heavy, the veteran steadied himself to take the ball down. Robson was readying a time-wasting substitution at the next stoppage.
Then a blue shirt flashed across the scene.
Makelele — charging from behind — cushioned the ball on his chest and instantly threaded it to Nedvěd.
Middlesbrough's back line, by habit, shifted their attention toward Pirès on the left. But Nedvěd didn't look left. He drilled a pass straight through the defensive line to the right.
That was where the gap truly lay.
Schneider, quiet since his own goal, had held his width, keeping pressure on Curtis Fleming. Now he burst through, collecting the ball just before the byline.
Cutting inside into the penalty area, Schneider's mind was clear. He could feel the eyes of his manager on him. This was the chance carved out by relentless team effort — and he would not waste it.
The penalty box erupted into chaos. Pirès ghosted in from the opposite wing, Trezeguet charged the centre, Larsson sprinted from the edge of the box. Middlesbrough's defence collapsed toward goal, crowding the six-yard area.
Steve Vickers closed on Schneider, Fleming doubled up. But the German teenager didn't whip a cross into the scrum.
Instead, he slid the ball back along the turf, behind the retreating defenders, toward the gaping space at the top of the D.
There, sprinting onto it like a blond warhorse, came Nedvěd.
Aldridge clenched his fists on the touchline, eyes locked on the Czech's every step. The run was perfect, the body shape regal, the strike pure.
BAM!
Nedvěd's shot thundered into the upper left corner, a cannonball no goalkeeper could touch.
"GOOOOOOOOOAL! Pavel Nedvěd! Millwall are level at 2–2! Back on top of the First Division! What a strike — Middlesbrough undone in the dying minutes!"
As the net bulged, Aldridge dropped to one knee, fists pumping in front of him, head thrown back in a roar.
This wasn't just an equaliser. This was defiance.
Top of the table? Forget that — the Mad Lions have a soul.
...
Ayresome Park fell silent. The carnival atmosphere in the stands was gone in an instant, replaced by the deafening roar of Millwall's travelling support.
No one — not a single person — had expected Nedvěd to be the man arriving at the edge of the penalty area. In the first nine rounds, across eight appearances, he had been the disciplined midfielder, patrolling near the centre circle, often dropping deep to defend rather than making bold attacking runs.
Even Bryan Robson, who had studied Millwall's patterns closely, had not listed Nedvěd as a potential match-winner.
But when the Czech midfielder's strike ripped into the net, Robson bit his teeth and closed his eyes. Over the noise, he could hear Aldridge's roar — not the venting of emotion, but the proclamation of a statement: we are still here.
Robson thought to himself: You're wrong, boss. This isn't just a Millwall that can't be underestimated. This is a Millwall that will shape the future of English football.
For twenty minutes after going behind, Robson had seen a calm, relentless Millwall. They hadn't panicked; they had accelerated, pushed Middlesbrough back, and executed their plan to perfection. The speed of their play, the purpose in every movement, the precision of their tactical execution — Robson had only seen such traits in Europe's elite.
Nedvěd, having scored, didn't just celebrate with his teammates. He tore away from them, yanking at his shirt as he sprinted toward the dugout. His eyes were locked on Aldridge, still on one knee from his wild celebration, quickly swarmed by his coaching staff.
In Nedvěd's mind, flashes of the last two years reeled by. Less than twenty-four months ago, back at Sparta Prague, his coach had told him he had no future — that he was lucky just to make the bench. Those words had burned into him, fuelling his relentless work. But he had remained a substitute, waiting for someone to see what he could become.
Then came the summer of 1994. A club from London offered over £1 million for him — a bid that even he thought was a joke. But upon arriving, he met Aldridge: a head coach younger than many of the players, but with an intensity and seriousness unlike anything Nedvěd had known.
Aldridge had analysed him in detail, outlining strengths, weaknesses, and a tailored training plan. He told Nedvěd plainly that, with work, he could become decisive — the man to turn games. He urged patience, discipline, and trust in the system.
For over the first nine games, Nedvěd had held back his attacking instincts unless given permission. Now, after Millwall conceded, Aldridge's plan was clear: the equaliser wouldn't come from the predictable left or right, but from the runner no one was tracking — Pavel Nedvěd.
He had delivered. And in that moment, nothing else existed.
From the penalty area to the dugout, Nedvěd sprinted straight to Aldridge, grabbing him by the suit jacket."Boss, did you see? Did you see? We did it! We did it!"
Aldridge wrapped him in a fierce embrace, repeating only:"Good job! Good job!"
The rest of the Millwall players piled in, surrounding the two until the referee arrived to break up the celebration.
As they jogged back for the restart, Aldridge called out:"Come on! We can score another!"
Robson, hearing this, was stunned. The scoreboard showed 91 minutes played, with the fourth official signalling four minutes of stoppage time. Less than three minutes remained — and Aldridge was still thinking about winning it.
But looking at his own players, Robson saw heads bowed, shoulders sagging. The equaliser had drained them. Millwall, in contrast, were electric, their fatigue forgotten, eleven lions with their tails up.
Robson knew the danger. He acted immediately, making three defensive substitutions in one go. Middlesbrough kept the ball in their own half, running down the clock until the final whistle.
Full time: Middlesbrough 2–2 Millwall.
Both sides took a point, but in spirit, Millwall had gained more. The lessons they carried from this match would outlast the scoreline.
As the players exchanged handshakes, Robson and Aldridge met in the middle. Their grip lingered as Robson leaned in.
"Mr Hall, this match has changed my view. You and your team have a future others will envy."
"Bryan, you've taught me a lot today. Next year at the Den, let's sit down and have a drink."
"It's a deal."
"Good luck."
They parted with smiles, though Robson's carried a trace of bitterness.
For Aldridge, this hadn't been an easy night. But as he left the pitch, he knew he had come through a battle full of lessons and had taken away exactly what he needed.
Passing through the interview area, the television crews were waiting. Millwall had arrived as league leaders, but few had expected them to return from Ayresome Park with anything. Many had predicted a repeat of the loss at Tranmere. Instead, after ninety minutes of fierce competition, they had drawn 2–2, retained their place at the top of the First Division, and shown they could match one of the promotion favourites.
"Mr Hall, how do you feel about the draw here? Could you comment on the performance of Middlesbrough and Millwall?"
Aldridge smiled and shook his head.
"Unbelievable — just incredible. Millwall's performance today was impeccable. We played a great game. Maybe it was just a top-of-the-table league fixture, but we're still a very young side. Middlesbrough? They were excellent — strong at home, disciplined, they controlled the rhythm of the match, and aside from conceding twice to us, they made no mistakes. They are still the best team in the division and remain my pick as favourites for promotion."
It was Aldridge's familiar media tactic — praise the opponent generously, which in turn reflects well on his own team.
"What about Schneider's own goal that put you behind?"
"It was just one of those things. Nothing more. Without a doubt, Schneider was one of our best players today. He set up chances in both halves, and his performance deserves the full support of the team."
The interview was short. Back in the dressing room, the players had already changed and were ready to leave. Aldridge looked over their smiling faces and raised his voice.
"Hey — today's performance was outstanding. Keep this confidence and determination to win, and we'll keep playing like this."
"Yes, boss!" came the unified reply before they filed out into the night.
On the journey home, Aldridge sat with his headphones on, music playing, still replaying the match in his head. It had only been one game, but the resilience and fight his players had shown in adversity was something to be proud of. For a player like Nedvěd, he thought, he would happily keep him for life. Among the Mad Lions, the Czech could truly be their golden lion.
Later that evening, a phone call caught him off guard.
"Aldridge, congratulations on the draw today. I watched the video — Millwall were impressive."
The Scottish accent in his ear made him tense for a moment, though he couldn't dislike the man speaking.
"Why so quiet?"
"Alex," Aldridge said, "let's get straight to it. Which player are you calling about?"
Silence. Then:
"Bryan told me you said Larsson might be on the market."
"You want Larsson?"
"Manchester United need a new striker."
"How long can you give him?"
"What do you mean?"
"He's only played in the First Division here, and before that in the Netherlands. Can he adapt to the Premier League, to Manchester United? That takes time. How long are you willing to wait?"
The other end went quiet again. Aldridge hadn't flatly refused — instead, he planted doubt. United needed a ready-made forward, someone who could hit the ground running.
"Are you rejecting me?" Ferguson asked at last.
Aldridge looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
"If United offer five million pounds and a contract over £20,000 a week, what's the point of me refusing? Forcing him to stay would only cause problems in the squad, wouldn't it?"
"Five million? Why would you ask that much?"
"Why not? I paid over a million for him — why sell for two or three?"
"Forget it. For five million, I'd rather talk to that Keegan."
"That's right. Andy Cole's already proven himself in the Premier League. For United, that's worth the fee."