The Rise of Millwal

Chapter 96: The Purest Football

"Puskás?! The Puskás from Real Madrid?!"

As a fan, Melanie was naturally familiar with the famous name Puskás. She could never have imagined that the elderly man lying in the hospital bed, afflicted by dementia, was once one of the brightest stars to ever grace this planet.

Aldrich nodded sadly and began to tell the story of his connection with the old man.

When Aldrich first began his studies across Europe, he was devout and humble. But after seeing and learning so much, he inevitably fell into the same trap many others had: pride and complacency.

In 1993, Aldrich's mind was consumed with tactics. Not only did he study the strategies of various football nations, but he also grasped the trends that would shape football tactics in the future. Convinced he had mastered his craft, he eagerly sought an opportunity to showcase his skills.

Hungarian football had once been renowned worldwide, and its tactical culture was highly regarded by industry insiders. About fifty years prior, after joining the socialist camp post-World War II, Hungary had adopted a national approach to football, creating an incredibly powerful golden team.

There have been many "golden generations" in football history, but few teams are truly known as "golden teams." Hungary was one such team, often ranked among the greatest in history during the early 1950s.

Back then, Hungary's football tactics were the most advanced. Scholars would gather in cafés, discussing tactics, studying playing techniques, formations, and strategies.

They modified Arsenal tactician Chapman's WM formation and possibly pioneered the frequent switching between inside forwards and wingers, paired with a four-back system. This tactic, once brought to Brazil by Hungarian coaches, evolved into the classic 4-2-4 formation.

As their tactical research matured, the national team, created with the full support of the nation, began to take shape. Puskás was the brightest star among them, known as the "Galloping Major"—a title he truly held, as nearly all players on the Hungarian national team had military ranks, having been drafted from the army.

In that era of the Cold War, when the world was divided, England viewed itself as the pioneer of modern football and arrogantly extended an invitation to Hungary for a friendly match. By that time, Hungary had gained some fame with its strong showing at the Olympics, prompting the British media to label the match as the "Match of the Century."

Despite the buildup, England lost 3-6 on home soil. Unwilling to accept defeat, they trained intensely for half a year and then visited Budapest, only to be crushed 7-1 by Hungary.

English football often fell into complacency after minor successes, only to realize the need for change when faced with harsh setbacks.

Meanwhile, Hungary began to dominate the football world, unbeaten and confident.

By the time the 1954 World Cup began, the Hungarian national team had gone four years without a loss, carrying the hopes of their nation and regarded internationally as the favorites to win the tournament.

In the group stage, they thrashed Korea 9-0 and West Germany 8-3, but Puskás was injured by a tackle in the match against West Germany.

In the knockout stages, Hungary battled Brazil and the defending champions Uruguay, winning both matches 4-2 to reach the final, where they once again faced West Germany.

West Germany and Hungary—two teams that perfectly reflected the era's political climate, with both nations and peoples in desperate need of victory.

Yet fate played a cruel joke on Hungary. After remaining unbeaten for four years, on the day of the final, they were determined but ultimately powerless.

After being fouled by a German player, Puskás stubbornly played on despite his injury, and Hungary initially took a two-goal lead, seemingly following the expected plan. Unprepared, the Hungarians stumbled in the mud, repeatedly missing easy goals.Ultimately, the Germans made an incredible comeback, and Puskás's goal to equalize was disallowed by the English referee. The World Cup felt so close yet so far away.

This was the Miracle of Bern, a term even the Germans agreed was fitting. The victory revitalized German football and had a lasting impact on the entire nation.

On the other side, after losing the final, Hungary became a national scapegoat. Amid political turmoil and Soviet tanks entering Budapest, the Hungarian national team was put on trial. The goalkeeper ended up being exiled, perhaps because he conceded three goals.

Sound familiar?

Many later used similar stories to mock North Korea, but in Hungary's case, this really happened.

The golden team crumbled, and the Galloping Major began his life of exile. Labeled a traitor, he joined Real Madrid at the age of 31 and went on to create a legendary career.

After retiring, Puskás coached many European teams, even leading a Greek team to the European Cup final, a remarkable achievement. In 1993, he took the reins of the Hungarian national team, hoping to revive Hungarian football. It was at this time that Aldrich arrived in Hungary.

The country had just begun to stabilize, having abandoned Marxism-Leninism only four years prior. Football had long since lost its former glory. Aldrich, using forged documents that claimed he was twenty years old, applied for the position of assistant coach for the national team.

Upon meeting the national team head coach, his boss Puskás, for the first time, Aldrich had a straightforward thought: Let this old man experience my skills!

In a training match, Aldrich led a group of reserve players against the main team, deploying a highly pragmatic defensive counter-attack formation. He combined Italy's popular catenaccio defense with English-style wing counter-attacks, easily winning the match 3-1.

As Aldrich reveled in his success, Puskás remained expressionless.

"He was angry—I could feel it. But I stubbornly believed I was right. I thought he was outdated, out of touch with the times. He was once a king, but the future did not belong to him. However, he didn't scold me. Instead, he took me out of the national team's training base and to a small stadium in the city, where a group of high school students were playing football. They were thrilled to see Puskás because he was a hero. Puskás told me to play a match with the students. When I asked why, he didn't explain—he just told me to do it. I thought to myself: These kids know nothing about football. Playing with them? It's like casting pearls before swine. But by sunset, as I returned to the stands, drenched in sweat, that old man I had once dismissed with disdain smiled and asked me a question that changed my view of him forever."

"What did he ask?"

"He asked, 'Did you have fun?'"

"What?"

"He simply asked, 'Did you have fun?'"

"What did that mean?"

"The meaning was simple. I had fun. Yes, I played with a group of kids all afternoon. We didn't care about winning or losing. We laughed when we scored and hugged each other in celebration. When we conceded, we were disappointed, but then we rallied and started again. That day, I realized that it had been a long, long time since I had actually played football—since I had felt the joy that football brings. And that is the essence of football. The tactics crammed into my head were nothing more than dry numbers and lines. They meant nothing. Football driven by pragmatism always carries ulterior motives. Victory? If the players don't enjoy themselves, what's the point of winning? But this is what football will become because, for many, it's a means of making a living. Only victory can prevent unemployment. I was right about Puskás. He was outdated; he couldn't keep up with the times. But he taught me to think about football. He made me realize that failure is not to be feared. What's terrifying is losing the joy that football brings. And as a head coach, it's my duty to ensure that my players experience that joy."

As he spoke, Aldrich sighed deeply.

Long ago, he had planned his career. He imagined that in the beginning, he would build a strong defense, leading his team to play pragmatic football to quickly win championships. But in Hungary, he underwent a profound transformation. He no longer wanted to stifle his players' talents or make them feel bored with the game, losing their creative drive. He had to ensure that his players could feel the fundamental charm of the sport while creating goals and victories.

Puskás couldn't teach Aldrich much about tactics, but Aldrich still revered him as a mentor. Life is a process of continuous accumulation, requiring a catalyst for transformation. Puskás was that catalyst for Aldrich, a priceless gift.

Puskás had once been glorious, the pride of an entire nation, placed on a pedestal, only to fall from the greatest height.

Perhaps it was this experience that allowed him to let go of everything during his exile, to rediscover and enjoy the purest joys of football.

Aldrich felt incredibly fortunate, as if he had been blessed by the heavens. He had been reborn, and he had also met a mentor who opened his eyes. During his six months in Hungary, he began to organize and refine the football knowledge he had acquired, elevating it into his own football philosophy.

He might not have been able to create an entirely new school of thought, but at least he could draw from the strengths of many and integrate them.

In his mind, Puskás's teachings were unforgettable. It might be a stretch to call them teachings—more like the bond between two friends of different generations.

But now, his mentor was beginning to

suffer from dementia, drifting away from the world. Aldrich had written many times to the old man, but Puskás couldn't remember who he was anymore.

As Aldrich gently recounted these memories, his eyes reddened.

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