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Chapter 50: Go back to Manchester!

Aldrich wasn't blind. With Beckham absent from right midfield defense, the vertical space was expanded, allowing Middlesbrough's players—experienced and synchronized—to press forward with their attacks effortlessly. It was hardly a surprise that Makélélé had to resort to fouling to halt the opposing team's momentum; it was simply unlucky that they managed to score from a free kick.

However, when Beckham was substituted, Aldrich stood with his arms crossed and didn't bother to look at him.

As he approached the bench, Coach Craig handed him a warm-up jacket from the club. In a fit of annoyance, Beckham threw the jacket onto the top of the bench after receiving it.

Aldrich had his back to the bench and didn't see what happened behind him, but Craig, the whole coaching staff, and the players on the bench were all furious at Beckham's behavior!

Beckham was seething inside: Two goals in the first half were directly related to me!

So what if I assisted?

I'm not a freaking defender!

What's the big deal about conceding one or two goals?

I can create more chances!

Despite being a man down, Millwall had formed an impenetrable line of defense by tightening up their half.

With the midfield and backline spaces compressed, Middlesbrough's ground attacks were repeatedly thwarted. They were forced to pile more players into their attacks to create opportunities through long balls.

Yet this straightforward approach didn't intimidate Millwall; their defenders, Stam and Southgate, were well-versed in dealing with aerial threats.

As time ticked down, Middlesbrough pushed more players into attack in their desperate quest to equalize, causing their defensive line to advance further forward.

With just two minutes left in the game, Hendry struggled to take a shot near the penalty line. The ball was too centered and was confidently caught by Keller.

After securing the ball, Keller quickly performed a throw, launching it to the left wing. Lucas Neill, after controlling the ball, sent it forward with a sharp kick. Pirés, receiving it, prepared for a precise, surgical pass.

The ball sliced through the gap in Middlesbrough's defense from near the center circle, rolling towards the backline. Larson, who had timed his run perfectly, had already established good chemistry with Pirés and was ready to pounce as soon as the ball left Pirés's foot.

Larsson surged past Middlesbrough's White, easily leaving him behind as he charged towards the backline, creating a clear one-on-one opportunity.

The Millwall fans had been holding their breaths for what felt like an eternity since Makélélé was sent off. They were worried about conceding again, but thankfully, the team had held up defensively. Now, however, a one-on-one chance was within reach.

Goalkeeper Miller had no choice but to rush out; even before he reached the edge of the penalty area, he glanced back in despair.

Outside the box, Larson was about thirty-five meters from goal. With a graceful flick of his foot, he lobbed the ball towards the net.

The ball arced beautifully through the air, resembling a dazzling rainbow, before gently settling into Middlesbrough's net.

4-2!

Millwall had extinguished Middlesbrough's efforts in the second half!

The Den erupted in cheers, with fans chanting Larson's name, followed by a prolonged applause for his breathtaking lob.

Aldrich's tense expression finally softened a little. He loosened his tie and let out a long breath of pent-up frustration.

Was he happy?

Not really; it was more a relief after all the pent-up anger.

This was supposed to be an easy victory, yet the game had turned into a chaotic affair, leaving him fuming!

Despite Middlesbrough's aggressive play that half, Millwall could have easily secured the game with counterattacks. The suspense only ended in the final minutes—not due to a lack of preparation from Aldrich, but because he discovered that the gun's sights were off just as he pulled the trigger!

Having failed to equalize, Middlesbrough had lost all spirit, and the match was officially over after three minutes of stoppage time.

"In the highly anticipated top-of-the-table clash of League One's thirty-second round, Millwall faced Middlesbrough at home and won 4-2. Aldrich's team narrowly clinched victory at The Den, expanding their points lead over Middlesbrough to 16. With only 14 rounds of the league remaining, Millwall has practically secured the championship, while Middlesbrough should start adjusting their strategy for the promotion playoffs."

After the game, Aldrich walked over to shake hands with Brian Robson, offering an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I have a few things to take care of, so let's grab a drink when we meet again next season in the Premier League."

Brian Robson chuckled and replied, "You'll definitely be in the Premier League; I can't say the same for myself."

"Are you kidding? Middlesbrough has no problem qualifying for the Premier League! Overly modesty is just hypocrisy."

"Alright, see you in the Premier League next season."

The two young coaches exchanged pleasantries before heading their separate ways.

Aldrich accepted a brief interview with a smile but his expression turned icy as he walked toward the locker room.

Bam!

After he entered the locker room, he slammed the door shut and set his glare on David Beckham, who was sitting on the bench with his shirt off.

Aldrich walked steadily up to him, his handsome face twisted in fury. As Beckham looked up at him, Aldrich exploded, shouting at him.

"What the hell are you doing? Before the match, during half-time, at the sideline in the second half — once, twice, three times! I reminded you three whole times! Do you have no brain, or is there something wrong with your ears?! Fuck! Beckham, I know you want to show off and be in the spotlight, but football isn't just your damn show! Your selfishness and need for attention make Millwall look like a bunch of idiots!"

Aldrich's eyes seemed like they were spewing fire, and spit flew from his mouth onto Beckham's face.

He had every right to be angry!

In the first-half encounters, Middlesbrough had exploited Millwall's flanks, and while Millwall had learned from that lesson this time, they were still cut apart by their rivals' wing play.

If Brian Robson had pulled off some clever tactics, Aldrich would have accepted defeat. But to fall victim to the same attacking routine time and again was intolerable, especially after Aldrich had reminded Beckham multiple times.

Beckham was initially stunned into silence. When the entire locker room was so quiet that a pin drop could be heard, Beckham finally snapped back to reality.

Other players respected Aldrich not just because he was their boss as head coach, but also because they felt at ease playing under him. Throughout the past half-season, they had shown marked improvement. Makélélé, who had transitioned to a defensive midfield role, had no complaints, and the same went for Southgate. Trezeguet, returning to Europe from Argentina, felt grateful toward Aldrich.

However, Beckham didn't necessarily share that respect for Aldrich.

After all, he was an outsider, destined to leave.

"He was filled with anger, throwing his freshly removed Adidas shoes onto the ground, raising his head and shouting at Aldrich: 'What did I do wrong? I'm an attacking player, not a damn defender! What's wrong with me joining the attack?! Are you blind or something? Didn't you see how I performed in the first half...'"

Bam!

"Before Beckham could finish his sentence, he was forcefully pushed by the furious Materazzi, causing his back to slam against the locker."

"'You better fucking respect your coach, or I'll make you regret it!'",Materazzi yelled fiercely, his eyes blazing.

Meanwhile, captains Southgate, Nedved, and Larson all stood up in solidarity.

But Aldrich waved everyone down; he didn't need anyone else to bolster his authority.

However, when he pushed Materazzi back with his arm, the outspoken defender shot back at Beckham, "If you had just listened to the boss, we wouldn't have conceded any goals! Claude wouldn't have seen red! Idiot!"

"Zip it, Marco!" Aldridge shot a furious glance at Materazzi, who looked displeased but grudgingly slumped back onto the bench.

In reality, he had never liked Beckham.

During practice, Beckham had a habit of showing off his technical skills, occasionally flirting with girls outside the training field, even flaunting his branded boots as if trying to prove something.

On the pitch, his need for attention was greater than others, and as a defender, Materazzi couldn't stand players who went forward without covering back effectively.

In those moments of glory, it was the defenders who paid the price when things went wrong!

Aldrich took a deep breath, closing his eyes as the tension in the room built.

Yes, Beckham had talent in attack, but the future of football trends towards a collective defensive approach. A winger who only attacked or a forward who lacked defensive contributions would find it increasingly difficult to hold their ground in top teams. The truly successful strong teams had a defensive system involving all eleven players—only a handful of immensely talented forwards could operate freely. But as a winger, Beckham needed to contribute on the defensive end!

Aldrich's intentions were lost on Beckham. Aldrich believed there was no point in elaborating further; many exceptionally talented young players were too lazy to listen to their coach. Even Owen himself admitted that during his early days at Liverpool, he couldn't hear a word in tactical meetings and regretted it deeply, believing he could have achieved even more.

Without looking back at Beckham again, Aldrich turned and strode toward the exit, coldly stating, "If you don't value your chances here, pack all your things and get the hell back to Manchester!"