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, seed like a proud father showing support for his son.
After the press conference, reporters sward 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 disappointnt: he had originally planned to warmly host Chelsea's owner Bates, even renting a Lincoln to pick him up for the ga. However, it seed Bates had co up with nurous excuses to decline the invitation.
The reporters were shaless; the headline on match day proclaid: "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 mont he appeared in the VIP box, the stadium's broadcast caras 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 gas 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 sumr 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 nurous tis before taking their seats.
To outsiders, they seed 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 gas 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 complints.
The man before him was a household na in England and a forr international star: Glenn Hoddle.
During the 1986 World Cup, Aldrich had indeed watched him play for England. The most popular English player at that ti 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 so 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 developnt 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 so 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 comnts about Chelsea in interviews, the entire Chelsea club was eager to defeat Millwall at the Lion's Den Stadium.
But they seed to forget that Millwall had not lost at this tiny ground since Aldrich took over last sumr.
When the match began, Chelsea's attack had yet to gain montum before they found themselves completely passive.
In midfield, they had Gullit, a forr 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 forr 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 montum.
Arsenal? Sorry, they were already 10 points behind Millwall.
As for Chelsea, they were hardly worth ntioning, lacking any heritage or glory to boast of. If Millwall was the star, Chelsea was rely 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 co 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 so extent, the mockery from Millwall's fans rely hit the nail on the head about reality.
Chelsea fans originally ca from working-class backgrounds, but as West London prices rose, labor-class fans were forced to "leave ho" 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 entertainnt; both the rich and the poor watch matches. To fit into British culture, especially in the international tropolis of London, many wealthy individuals bring their supermodel girlfriends to Stamford Bridge to experience British entertainnt culture. So 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 comrcialization.
Millwall killed the ga in the first half.
Under Millwall's relentless pressure, Chelsea conceded their first goal in the 18th minute as Nedvěd stord 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 excitent.
At their ho ground, they would always relish the joy.
Ho advantage under Aldrich's era was vividly evident; they exerted imnse pressure on all visiting teams and consistently delivered outstanding performances at ho.
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 outco of 5-0.
As Bates left the VIP box, Arthur called out loudly to his retreating figure, "You old bastard, you're welco to co back anyti! Next sumr, 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 to show you so rcy! 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 ho today and lick your own dick! Bates, I love you, you old bastard. At next month's Premier League roundtable eting, 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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