The Rise of Millwal

Chapter 108: The Pride of Millwall

Bates still went to the Lion's Den Stadium over the weekend. The reason was that Millwall's Arthur attended a press conference the day before the match. He didn't take the stage but clapped for Aldrich from the audience, which, to outsiders, seemed like a proud father showing support for his son.

After the press conference, reporters swarmed around Arthur. Having mingled on the streets, Arthur had a slick and cunning personality. He expressed pride in his son and in Millwall's performance, and finally hinted at his disappointment: he had originally planned to warmly host Chelsea's owner Bates, even renting a Lincoln to pick him up for the game. However, it seemed Bates had come up with numerous excuses to decline the invitation.

The reporters were shameless; the headline on match day proclaimed: "Chelsea Owner Fears Millwall!"

Chelsea had always despised Millwall, and the Millwall fans looked down on Chelsea. It was odd, but that was reality.

Bates, who had been at Chelsea for more than ten years, wanted to keep hanging on and make money through the "Chelsea Village" he created. Naturally, he couldn't let the fans down or show weakness before a rival. That would be akin to suicide.

So, Bates arrived. The moment he appeared in the VIP box, the stadium's broadcast cameras focused on him.

Bates and Arthur embraced like old friends, smiles plastered on their faces.

But no one knew what they whispered to each other.

"Hey, your Chelsea's on the brink of collapse, right? Do you really think other Premier League clubs will take after your sorry ass? Seriously, who the hell wants to watch games featuring teams stuck in the lower half of the Premier League?"

"Old man, don't get cocky. You still don't get how football works. Millwall can laugh for now, but wait until summer when all the big clubs open their bank accounts; you'll be knocked back to reality, you bumpkin!"

"Go ahead and curse; I know you're not satisfied. You brought in a footballer of the year, yet your team is still limping along, hahahaha, what a sucker!"

"Are you an idiot? Millwall doesn't even have a decent trophy; what are you so happy about?"

"Does Chelsea have any championships?"

"We've won the top league championship!"

"That was almost fifty years ago, right? Haha, fifty years of laughter for a century; yet you can still find superiority in that—you really are a fool!"

The two hypocritical club owners exchanged pleasantries after heartily wishing each other's families well numerous times before taking their seats.

To outsiders, they seemed polite and able to coexist peacefully, but Arthur's smile was genuinely from the heart, while Bates's was mostly forced.

Before the match began, Aldrich took to the field and walked over to the Chelsea bench, extending his right hand to the Chelsea manager, who stood with his arms crossed.

"Sir, I watched your games when I was a kid, and your performance was impressive. If all Chelsea players played at your level, Chelsea would definitely be a very strong team."

Aldrich's words were half hidden daggers and half sincere compliments.

The man before him was a household name in England and a former international star: Glenn Hoddle.

During the 1986 World Cup, Aldrich had indeed watched him play for England. The most popular English player at that time was Lineker, but Hoddle's performance left a lasting impression.

Hoddle, slightly surprised, shook Aldrich's hand and laughed, "Your team is impressive as well. It's hard to believe you're so young yet can lead such a strong team."

Aldrich humbly shook his head and then turned to return to his position. He only admired Glenn Hoddle from his playing days; Hoddle as a coach simply did not command Aldrich's respect. It's not wrong to have faith or, as some would call it, a belief; the mistake lies in imposing that belief onto others, potentially affecting the collective. Hoddle is a typical example. When he later coached the England national team, he brought a "wizard" into the squad and often spoke in a way that hinted at fatalism, which is not tolerated in a scientific society.

Standing at the sidelines, Aldrich watched Chelsea's lineup. The most prominent player was clearly the 33-year-old Gullit. Other than him, there weren't many star players—a reflection of Chelsea's current development model, also praised by the FA as a template: local players plus seasoned superstars.

Perhaps the FA felt that the Premier League's appeal was still lacking and that bringing in some aging stars for experience could help the league catch up with Europe.

This model would be followed by Premier League teams for quite a while, such as Middlesbrough, Bolton, and West Ham.

Given Aldrich's contemptuous comments about Chelsea in interviews, the entire Chelsea club was eager to defeat Millwall at the Lion's Den Stadium.

But they seemed to forget that Millwall had not lost at this tiny ground since Aldrich took over last summer.

When the match began, Chelsea's attack had yet to gain momentum before they found themselves completely passive.

In midfield, they had Gullit, a former superstar, but he was already 33. While his experience might grant him an edge in creativity over top Premier League players, his defensive weaknesses were glaring.

Millwall's intense pressing from midfield sent the former world footballer dizzy, unable to keep hold of the ball, while Millwall's rapid counterattacks were lively and effective.

Cheers from fans in the stands rose and fell like a tide. Now they could hold their heads high, even though the hope of contending for the Premier League title appeared slim. At least in this part of London, no other team could overshadow their momentum.

Arsenal? Sorry, they were already 10 points behind Millwall.

As for Chelsea, they were hardly worth mentioning, lacking any heritage or glory to boast of. If Millwall was the star, Chelsea was merely wearing a pair of shoes.

Watching Millwall unleash wave after wave of attacks against Chelsea, smashing shots against Chelsea's goal, the fans, known as the Lions, erupted in song.

"Oh Chelsea, Chelsea, you've lost your way out of West London! You're bragging about bringing in a footballer of the year—how enviable! Surely, the gentlemanly crowd at Stamford Bridge has grown, right? They come with supermodels and little stars, you must be jealous! Unbuckle your belts and let loose; let's have fun together!"

Less than two thousand Chelsea fans huddled in the corner of the Lion's Den, feeling both unwilling and sorrowful as they heard Millwall fans sing, their fists clenched, their hearts bleeding.

To some extent, the mockery from Millwall's fans merely hit the nail on the head about reality.

Chelsea fans originally came from working-class backgrounds, but as West London prices rose, labor-class fans were forced to "leave home" and move south to London, getting closer to the Millwall area, which sparked an unending feud between the two teams.

Surrounding Stamford Bridge were mostly affluent residents—stockbrokers and business executives clad in suits. In the UK, football is both the lowest and the highest form of entertainment; both the rich and the poor watch matches. To fit into British culture, especially in the international metropolis of London, many wealthy individuals bring their supermodel girlfriends to Stamford Bridge to experience British entertainment culture. Some even conduct business on the stands at Stamford Bridge, elevating the audience but leaving traditional fans discontent. This parallels how the general British fans deride Manchester United's commercialization.

Millwall killed the game in the first half.

Under Millwall's relentless pressure, Chelsea conceded their first goal in the 18th minute as Nedvěd stormed into the penalty area and fired a powerful shot to open the scoring.

In the following half hour, Trezeguet scored twice, making it 3-0 by the end of the first half.

Every Lion fan in the Lion's Den Stadium wore expressions of excitement.

At their home ground, they would always relish the joy.

Home advantage under Aldrich's era was vividly evident; they exerted immense pressure on all visiting teams and consistently delivered outstanding performances at home.

Before walking into the locker room, Aldrich took a glance at Chelsea players' expressions and noticed that most of them had already surrendered.

The once much-anticipated Gullit was clearly not a key force in Chelsea's rise. His performances over the past year at AC Milan and Sampdoria had already shown how out of his depth he was on the pitch. He was brought to Chelsea as a savior, but he was just there to retire and transition into a coaching role.

Aldrich didn't take Chelsea seriously. There were quite a few strong teams in the Premier League now, but Chelsea obviously didn't qualify as one.

In the second half, Chelsea remained lackluster as Millwall played even more freely, eventually seeing substitute Solskj?r score two goals, sealing a bloody outcome of 5-0.

As Bates left the VIP box, Arthur called out loudly to his retreating figure, "You old bastard, you're welcome to come back anytime! Next summer, you better sign a few more footballers of the year! I love watching their performances!"

Bates, humiliated and furious, turned around to shout, "Arthur, go lick your own ass! One day, Chelsea will crush Millwall into dust! And I'll make you beg me to show you some mercy! But I'll still shove your old dick in your mouth, so you can enjoy!"

Arthur burst into laughter, his face flushed, "So you can only go home today and lick your own dick! Bates, I love you, you old bastard. At next month's Premier League roundtable meeting, behave yourself, or I won't go easy on Chelsea. Your ticket prices are ridiculous; who do you think you are to charge such high prices for a trash match?"

Bates glared at Arthur, steam practically coming out of his ears, but ultimately turned and quickened his pace to leave without saying another word.

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