The morning light spilled across London, bringing an unusually bright winter day.
On the training ground at Millwall, Aldridge stood in the crisp air, dressed in the club's winter tracksuit and warm gloves. He chatted casually with his coaching staff, watching the pitch come to life.
One by one, the players arrived on time. Aldridge felt a quiet satisfaction at a decision he had made six months earlier—appointing Southgate, Nedvěd, and Larsson as the team's three captains. All three had become the backbone of Millwall. Their quality on the pitch was unquestionable, and their professionalism set the tone for the entire squad. With such examples leading the way, there was no room for arrogance, no tolerance for sloppiness. No one dared to be late for training.
"Enjoy the last few days?" Aldridge asked with a grin.
Most of the players, young and old alike, chuckled but didn't answer, while a few of the more cheerful ones began to share stories from their time off.
The unexpected holiday had been a welcome gift. While other clubs were still slogging through winter training, Millwall's players had been given time to rest—a decision Aldridge felt was necessary. Since October, they had been playing without pause, and even the strongest engine needed to brake now and then.
The short break had lifted spirits. When they returned to training, the players carried themselves with renewed energy, and perhaps none of them dwelled too much on the three winless matches before Christmas. Aldridge had made sure the dip in form would leave no lasting dent in morale.
With Schneider sidelined by injury, Aldridge decided to rest him for a full month as a precaution. Beckham stepped into the starting lineup in his place.
Five days later, Millwall travelled north to Yorkshire to face Sheffield United—one of the league's top sides. The media had been circling this fixture for days, framing it as a pivotal test. Could Millwall withstand the pressure and reverse their recent slide? Many believed the result might serve as a watershed moment in the title race.
If Middlesbrough won their own match, the gap at the top could shrink to within two games. And in just six rounds, the two sides would meet again in the league—a showdown that could decide everything.
But Millwall handled the occasion with composure, securing a 2–0 away victory without major difficulty. On the same day, Middlesbrough stumbled, failing to beat Grimsby Town at home. The gap widened to ten points.
With momentum restored, Millwall's title charge was firmly back on track. At this rate, the championship race could effectively be decided by the end of February—when Middlesbrough would come to The Den for their second meeting of the season. The stakes could not be clearer: whoever faltered might be forced into the dreaded play-offs for a shot at promotion.
Back in London, Aldridge returned home in high spirits. He had barely stepped into his study when the phone rang.
"It's done," Andrew's slightly tired voice came through the receiver. "I've found a specialist in divorce cases to take over. She's got a new apartment—three years' rent paid in advance. I've hired a babysitter for her, and her salary will be paid directly from my company. Oh, and I gave her thirty thousand pounds."
Aldridge let out a quiet breath of relief, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "How long has it been since you last set foot in a gym? You don't do any physical work, so how can you sound this tired?"
"Running back and forth is tiring too," Andrew replied dryly. "But honestly, Aldridge, I'm a little confused."
"What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
"I don't."
"Even if you like older women, in my humble opinion, she doesn't have much… charm."
Aldridge gave a short laugh, then sighed. "Andrew, you've changed."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Why can't you just look at the bigger picture? Maybe the watches, handbags, and designer gifts you give are just ways to charm women into giving you a hug. That's your business. But that's not what this is. Ms. Rowling has a talent most of us can only dream of. She's just hit a rough patch in life, nothing more. I helped her not because I expect anything in return, but because I want her to have the freedom to focus on her craft without being dragged down by life's distractions. She deserves the chance to show the world what she can do."
Andrew was silent for a while before sighing. "You're right, Aldridge. I have changed. This should have been simple, but I overthought it. I'm a bit of an ass, aren't I? You don't hate me for it?"
Aldridge chuckled. "Of course not. Everyone lives differently. Who's to say I won't turn into an ass myself one day? I'm not going to criticise you for it. Anyway, let's change the subject."
They drifted into talk of business. Andrew's agency already held the contracts of most Millwall players and was beginning to court several Premier League talents. The company was still small and far from making waves in the industry. Aldridge knew this business required more than just skill—it needed a reputation, a network in the transfer market, and the ability to generate income for clients.
As the conversation turned to football, Aldridge became animated. Under his influence, Andrew had abandoned his initial plan of focusing only on Millwall players. His company was still in its infancy; signing big names was out of reach for now, and even securing lesser-known professionals was difficult. But that didn't matter. At this stage, the goal was to cast a wide net among young players, building goodwill and relationships. Agent contracts typically lasted only three years. If Andrew could one day oversee the transfers of a few major stars, his company's reputation would be made.
The next day, Aldridge received a parcel from Edinburgh. Inside was a thick stack of papers and a letter.
He opened the letter first. Rowling expressed her heartfelt thanks and explained that the enclosed manuscript was the novel she was working on. It was unfinished, but she wanted Aldridge to see it first and, if possible, share his thoughts.
Aldridge's eyes widened when he saw the title. It was Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone—unfinished, but already alive on the page.
As for giving feedback, Aldridge didn't see himself as qualified. If Rowling were a footballer, he thought, he'd be nothing more than a fan in the stands, cheering. Put him on the pitch, and he'd be hopeless.
Still, the chance to read Harry Potter before the world knew its name was a thrill. He understood the manuscript's value and kept it safe, never letting it leave the study. At night, he would lie on the sofa, a soft light glowing overhead, music playing quietly in the background, and read with genuine fascination.
In the past, he would have struggled with an English original, grasping the gist but losing the flow. Now, he understood every word, able to picture the magical world unfolding in his mind.
He smiled at the thought that Rowling and football were not entirely disconnected. She had no love for the sport itself, yet a football soaring through the air had once sparked an idea. That inspiration had become Quidditch in her wizarding world.
When he finished, Aldridge wrote back with words of encouragement. They rarely met in person afterwards, but they continued to exchange letters until the day Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone was officially published.
At the end of January 1995, Millwall were drawn into one of the standout fixtures of the FA Cup Fourth Round.
From the Third Round onward, the competition changes character. The smaller clubs that have battled through the early stages are suddenly joined by teams from the Premier League and the First Division, swelling the draw to 64 teams. Knockout ties become as much about romance and shocks as they are about form and league position.
Millwall's fortune in the draw, however, was mixed at best. They had pulled Arsenal—Premier League heavyweights, perennial top-flight contenders, and, at the time, one of the most defensively disciplined sides in England under George Graham.
If there was any consolation, it was financial. Hosting Arsenal at The Den meant a guaranteed increase in ticket sales, and the broadcast rights would bring in a tidy sum.
Millwall's history is littered with grudges, feuds, and outright enmities. Over the decades, they had developed bad blood with Liverpool, Manchester City, Leeds United, Gillingham, and more. Sometimes the hostility was born from clashes on the pitch during a certain era; other times, it was sparked—or deepened—by violent confrontations between supporters off it.
Against giants like Liverpool, the resentment was almost entirely one-sided. The Merseysiders rarely thought twice about Millwall, but Millwall supporters remembered every perceived slight. In many of these non-derby rivalries, the role of football hooliganism in the 1970s and 1980s cannot be overstated—it fuelled animosity and kept it alive long after the matches themselves were forgotten.
Within London, Millwall's primary enemies were shaped by geography and class. Their fiercest rivalry, at full intensity—hatred at a value of 100—was with West Ham United. That hostility was generational, rooted in the docklands and the working-class communities of East and South East London, and it showed no sign of ever fading. Crystal Palace came next at around 80, and Charlton Athletic sat at about 60.
But in truth, the second-biggest resentment wasn't Palace—it was Chelsea.
Chelsea's base in West London had, by the late 20th century, undergone a dramatic transformation. Once working-class, the area had become gentrified and expensive. Traditional supporters from those neighbourhoods were priced out, and many relocated eastward, into areas like Bermondsey and the broader Millwall catchment. That migration brought Chelsea fans into direct, often hostile contact with Millwall supporters. Skirmishes in pubs, on trains, and in the streets spilled into the football sphere. The odd dynamic that resulted was striking: Chelsea as a club seemed to despise Millwall more intensely than Millwall despised Chelsea—largely because Chelsea fans had never fared well in Millwall territory.
In London, derbies come with the city's sprawl and density. Even without historic feuds, any two clubs within the capital can claim a "London derby" of sorts—if only for bragging rights over who rules their part of the city. But derby intensity varies with history and competition. Millwall could not, in truth, claim a stake in the "King of London" contest between Arsenal, Tottenham, and Chelsea; their rivalry with Arsenal was tepid at best.
Still, Arsenal's history in the city made them an easy club to dislike. Originally founded in South London (Woolwich), they moved north of the River Thames in 1913, settling in Highbury—practically on Tottenham Hotspur's doorstep. To Spurs fans, it was an unforgivable trespass, and many other London supporters viewed the move with disdain. The relocation made Arsenal outsiders in their own area, and for decades they drew more support from surrounding counties than from their immediate neighbourhood. By the 1990s, with London's demographic shifts and a surge in international fans, Arsenal's base had diversified—but the perception of them as interlopers lingered among traditional supporters of other clubs.
So, while a Millwall–Arsenal FA Cup tie would draw attention and fill the stands, it would never ignite the sort of febrile atmosphere of Millwall–West Ham or Millwall–Chelsea.
Aldridge himself approached the match with calm professionalism. The FA Cup was a welcome challenge, but not a distraction from Millwall's main priority—the league. Still, he was about to find himself in the headlines for reasons that had little to do with tactics or form.
On the morning of the game, The Times splashed a provocative headline across its sports section:
George Graham: "Arsenal will teach Millwall to respect football – and Aldridge is a cancer in English football."
...
...
Aldridge rarely read newspapers. It wasn't that there was no football coverage—quite the opposite. There was far too much. Britain in the 1990s had no single dedicated national football daily like Italy's Gazzetta dello Sport or Spain's Marca, but every newspaper, from the serious broadsheets to the most scandal-hungry tabloids, was crammed with football stories. Match reports jostled with gossip columns, locker-room "exclusives," transfer speculation, and tales of players' private lives. The variety was dazzling, but the reliability? Often questionable.
And with the British press of the time, professional ethics were hardly a selling point. Aldridge preferred to get his hard football information elsewhere—usually from club staff who gathered and verified it for him. Day to day, his only regular media habit was catching the BBC news over a meal.
On the morning of the FA Cup tie, Aldridge came downstairs smartly dressed, ready for the day. Though he was an adult with his own income, he still lived at home with his parents. After years of travelling and being away, Arthur and Amelia enjoyed having him around, and meals together were a cherished routine.
Today, however, the atmosphere at breakfast was a little different. As Aldridge took his seat and the family's housekeeper poured him coffee, Arthur—still in his pyjamas, his belly stretching the fabric—slapped a folded newspaper down on the table with a scowl.
"Graham—bloody hypocrite!" he fumed. "His own hands aren't clean, and now he dares to talk about others. And The Times prints that filth across half the page. Ross, cancel our subscription—no more Times in this house!"
Ross, a trusted employee assigned by Aldridge's elder brother Barnett to assist Arthur, nodded quietly. In his thirties, he was the sort who could manage travel, finances, and errands without fuss, arriving at the Hall home every morning at seven sharp.
Arthur turned back to his son, still bristling. "Son, you make sure you teach them a lesson today—especially Graham. A couple of trophies and he thinks he's God's gift. Arsenal? Hah! Millwall today could beat them, and Millwall a few years back could've done the same. Ungrateful bastard!"
Aldridge smiled and nodded, then reached for the discarded Times.
Before reading, his mind flicked briefly to George Graham. There was, in fact, a link between Graham and Millwall—though a faint one. Before Aldridge's own arrival in 1986, Graham had managed Millwall, guiding them from the Third Division to the Second Division in 1985–86, and keeping them mid-table before departing for Arsenal that summer. It had been a solid achievement, but nothing that had carved him into Millwall folklore.
It was at Arsenal that Graham built his real reputation. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, he ushered in a period of silverware—two league titles, an FA Cup, a League Cup, and, most recently, the 1994 European Cup Winners' Cup. His football was ruthlessly efficient, built on a famously stingy defence that once conceded only 18 goals in a league season. But the style, later labelled the "1–0 to the Arsenal" doctrine, was so defensive that even many Gunners fans grew weary. Watching Arsenal could be like sitting in a library—quiet, disciplined, and, to neutrals, soporific.
Now, according to the Times headline, Graham had launched a personal attack:
George Graham: "Arsenal will teach Millwall to respect football – and Aldridge is a cancer in English football."
The trigger for this, Aldridge quickly realised, was speculation about his FA Cup line-up. Millwall's use of two distinct squads—first-choice and "second" team—was no secret. The Sun's reporter Thomson, one of the first journalists to understand Aldridge's methods, had written that Millwall would probably field their second string against Arsenal, just as they had in the League Cup against Newcastle United earlier in the season.
"Compared to the relentless Newcastle United, Arsenal are already past their peak," Thomson had written. "Given that, Aldridge will surely stick with his cup strategy and play the second team."
The words reached Graham, and the Arsenal manager hit back the day before the match. His criticisms weren't random. He dredged up every easy target—Aldridge's decision to force out the old coaching staff upon taking over, the wholesale clear-out of last season's squad (keeping only goalkeeper Kasey Keller and teenager Lucas Neill), and his aggressive recruitment of foreign players.
In the conservative climate of English football in the mid-1990s, Aldridge's approach was viewed by some as reckless, even arrogant. The Premier League had only just begun to open its doors to foreign talent; in the lower leagues, such moves were rare.
Aldridge read the piece without visible reaction, finished his breakfast, and headed for the club at his usual pace.
The truth was, The Sun had been right—he did intend to play the second team. Yes, Millwall's current form gave him enough confidence to field the first-choice XI and make a deeper run in the FA Cup. But his priorities were different.
The First Division might be only one tier below the Premier League, but the step up in quality, pace, and physicality was enormous. Many of Millwall's young players would struggle to adapt next season unless they gained more competitive experience now. That meant giving them matches—even big ones like this.
Some managers might try a half-and-half approach, mixing starters with reserves. Aldridge dismissed that entirely. Blending the two disrupted the tactical cohesion he'd spent months building. Better to give the second XI a full match together and let them grow as a unit.
At the pre-match press conference, Aldridge arrived right on schedule. More than thirty reporters had gathered—a testament to the interest in this clash between the leaders of the First Division and one of the traditional "big three" of English football.
He sat down calmly, scanning the room with a faint smile. "Alright, anything you'd like to ask?"
The Sun's Thomson, who had been covering Millwall recently, immediately raised his hand."Mr. Hall, could you tell us your starting line-up for this match?"
Aldridge replied without hesitation:"Goalkeeper: Butt.Defenders: Neville, Richards, Materazzi, Zambrotta.Midfielders: Grønkjær, Gattuso, Vieira, Ballack, Beckham.Forward: Solskjær."
Thomson's eyebrows shot up. His prediction in the paper had been right about Aldridge fielding the second team, but the shape was a surprise. He had expected a 4-4-2, but Aldridge's list suggested a 4-5-1.
He quickly followed up. "Mr. Hall, who is Gattuso? And where's Kevin Phillips?"
"Phillips picked up a minor knock in training," Aldridge explained casually. "He'll be on the bench for this one. As for Gattuso—he's one of our young players. I believe he's ready for a competitive start. His training performances have earned the coaching staff's full confidence."
The name rang no bells for the press. Gattuso had yet to appear in an official match, and when the second XI had previously played, the midfield pairing had been Vieira and Ballack.
That didn't stop the questions. Richard from the Daily Mail, who generally had a good rapport with Aldridge, leaned forward."Mr. Hall, have you read the papers today?"
The room instantly went quiet. All eyes turned to Aldridge.
He blinked, feigning innocence. "Why? Didn't Graham already give you your story? What exactly do you want from me?"
Richard smirked but didn't answer directly. "George Graham's trying to distract people. He's under FA investigation for taking bribes in player transfers. Anyone can see that his attack on Millwall is just a way to draw attention away from his own case. Honestly, even if Arsenal weren't playing Millwall, he'd still be lashing out at someone. It's an old trick, and the readers aren't fooled. What he said wasn't news—it was more like a poor stage performance."
The remark drew murmurs of agreement from the room. Only the Times reporter—whose paper had run Graham's comments—smiled thinly. The headline hadn't boosted sales much. Most fans knew Graham was in the middle of a "bungs" scandal, and his attack on Millwall was a transparent attempt to shift the narrative.
Aldridge laughed quietly to himself. His plan had been to watch the whole mess unfold from the sidelines, but if Graham wanted to drag him into it, then he'd answer in kind.
After all, under-the-table "bungs" in transfers had been part of English football for decades. Even great managers like Brian Clough had been tainted by such allegations. If history was any guide, Graham wasn't going to be the last.
Clearing his throat, Aldridge spoke with mock seriousness:"Well, I suppose that in today's media, a dog biting a man isn't news anymore. But a man biting a dog? That gets attention, doesn't it?"
Laughter rippled across the room.
This was classic Aldridge—measured, witty, and with just enough bite to give the journalists something quotable.
Right now, Graham did resemble a dog snapping at anything in sight.
And who was Aldridge? The most talked-about young manager in English football. Even outside the Premier League, his record and rise had drawn national attention, and he was all but certain to claim the LMA First Division Manager of the Year award.
Attacking Millwall and mocking Aldridge would do Graham no favours. Arsenal's form had slumped to mid-table mediocrity in the Premier League, and the contrast with Millwall's surging record was stark.
Aldridge's tone shifted, his expression hardening."Mr. Graham's remarks about Millwall disappoint me. He's forgotten that he was once part of this club.
"His Arsenal plays ugly football. Yes, he turned a group of outstanding young players in the late 1980s into one of Europe's best sides, but look at them now. I don't see the temperament of champions anymore—not even the fighting spirit to challenge for the title.
"As for the bribery rumours, I won't comment on whether they're true. But I will say this: the rumours alone have damaged Arsenal. Imagine you're an Arsenal player and your manager is distracted by problems off the pitch. Can you still focus fully on your football?
"Do I hate Arsenal? No. Millwall has no real grudge with them. I even admire several of their players—Tony Adams, David Seaman—but they'll never play for Millwall, even if we're in the Premier League next season. Admiration doesn't mean envy. My players make me proud, and our future is bright. Arsenal, on the other hand, are already struggling to see even a glimpse of sunlight."
It was the first time Aldridge, normally the picture of calm, had openly fired shots at another club in front of the media.
The next day's newspapers splashed it across their sports pages. Sales soared. The headlines wrote themselves:
"Forget dogs biting men—this time, the man bit back."