When the draw for the fourth round of the FA Cup was announced, Aldridge could only sigh at the hand fate had dealt him.
Millwall, a side from England's second tier, had once again been paired with a Premier League club—the third time this season in the cups. This time, in the fourth round, they would face Newcastle United, a team they had already met in the first half of the season.
The only silver lining was that Millwall would have home advantage. The Den's gates would open to a sell-out crowd, and the club's coffers would swell accordingly.
Kevin Keegan's Newcastle were one of the more entertaining sides in the Premier League, but this season they had been unable to mount a title challenge. Blackburn Rovers and Manchester United had broken away at the top, leaving the rest of the division far behind. That reality meant the FA Cup held real significance for Newcastle, who were eager to claim silverware.
Aldridge, however, stayed true to his philosophy—his cup matches were opportunities to develop his bench. The younger and less experienced players needed competitive minutes, and the FA Cup provided them with exactly that.
By February, Millwall were still in relentless form in the First Division. The squad had matured rapidly; in the league, they seemed untouchable. Aldridge feared neither the teams at the top of the table nor those battling relegation—both categories would risk more in pursuit of points, which made them vulnerable to Millwall's quick, punishing counterattacks.
Ironically, the most difficult opponents were the ones with nothing to play for—teams lodged safely in mid-table, with no urgency and no fear of losing. Against those sides, points could be dropped.
When Newcastle arrived at The Den for the fourth-round tie, Aldridge once again came face-to-face with Kevin Keegan. The flamboyant manager stood out in a dark red suit so bold that Aldridge had to work to keep a straight face.
Keegan had reason to be confident. Two years earlier, he had returned to football after an eight-year absence and taken Newcastle up to the Premier League. They had finished third the previous season. This year, even after selling top scorer Andy Cole for over £4 million to Manchester United, their form had hardly suffered—they remained one of the league's most respected sides.
Coincidentally, Newcastle's wealthy owner also carried the surname Hall, and like Aldridge's family, possessed a fortune in the hundreds of millions.
But after ninety minutes, Keegan's mood was far less buoyant. His Premier League team had faced Millwall's cup side at The Den and been held to a 1–1 draw. Months earlier, in the League Cup, Newcastle had beaten that very same Millwall lineup. This time, though, Keegan's men had underestimated them, and it had cost them.
In his post-match comments, Keegan awkwardly promised to win the replay at St James' Park. Aldridge, in contrast, was delighted. Not only would his bench gain another competitive outing, but the replay would bring in more revenue.
Keegan's frustration soon boiled over into criticism, accusing Millwall of showing "a lack of respect for the FA Cup" by not fielding their strongest lineup. Aldridge answered with cool precision:
"We're about to play the most important match of our entire season. Is the FA Cup optional? That's a very irresponsible way to look at it. If luck had gone our way, my team could have advanced at home. Coach Keegan's criticism doesn't hold up. If we're to be condemned for not using our full-strength lineup, then why didn't Newcastle beat us? Were they also holding back? Or is that not showing even greater contempt for the oldest cup competition in football?"
The London press, already warming to Aldridge, seized on his response. He had a knack for handling verbal sparring without descending into personal attacks, offering sharp retorts while maintaining a professional tone. It kept him on good terms with the media and ensured the headlines usually tilted in his favour.
Before that FA Cup replay, however, Millwall faced a league fixture that could shape the rest of their season.
It was the 32nd round of the First Division, and Millwall were up against their nearest challengers, Middlesbrough.
Three months earlier, the two sides had fought out a thrilling 2–2 draw at Ayresome Park, a result that kept both teams level on points at the top of the table. Now, though, the landscape had changed completely. Millwall still occupied first place, but Middlesbrough trailed by a daunting 13 points.
It wasn't that Bryan Robson's side had faltered—far from it. Their points tally over this period actually bettered the record set by Nottingham Forest's second-place finish the previous season. The difference was Millwall's relentless pace. Their form over the same stretch had been stronger even than Crystal Palace's title-winning campaign last year.
That 13-point gap left the title race hanging by a thread. Many in the media suggested the coming weekend's match could decide it completely.
The Daily Mail devoted a full-page spread to the build-up, penned by their writer Richard:
"February 24 will be remembered in the Premier League for the clash between Dalglish and Ferguson, but in the First Division, this may be the day when the title race ends. Millwall, far ahead in the league, lead second-placed Middlesbrough by 13 points. A win at The Den would stretch that to 16. With 14 matches still to play—over a third of the season remaining—it would all but crown the champions. We recall Bryan Robson's words three months ago, after Millwall's equaliser in the away match: 'We failed to win today, and that will decide the title.' Back then, many dismissed it as exaggeration. But imagine if Millwall hadn't taken a draw that day—how different might their morale have been all season?"
Media outlets loved such predictions. When they were right, they looked prophetic; when wrong, they at least stirred conversation. The Daily Mail issue sold particularly well, aided by a striking cover photograph—Aldridge, kneeling and raising both arms skyward in celebration after Nedvěd's equaliser at Ayresome Park. The image of a young, suited manager celebrating like one of his players had captured public attention and boosted his profile.
As the match drew near, Aldridge sat in his office reviewing the squad list alongside Dr. Thompson's injury reports.
A knock at the door broke his concentration.
"Come in."
Bernd Schneider entered in casual clothes. Aldridge set down his papers and asked with a smile, "Bernd, what's on your mind?"
Schneider took a seat opposite. "Boss, I think I'm fully recovered. I want to start the next game."
He had spent the past month in rehabilitation and had only recently rejoined full training.
Aldridge poured him a glass of water, then leaned against the desk. "I'm glad to hear it—but for the next match, you'll start on the bench."
Schneider frowned. "But I'm ready. I've fully recovered."
"I know," Aldridge replied, raising a hand to forestall further protest. "But this will be an intense match. You're an important player, and I won't risk a relapse straight after your return. We still have plenty of matches left this season."
"Still… this is Middlesbrough," Schneider insisted.
Aldridge bent slightly, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial tone. "Bernd, you've been here over six months now. What kind of person do you think I am?"
Caught off guard, Schneider hesitated. "You're… pragmatic. Grounded. Reliable."
Aldridge gave a wry shrug. "I'm also ambitious—and arrogant. Middlesbrough? Honestly, I don't think about them much. They're a mature side, but they've already peaked. We've barely tapped half our potential. Our real battles will be in the Premier League, against the likes of Manchester United and Liverpool. Don't let the media's 'top-of-the-table clash' hype fool you into thinking Middlesbrough are our equals. That sort of talk annoys me."
Schneider chuckled, surprised at Aldridge's candour. He rose to leave. "Understood, boss. I won't disturb you further."
Once alone, Aldridge turned back to his tactical notebook and wrote out the weekend's starting XI. The only change from recent weeks was Beckham making way for Schneider on the right flank—otherwise, the core of the team remained the same.
At the pre-match press conference, Aldridge struck a modest tone: "This is just another league game. Whatever the result, the title will really be decided in April or May."
The next day, some newspapers accused him of false modesty, calling the comments hypocritical. But others saw it as a respectful nod to Middlesbrough and their manager Bryan Robson, and applauded him for it.
...
For more than half of this season, Millwall fans had been the happiest group in the entire First Division.
They could simply come to The Den and enjoy football in its purest form—skill, passion, and excitement. Week after week, Aldridge's Millwall played with an energy and style that had been completely detached from the long-ball habits of English football. His team brought a fresh wind of youthful, attacking football that not only delighted the home crowd but gave them real pride in their club.
On the afternoon of this 32nd-round clash, The Den was once again sold out. As the teams walked out onto the pitch, applause rolled like a wave around the stands. There was no hatred here—Middlesbrough were rivals for the title, not enemies—and with Millwall's lead in the table, the fans could afford to welcome their visitors without hostility.
The TV cameras inevitably found Aldridge. The young, handsome coach had become a recognised figure in English football—calm, well-dressed, and capable. His tactical approach had become a subject of interest even among serious columnists, though the "research reports" they published often stopped short of firm conclusions. Those with a deep understanding of the game knew why: Aldridge's transformation of Millwall wasn't yet complete. He had broken from the blind, repetitive use of traditional wing play, instead using the flanks more intelligently—integrating them into a wider tactical system where wingers could cross, cut inside, or combine centrally. But it was still a work in progress.
After the players lined up, Aldridge strolled over to greet visiting manager Bryan Robson. The two men shook hands warmly and exchanged a brief, good-natured chat.
"Aldridge, what will you do if you lose this game? You've got such a big lead in points," Robson teased.
"Then Middlesbrough can attack with everything they've got," Aldridge replied smoothly, "and Millwall will leave the defence wide open."
"Can you not be so irritating?"
"Thank you," Aldridge grinned, "that's the best compliment you could give me."
They smiled at each other before returning to their technical areas.
Compared to the first meeting of the season, Millwall's line-up had only one change: David Beckham, still on loan from Manchester United, replaced the injured Bernd Schneider on the right flank. The formation remained the same—Millwall in their disciplined 4-4-2, Middlesbrough sticking to their 5-3-2, the "hidden killer" shape they trusted.
From the kick-off, the match felt familiar. Millwall took the initiative, while Middlesbrough sat deep, content to compress space in their own half. But Aldridge wasn't about to make the same mistake as in November. His Millwall side was now more mature, the players' understanding far sharper.
Pires, Nedvěd, Makelele, and Beckham worked the midfield with precision, supported by Larsson dropping back from the front line. Millwall's control of the ball was total. It wasn't just that Middlesbrough were defensive; Millwall themselves were being patient, holding possession, and refusing to gamble with the ball in bad positions. It was, in its own way, a conservative strategy—but one built on security rather than fear.
One of Aldridge's first lessons to this team had been simple: learn to pass back. If the forward passing lane was blocked, recycle the ball. Keep it. Staying unbeaten started with keeping the ball.
This match, hyped in the media as a "clash of titans," lacked the furious exchanges some expected. Kavanagh, playing as a defensive forward for Middlesbrough, ran himself ragged chasing Millwall's back line and midfield in a futile attempt to break their rhythm. Alone, he was easy prey—more like a one-man shuttle run than a serious pressing threat.
Middlesbrough's three-man midfield—Blackmore, Mustoe, and Hignett—rarely crossed the halfway line, waiting in vain for the game to tilt their way.
Millwall, meanwhile, knew how to break down such deep defences. Pires drifted centrally to combine with Nedvěd in tight triangles, while the forwards dragged defenders with clever movement to open lanes for long-range shots. In the 20th minute, Nedvěd unleashed a powerful drive from distance that beat Miller but rattled the crossbar, bouncing high into the stands.
Middlesbrough stayed disciplined, but small lapses appeared. Pires tried a low shot from outside the box, forcing Miller into a clean catch. The goalkeeper immediately launched a booming kick upfield, hoping to spark a quick counterattack.
The ball landed just beyond the halfway line, but Makelele had read it perfectly. Planting himself between Kavanagh and the ball, he used his body to shield it and never lost concentration despite the striker's attempts to barge him aside. As it dropped, he cushioned it with one touch and released Beckham on the right flank.
Beckham's first touch was immaculate. Glancing up, he spotted a gap in Middlesbrough's shape and, without hesitation, struck a long, looping pass over the defensive line.
The visitors' defenders had just stepped up to reset after their last stand, and none of them expected the ball to come back so quickly. In less than ten seconds, it was dropping behind them again.
Trezeguet burst between Pearson and Whyte, timing his run to perfection. Miller charged out, arms wide to block, but the Frenchman met the ball first, rising to glance a header over the keeper's reach.
Miller—already nursing bad memories of Pires' bizarre curling goal in the reverse fixture—could only watch the ball sail over his head before stumbling to the ground in frustration.
GOAL! David Trezeguet, with a superb header from Beckham's pinpoint delivery. It was the Frenchman's 18th goal of the season, and Beckham's assist showed exactly why Millwall fans had taken to him so quickly.
Trezeguet ran straight to Beckham, embracing him in celebration as The Den erupted. In the stands, fans waved homemade signs: "Aldridge, please sign Beckham!"
Aldridge could only smile to himself. Of course he would love to keep the player who would soon become one of England's most marketable stars—but Ferguson was never going to let Beckham leave permanently. When the loan began, Beckham was still just a fresh-faced prospect. With each game, and each decisive contribution like this one, his stock was rising.
Around the training ground, Beckham had become a magnet for attention—half the female spectators came to see him, the other half split their admiration between Nedvěd, Schneider, and others. And beyond Millwall, Beckham's fame had been growing since childhood. Last year, he'd been part of Manchester United's Class of '92 Youth Cup-winning side, which had made him a familiar name in English football circles.
Aldridge applauded the goal, then glanced across at Robson. The Middlesbrough boss hardly reacted, pacing slowly along his technical area. He knew it wasn't his team underperforming—it was Millwall who had evolved into a different side entirely.
Restarting, Middlesbrough stayed with their long-ball approach, but against Millwall's defence, it was toothless. Each clearance or aerial duel ended the same way: the ball back at Millwall's feet.
The home crowd, sensing control, treated the match like a celebration, singing and joking among themselves.
Beckham, buoyed by his assist, started taking more risks. For the past half hour, he had been pushing further forward than Aldridge had instructed. The manager had been clear before kick-off: "Don't get too far ahead. Support Thuram defensively, and be ready to hit those long passes to start our delayed attacks."
Originally, Beckham's wide position had kept Middlesbrough's defence unsettled. But his forward surges now had a different effect—they caught Middlesbrough off guard in moments when they expected him to hang back.
In the 30th minute, Nedvěd skipped past Mustoe in midfield. About to shoot from distance, he noticed Beckham making a run into space and slid the ball right instead.
Centre-back Vickers lunged to intercept, but Beckham slipped a perfectly weighted pass down the channel for Larsson, who had timed his run from deep. Larsson reached the byline, half-turning to deliver a low cross into the six-yard box.
Pearson swung a boot to clear, but Trezeguet slid in first, stabbing the ball past Miller and into the net.
GOAL! Millwall 2–0.
The Frenchman's predatory instincts had doubled the lead, and Beckham had his second assist of the afternoon. The Den roared in approval.