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Chapter 221: Blue Civil War

**April 17**, the morning of the FA Cup final.

Aldrich drove to the team training ground. Early in the morning, many fans had already gathered outside the training facility to cheer for the team, as it was the weekend. Before training began, the players would step outside to sign autographs for the fans.

The atmosphere was electric; the fans watched the players with joyful eyes.

Aldrich arrived at the training ground in his sports outfit. The coaches were all present, and gradually, the players who had taken a bit longer in the locker room started to emerge.

From their relaxed expressions, it was evident that they were in a good state of mind. Clearly, the main players had not let loose during their day off yesterday.

"Hey, boss."

One by one, the players greeted Aldrich, initially with smiles. But upon seeing the unsmiling Benitez, especially with the thick stack of papers in his hands, most of the players quickly averted their gazes and moved away with peculiar expressions.

They seemed a bit intimidated by Benitez.

Especially Pirlo and Schneider.

Aldrich was the head coach, but he couldn't be involved in every detail of the club's first team operations. His focus was mainly on tactical arrangements, locker room management, and in-game instructions.

The specific technical training was handled by Meulensteen, fitness training was the responsibility of Babu, tactical training was led by Benitez, while Jansen coordinated various aspects while maintaining communication with the players during training.

Other first-team coaches were divided into different training groups.

Benitez was a perfectionist, which made it hard for many players to handle him.

Even if Nedved earned Man of the Match with a performance that included 70 passes, 60 completed successfully (over 80% accuracy), and other excellent stats, the very next day in training, Benitez would praise him by saying, "Pavel, you did well yesterday, but let's talk about those ten misplaced passes you made."

For certain players, Benitez's high demands became unbearable, prompting them to turn to either Jansen or Aldrich for a sympathetic ear to share their complaints.

It felt like the first-team coaching staff had one playing the good cop and the other the bad cop, and that was indeed the case.

In the past, Aldrich had played Benitez's role, but he wasn't nearly as "tough." Nevertheless, holding higher standards for players was only natural. If not, players might become complacent with an 80% pass completion rate, thinking that's their best; this might be okay in the short term, but it could be detrimental in the long run.

After some warm-up exercises, Benitez prepared to have individual discussions with the players. It created a tense atmosphere among the players returning from a light jog, their faces changing dramatically.

Aldrich grabbed Benitez's arm, shaking his head with a smile. "Let it go for today. After the match this afternoon, they'll go on holiday. Whatever you say now won't make a difference."

Benitez hesitated for ten seconds, finally revealing a resigned expression. "Okay, let's hope they can give us a nice holiday."

"I have faith in them."

Seeing Benitez not approaching, the players exchanged glances and collectively sighed in relief.

Honestly, after this afternoon's final match of the season, they would all head off, and they really didn't want to talk to the coach about anything regarding their previous game. Even if they had time to discuss it, what difference would it make? Were they planning to train again tomorrow?

The morning training session was entirely low-key; the players were just relaxing.

The coaches didn't supervise closely; Aldrich and Meulensteen were chatting together.

"Really? What's the point of that?" Meulensteen asked curiously.

Aldrich explained, "In training, we use a ball machine. I commissioned a batch of soccer ball machines; they work on the same principle, just with a mechanical structure magnified. I thought this could help train players' ball-handling skills. Don't you think the players' technical training is a bit too static?"

Meulensteen pictured it in his mind.

The ball machine was nothing new; it was more intuitive in baseball training, where a machine launches balls for players to practice hitting.

A soccer ball machine?

" Is it designed for the goalies?" was the first thought Meulensteen had.

Aldrich smiled. "It can train goalkeepers' saves, but if you adjust the machine's angle, the balls launched can have different trajectories. This way, we can train players on their ability to stop long-range balls, especially since they can't predict where the ball is going to come from. They need to react quickly, move, and stop the ball, which tests their skills even more, doesn't it? My point is, machines don't behave like humans. A player waiting for a pass gets to see their teammate's kick and start anticipating where the ball is going. With a machine, the reaction time is much shorter."

Meulensteen's eyes lit up. "It can also train players for difficult shots! Attackers and defenders competing for unpredictable ball trajectories..."

Aldrich was momentarily taken aback. "Hey, how did I not think of that? You truly have a knack for connecting the dots."

Meulensteen laughed heartily, "How did you come up with using such a device?"

Aldrich shrugged. "I thought we should introduce more challenging conditions into player training. In the Premier League, Bergkamp's ball control is an art form. He can make any ball feel like it has a magic force just by touching it. But when we train, if we have coaches constantly kicking balls at players, it tires us out. If we let the players kick, it delays their training. So, I considered using training equipment as a substitute for manual training. A few months ago, I saw an article about ball machines, and that sparked the idea. The factory will send me the machines this summer. We'll see how effective they are then."

Meulensteen was clearly pleased with Aldrich's initiative. His pursuit of perfection in player skills made him happy, and Aldrich's investment and attention to this aspect filled him with gratitude and joy.

After finishing lunch early, the players rested for a bit in the training hotel before all boarded the bus traveling to Wembley, London.

The afternoon was sunny and warm. As Millwall's bus rolled into Wembley, countless fans had already gathered outside England's greatest stadium.

Today, the atmosphere in England was painted in blue. Millwall, nicknamed The Lions, sported a blue color scheme, while Chelsea, known as the Blue Lions, naturally had a blue theme as well.

This easily blurred the lines between the two fanbases outside the stadium; if one didn't look at the logos or sponsor ads on their chests, it would be hard to distinguish friend from foe.

Because of this, Chelsea was fortunate enough to draw the home kit for today's match, leaving Millwall in their white away jerseys.

Unfortunately for them, most of the fans in the stands wore blue. While there were Millwall supporters wearing their away kits to cheer, many still wore Chelsea's deep blue home jerseys.

Ideally, both sets of fans would fill half the stadium, but Chelsea's side was a sea of blue, while Millwall's side lacked that vivid color balance. The blue-and-white mixed stands appeared less impressive.

Only the more than three thousand Millwall fans gathered together created a sea of white.

That represented Brady and Fred's rallying cry.

This showed the impact of organized fan groups, which created a united front, demonstrating the strength of their support.

Millwall fans were genuinely frustrated.

They were unintentionally overshadowed by the Chelsea supporters.

But who could say it was wrong for them to wear their home jerseys?

If anyone was to blame, it was the FA for giving Chelsea the "home advantage."

Aldrich wasn't too concerned about this aspect.

If one were to talk about home-field advantage, Millwall had played several matches at Wembley in these two years, even more than Chelsea. Apart from last year's two finals, their European campaign had also taken place at Wembley this year, and Millwall was clearly more accustomed to the field.

However, having been so used to the home crowd cheering for them, the Millwall players would probably feel a sense of unease at encountering Chelsea's blue wave cheering for their opponents—it might give them the illusion that the fans had turned against them!

During the pre-match press conference, Aldrich did not attend. Prior to participating in the European Cup Winners' Cup, Millwall had notified the FA of their lack of time.

The FA understood; after all, Millwall was representing England in the European Cup Winners' Cup, and it was an honor to have them there, especially having won the championship.

This London derby seemed to signal London's rise in the landscape of English football. Once, only Arsenal held up the banner, while the focus shifted to Manchester and Liverpool. Although Spurs used to be seen as a significant strength among the Premier League teams, in recent years, they had fallen from grace and were no longer taken seriously.

Millwall's strong emergence shattered the old pattern, while Chelsea, under Bates' reckless investment, also showed ambition. The focus of English football naturally began to shift to London.

This was not just a London derby; it was also a clash between sworn enemies!

Before the match began, Millwall's Arthur walked into the box with a wide grin. Today, he didn't mind watching the game from the box because his favorite rival, Bates, was there.

Inside the box, Bates appeared somewhat tense, his expression serious and somber. He placed tremendous importance on this championship.

When Arthur came in, Bates didn't even notice, seemingly lost in thought.

Arthur circled behind him a couple of times, suppressing a laugh as he surveyed Bates, waiting for Bates to notice him, which made him look quite surprised. Arthur raised an eyebrow and smiled, "Old friend, can I sit here and watch the game with you?"

"Can you get lost?!" Bates hissed.

Arthur shook Bates' hand heartily and laughed, "Come on, smile! The cameras outside must have caught this moment. If you kick me out, that's just poor form, isn't it? I'll go out and say, 'Bates didn't dare to watch the match with me; he's afraid Chelsea will lose the championship!' What do you say to that?"

Bates gritted his teeth, "You old bastard, do you have to be so shameless?"

Arthur unabashedly sat down and poured himself a glass of wine, smiling casually. "Well, you did make me look bad back then. Our teams are sworn enemies; the seeds of hatred have long been sown. It's survival of the fittest; Chelsea is just a soft sheep now, while Millwall is a lion. Of course, I'd like to tear you to shreds. If you were in my shoes, you'd do the same, right?"

With a furious expression, Bates sat down and replied solemnly, "Arthur, you've humiliated me countless times in the past two years. Does that make you happy?"

Arthur poured himself another drink, savoring it before turning to Bates with a wide grin. "Yes, it makes me very happy! Humiliating you brings me joy! You might not understand our Hall family's survival philosophy: when someone hits us, we don't just hit back to pay them back—we hit them hard enough that they won't dare to come back at us. West Ham has already been relegated. Uh, Chelsea won't be relegated for now, but like today, we'll make sure you don't win the championship. When we lift the trophy and celebrate, I'll send you a picture of the celebration, so you'll remember who made all your hard work go to waste, who shattered your dreams, and why you feel like crap for days on end!"