Welcome back, then, the Dockers Derby. We really must do this again. On a lovely soft September afternoon on the Bermondsey peninsula, watched by an outrage-ready media multiverse, something unexpected happened at the Den. A really good football match broke out.

Not wild or violent. No shameful scenes that nobody (trans: everybody) wants to see. Not in the stands or the streets at least: the only really sour note was an allegation of spitting against West Ham's Taty Castellanos, which will now presumably be investigated.

Otherwise this was a thrilling, high-quality 2-2 draw between Millwall and West Ham, a game where for the full 90 minutes nothing outside the Den's rattly corrugated stands seemed to exist, right down to the sleepy London commuter trains chugging past the open corners.

Alex Neil's evolving team produced a first half of sustained and artful intensity to take a 2-0 lead. West Ham reminded everyone why they were relegated last season by forgetting to turn up, before dominating the second half and scoring twice.

There was even a moment of late drama, controversy and, let's face it, blatant cheating, as Kyrell Lisbie robbed Mohamadou Kanté then ran through on goal all alone, only to be pulled to the floor by the same opponent. It was an obvious but also essentially useless red card. Lisbie had a fair chance of scoring the winner. A free-kick outside the box was rich reward for an act of cynicism.

In the end a draw was a fair result in a game where football, of all things, was the winner. Half an hour before kick-off the Den was already crackling with a rare kind of energy. But then this is an authentic derby, a game with context and hinterland, albeit that original source of tension hasn't existed since the docks were abandoned and then rebuilt.

The deep history is real: a battle for work on the docks, a river in between, a club that moved from your actual back yard (the mill wall in question is just over the Thames). Even if these days it's more a matter of muscle memory, familial tradition, internet blather. Even the docks are quays now. Although there are some really good artisan coffee shops around the place if you look.

Otherwise this was also a self-contained media event. When the West Ham bus arrived at 11.30am it felt like there were more influencers with collar mics, more rubbernecking reporters than actual enraged docker-descendants. Disappointingly for some, perhaps, the only real threat of violence around the ground all day was the danger of an accidental mass entangling from the endless Stone Island shoulder badges on show.

West Ham were always favourites to win here. Their most recent annual turnover was £226m. Millwall are on a tenth of that. Chronic mismanagement gave us this game. Boardroom incompetence made it happen. And playing squads aside, Millwall were hugely focused from the first thunderously claimed loose ball.

Neil has introduced a more fluid passing game in the last year, but this was all about energy and tempo. Early on Zak Sturge left Jarrod Bowen on the floor to vast approving roars, then slid a pass to Taïryk Arconte, who couldn't get his shot away.

And with 16 minutes gone Millwall took the lead with a goal that came in stages. First Mads Hermansen made a brilliant one-handed save from Mark Sykes, then another one, leaping up, from Arconte. The ball looped across the six-yard box to Caleb Taylor, who half-volleyed it elegantly into the net.

The Den erupted with a noise so visceral the Lewisham council incinerator at the Cold Blow Lane end (it is, Millwall fans will tell you, a world-class incinerator) must have shivered on its foundations. And they kept on coming. Arconte made and then spurned another good opportunity. Jenson Metcalfe spanked a loose ball from 35 yards that dipped and swerved and pinged back off the crossbar. And in first-half added time it was 2-0, again from a long throw from the right. This time the ball fell to Camiel Neghli, who took a nice touch from under his feet and smashed it into the net.

Pablo and Kanté came on at half-time and West Ham began to turn the screw. Bowen drew a fine save from Filip Marschall. Arne Engels spanked a shot hard into the head of Jake Cooper, who staggered once, remembered where he was, then just walked it off.

On 74 minutes West Ham pulled one back via Kanté's powerful low drive. They were hunting this now. Bowen seemed to be running every element of the game. A series of corners were bundled away, until finally Konstantinos Mavropanos headed the equaliser.

Millwall held on until the red card, then West Ham held on to the end. At the final whistle there was even some minor chest-bumping stuff between Bowen and Mathis Servais, traditions preserved, the family line respected, followed by a chorus of "you'll run out of Bermondsey" from the Millwall fans. It will be more a case of regional trains these days, back to the places beyond the riverside high-rises. But this was a wonderful game, and a fitting tribute to the enduring power of all that.