The Rise of Millwal

Chapter 17: You are utter garbage!

Shrewsbury Town finished mid-table in the previous League One season, devoid of any star players. Their sustenance in the league could be attributed primarily to the remarkable cohesion displayed by their squad of "blue-collar warriors" throughout the years. Their balance between offense and defense was far from perfect; they've lost the matches they were expected to lose and won those that were deemed winnable, averaging around 1.5 goals scored and conceded per game. Their head coach, Peter Dawson, transitioned to coaching following his retirement from playing.

This team exhibited no particularly outstanding characteristics, resembling a mere footnote in the grander narrative.

As the opponent for the opening match, Peter had conducted some due diligence on Millwall. From Millwall's summer spending spree to the recent tabloid coverage of Aldrich, he was particularly struck by the remark that Millwall's youthful owner hoped merely for the team to stay afloat in League One following such hefty financial investment.

Peter found Aldrich to be somewhat self-aware, grasping the importance of establishing a foothold in League One. However, he secretly held disdain for a coach who lacked a traditional English football pedigree.

Despite possessing a coaching qualification, Aldrich had not been nurtured within the English football system, and his lack of playing experience rendered him a typical outsider in the eyes of other coaches.

Peter casually discussed the club's transfer targets with his assistant, noting that there were still over two weeks left in the transfer window. Shrewsbury aimed to bolster their squad by recruiting players on loan from larger clubs, as they themselves were not a major team; the squad comprised long-term servants and was of moderate ability, akin to a poor family struggling to make ends meet: patching up old clothes year after year.

Every transfer window became a time for these smaller clubs to engage in "stitching and mending."

Noticing that his assistant had fallen silent with a peculiar expression as he glanced behind them, the tall figure of Peter, embodying the quintessential middle-aged British man, furrowed his brow and turned around. There stood Aldrich, impeccably attired like a stockbroker.

Aldrich wore a gentle smile and extended his right hand, softly greeting, "Hello..."

Before he could finish his salutation, Peter interrupted him.

"Who the hell are you? What do you want?"

Of course, Peter recognized the individual before him as Millwall's head coach, yet he delighted in imparting a belittling reprimand to this youthful figure devoid of any football gravitas.

Aldrich was momentarily taken aback, unprepared for such an abrasive response, replete with expletives.

Recalling the previous conversation between Peter and his assistant, Aldrich assumed he had been mistaken for an eavesdropper. Maintaining his smile, he replied, "I am Aldrich, the manager of Millwall..."

His outstretched hand remained suspended in front of Peter, only to be cruelly interrupted once again.

Peter scowled and, in an old-fashioned manner, pointed at the home team's bench, saying, "I know who you are. Now get back to your coach's seat and leave me alone. Do you even understand football? You think this is a party? Strutting over here like a foolish peacock? Idiot!"

Aldrich's expression stiffened. In that moment, he caught a glimpse of Shrewsbury's players and coaches seated on the visiting bench, all sharing a bemused look.

The stands at the Den fell silent, as fans curiously observed Aldrich approaching the opposing head coach to extend his hand, only to find Peter showing no intention of shaking it while hurling a barrage of insults in his direction.

What on earth is happening?

In less than two seconds, Aldrich regained his composure. Instead of retracting his hand, he pointed his finger defiantly at Peter's face and retorted loudly, "Who the hell do you think you are? I come here to greet you, which is a mark of respect—otherwise, I wouldn't give a damn about which foul pit you crawled out of! You're garbage! And your team is garbage! Utter garbage!"

Aldrich knew he could not retreat sheepishly back to the home coach's seat; doing so would signify his defeat, not only boosting Peter's ego but also earning the disdain of Millwall supporters.

Peter clearly did not expect this brash young man to point his finger and return insults. After a moment of shock, he resembled an enraged beast ready to pounce on Aldrich, only to be firmly restrained by his vigilant assistant.

As Peter threatened to retaliate, Aldrich feigned rolling up his sleeves for a fight, feeling a modicum of helplessness: all he wanted was a cordial exchange—why the need for humiliation?

Whatever the underlying resentment Peter harbored—be it jealousy over Aldrich's looks or class resentment—it culminated in an entirely absurd confrontation.

Aldrich's loud proclamation of Shrewsbury's coach and team being "garbage" resonated clearly in the compact Den, where every fan in the stand overhead.

Now, as Aldrich rolled up his sleeves and stood his ground, his menacing demeanor invigorated the Millwall supporters.

"Garbage! You're all garbage!"

Fans in the stands jumped to their feet, arms flailing, directing their wrath at Shrewsbury, further amplifying Aldrich's audacity.

Aldrich had no desire to resort to violence, but given the escalation, he found himself unable to back down. Fortunately, Jensen rushed in from Millwall's bench, along with several coaches, to pull Aldrich away and re-establish some distance between him and Peter.

Neither head coach appeared inclined towards gentlemanly conduct; they were both held back, hurling barbs at one another.

"You come here, and I'll knock you out!"

"Fool! Even touching you would dirty my hands!"

Peter, fuming, blurted, "Calling us garbage? If you lose this match, it proves you aren't worth even that!"

Aldrich was astounded!

Even the fans in the stands paused their taunts, glancing at one another, pondering the implications of Peter's statement.

Suddenly, Aldrich ceased his struggle against Jensen and burst into laughter, straightening his suit while exclaiming, "Did someone actually admit to being garbage? Hahaha! It sounds like not only is it foul garbage, but also mindless garbage!"

Laughter erupted throughout the stands, while Peter trembled with rage, his face reddening as if he would explode at any moment.

Aldrich noticed the officiating crew approaching and quickly adjusted his attire, waving at the cheering fans as he strode confidently towards the home coach's area.

Behind him, Peter continued to shout, with the head referee now demanding to clarify the situation and warning Peter Dawson. Meanwhile, Aldrich had reached the pitch in front of the home bench.

"Was that your intention? Provoking the opposing coach?"

Jensen and the other coaches were thoroughly bewildered; it was a first for them to witness such an explosive encounter between two coaches prior to their inaugural meeting and before the match had even begun.

With an expression of calm assurance, Aldrich replied quietly, "I merely took a wrong turn. That man over there refused to show me any courtesy, so I had to push back. However, it has turned out fortuitously—I believe this match will be quite intriguing."

Jensen returned to the bench with a wry smile, murmuring to the other coaches, who all regarded Aldrich's back with incredulous expressions.

At that moment, the head referee sprinted over to Aldrich, cautioning him against further provocations. Aldrich nonchalantly nodded, casually glancing toward the away bench, where Peter Dawson still glared at him furiously.

Aldrich's lips moved slightly, as if speaking to himself.

Although Peter could not hear Aldrich's words, contempt was evident on his face as Aldrich's lips curled in disdain.

"Foul garbage!"

Peter was infuriated, practically steaming, yet he couldn't leap forward to punch Aldrich.

As both teams' players emerged from the tunnel, the home and away coaches stood at the sidelines. Aldrich, with his jacket unbuttoned and hands in his pockets, wore an impassive expression, while Peter Dawson summoned Shrewsbury's captain, ominously lecturing him about something, his expression fierce enough to suggest he wanted to devour him whole.

The referee's whistle blew, signifying the start of the match.

Aldrich observed Shrewsbury's players charging forward from the very first minute, as if fueled by steroids, a subtle smirk forming on his lips.

Deep down, he felt a sense of gratitude towards Peter. Thanks to the earlier commotion, his nerves had settled entirely, and now he brimmed with confidence for securing victory in this inaugural match!

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