The Rise of Millwal

Chapter 28: The Late Night Showdown

In the late hours of the night, Sand's bar was nearly empty, the only lingering patrons being Aldrich and his friends who had claimed the pool table for the evening. They put down their drinks and settled onto the table, sharing stories of their childhood blunders, laughter flooding their eyes with tears.

"How did you become the head coach? Now that your family has so much money, can't you just hire a coach?" Brady exhaled a puff of smoke, a sly smile creeping across his face as he looked at Aldrich.

"Come on, hasn't he always wanted to be a head coach since he was a kid? What's so strange about that?" Yvonne chimed in from Aldrich's side, her youthful, rosy cheeks making her look quite charming as she pouted playfully.

"That's not the same! He couldn't afford a team when he was a kid," Fred retorted simply.

Aldrich didn't respond. Everyone has their ambitions, and sometimes he couldn't understand the choices others made—like Cantona retiring, Beckham leaving mainstream leagues, or the countless young stars falling from grace. Was it all just about money? There wasn't a straightforward explanation that encompassed all these reasons.

So, Aldrich chose not to explain. When one is poor, they want to become rich; when wealth arrives, and life's needs are no longer a burden, those elusive dreams and ambitions start to echo in the mind. If the poor safeguard their integrity, the wealthy should help the world, right? Aldrich's fallback plan was to live as a pampered rich kid, but before he gave up on life, he had to at least give it a try.

As the bar was about to close, six or seven middle-aged men suddenly pushed through the doors. They made a beeline for the bar, where Sand waved away the staff and personally served them drinks.

Aldrich casually noticed that each of them had bruises adorning their faces. They seemed oblivious to it, drinking and joking, unabashedly recounting their earlier escapades.

From the snippets of conversation, Aldrich quickly pieced together that they had cornered some lone Derby County fans in an alley after the Millwall match that afternoon and had given them a good beating.

The man in the center appeared to be their leader—dressed plainly, not particularly large in stature, but he exuded a cold and vicious aura, his eyes glinting with a chill as they scanned the room.

Excitedly drinking and smoking, the group sauntered over to the pool table. The leader spotted Brady and the others and casually greeted them, much like a senior might to juniors.

Aldrich hopped off the pool table, grabbed his jacket, and started to head outside, his friends following closely behind.

As they brushed past the group, Aldrich was suddenly yanked back by the leader.

He scrutinized Aldrich from head to toe, but Aldrich forcefully yanked his arm away. The man laughed in surprise. "Whoa, take it easy, kid. You must be Aldrich Hall, am I right?"

Aldrich coldly replied, "That's me. If you touch me again, I'll break your hands."

The middle-aged thug exaggeratedly raised both hands, jesting to his friends, "Whoa, he's so tense! As if we're going to jump him or something! Hahaha."

His friends were taken aback by Aldrich's fierce reaction, especially by his threatening words.

"Hey, Pock, let it go," Brady interjected. The atmosphere had grown tense, especially with Aldrich's icy glare fixed on the man opposite him, which could easily lead to an unpleasant confrontation. He stepped forward to mediate.

Aldrich interposed, sensing who the man was.

Pock Greer, the organizer of the Bushwackers.

Aldrich held no fondness for football hooligans; in fact, anyone living a normal, stable life wouldn't want any association with them.

Pock casually lit a cigarette and said to Aldrich, "Hey, kid, I'm glad to see you took over Millwall, and you've been doing well lately. Keep it up."

He truly seemed to be encouraging a junior, which made Aldrich feel nauseous. He snorted and replied, "If you weren't out there causing mayhem under the Millwall banner, I might be more pleased."

Pock's expression turned cold at Aldrich's words, and he retorted, "Aldrich, I'm not your enemy. It's our first meeting; why are you so hostile? My father is a Millwall fan, and I grew up one, too. You're just a kid who's taken over for three months; don't get too full of yourself."

Aldrich had no interest in banter. He coldly sneered, "Let me tell you something, the Millwall club is mine now. I can make it soar or vanish from London—all at my discretion. What do you think you are? I don't care if you're a fan, but if you tarnish Millwall's reputation and cause me financial loss, I won't just kick you out of East London, I can personally send you to prison. Pock Greer, do you have any idea who you're talking to? The Hall family could crush you like an ant! We're not just rich; we used to live here. Do you think you can handle the street thug life? Jester!"

After making his point, Aldrich threw his jacket over his shoulder and turned to walk away.

Pock Greer and his companions were left dumbstruck.

Pock reflexively grabbed Aldrich's arm, not allowing him to leave so easily.

But the next moment, Aldrich snatched a bottle from the nearby table and swung it, smashing it against Pock's head!

"Fuck you! Are you deaf? Didn't you hear what I just said? You scum, don't dirty my clothes!"

Not only did Aldrich shatter a bottle over Pock's head, but he also grabbed him by the neck, pulling him close so they were less than ten centimeters apart. Aldrich's handsome face was icy, his voice low and menacing.

With a dazed expression from the impact, Pock's mind was temporarily clouded, caught off guard.

And Aldrich stood before him, like an imposing beast, roaring fiercely.

"Pock Greer! Fuck! Are you out of your mind? You have kids, a wife—you could live on the streets, but do you want your wife to be jobless? Do you want the police watching you day and night? Do you think I'm just some punk? You dare to hit me? As long as you try, I'll bankrupt you in court! Or you think you can get dirty on me? Fuck! The Hall family will retaliate against your whole family! You're done, Pock Greer. Your life is over, but for the love of your family and kids, think about them. Don't let them live in poverty; don't let your kids end up like you, a waste of society! You better listen up—stay out of my sight! Get as far away from me as you can!"

After his furious tirade, Aldrich's expression suddenly calmed. He gently released the stunned Pock and casually straightened his rumpled T-shirt before turning towards the bar's exit.

Pock's companions surged forward, but he raised a hand to stop them, shutting his eyes and shaking his head, a complex expression on his face.

Just as Aldrich had said, such football hooligans wouldn't dare challenge wealthy families.

After all, they had nothing but their fists, while the rich could easily dismantle them through the legal system.

Brady, Fred, Yvonne, and the others stood there, mouths agape, utterly bewildered by the fierce display Aldrich had just put on. They had never seen this side of him.

Who was Pock?

He was a tough guy associated with the Bushwackers gang.

And Aldrich had smashed a bottle over his head just like that!

As they drunkenly followed Aldrich out of the bar, Brady found himself lost in thought, questioning whether Pock's head was too tough or the bottle too fragile.

Anyway, he wasn't bleeding...

Under the vast moonlight, Aldrich adjusted the collar of his jacket over his shoulder with one hand while holding a cigarette with the other, his mind heavy as he headed toward the eastern suburbs. Yvonne trailed behind him, her big eyes occasionally darting towards his back.

Aldrich felt a sense of helplessness. It was an undeniable fact that English football clubs thrived on their communities. The future Wimbledon was a perfect example; when the team moved away, the fans didn't follow but instead formed a new club: AFC Wimbledon—starting anew from the seventh tier.

Since the mid-1980s, when Prime Minister Thatcher ordered a crackdown on football hooliganism, the results had been quite evident over a decade.

However, the low-level league environment in which Millwall is located has given the "bushwackers" a space to barely survive.

The crackdown on football hooligans was also dependent on the league level, especially after the Premier League was established. This corporate league naturally didn't want hooligans ruining its brand value, but with only so much police presence in the UK and most games happening on weekends at the same time, it was clear that on match days, most police forces would be deployed to maintain order for Premier League matches.

Thus, the first to be heavily dealt with were the hooligan organizations affiliated with Premier League teams, followed by those in League One.

But London had so many teams; the Premier League alone had more than a few London clubs: Chelsea, Tottenham, Arsenal, West Ham, Crystal Palace, Queen's Park Rangers, Wimbledon.

London's police forces were already stretched thin maintaining order for these matches. If there were derby match atmospheres, they might even have to divert police from other areas for support. Under these circumstances, with Millwall competing in League One, football hooliganism still existed, but the London police were overwhelmed.

Suddenly, Aldrich stopped, feeling a bit worn out. He went to sit by the riverside, thinking to himself: Next year, we must ascend to the Premier League!