O Captain! My Captain!

The end might have been far from satisfactory, but if anyone deserves a fond farewell, it's Jamaal Lascelles

O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won.

On the surface it was a pretty unpromising moment. The 22-year-old substitute in his seventh game for the club, and with a grand total of 225 minutes under his belt, thrown on at halftime to try and plug the gaps in a United ship that was rapidly taking on water, with a generous helping of vermin already scurrying in search of the lifeboats.

By the end of the match, unpromising had become disastrous. A lapse of concentration on the edge of the box followed by a hapless challenge meant a penalty so nailed on it would have given Jesus of Nazareth PTSD. A red card and a humiliating panenka later, and Jamaal Lascelles had seemingly just played a lead role in an abject 3-0 defeat that had put the writing on United’s wall. Daubed in bright fluorescent red with a foot-wide brush, in fact: “You're utter shit and you're going down”.

Instead, it was his making.

I was there that February night in the Lower Bullens, ten years ago to the day that Lascelles’ departure from United was announced. We really were as bad as the scoreline suggests. An Everton team that hadn't won at home for three months hit the woodwork three times, while we offered nothing. It was a reflection of my desperation that I was pinning all hopes of a comeback on goals from our last-minute January signing, the never to be remembered Seydou Doumbia, a “striker” whose United career makes Facunda Ferreyra and Islam Slimani look like wild success stories.

There was talent in that United team, but a distinct lack of bollocks. Crucially, Lascelles was having none of it that night, visibly muttering and gesticulating as he left the pitch, all too happy to call out the pitiful attitude of his more experienced colleagues.

Two months later, after an even more gutless display at Southampton - Shane Long, anyone? - Lascelles famously spoke up in the dressing-room at half-time before doubling down on his comments in public. He stepped up on the pitch too. After that Everton match he started nine of our last dozen matches, even notching a nerve-quenching opener in what felt like a vital home victory over Swansea.

Little wonder Rafa made him his captain in the Championship the following season, even though he remained one of the youngest players in the squad. It's easy to forget just how smartly and ruthlessly Rafa reshaped that team, shipping out the heartless and the gutless and bringing in players purpose-built for the demands of the Championship. Think Grant Hanley. Think Daryl Murphy. Think captain Lascelles.

It was bold and it was insightful. This lad was a leader. Instant promotion is never a formality. It requires a mentality shift, and Lascelles provided that, playing and captaining all but three League matches in that successful campaign.

For the next couple of seasons he remained a mainstay, even as upgrades came into the squad around him. He might not have had half the class and grace of Lejeune, Schär, and Fernández, but he more than made up for it with his attitude and commitment. Apart from a run of five games because of an ankle injury, he played every game of our first season back in the Premier League and another 34 in all competitions the following season.

The Bruce years must have been a trial for anyone with an ounce of professionalism, but still he led, first choice and captain when fit. But the knocks became more and more frequent. He missed 14 matches in 19-20 and then 19 games in 20-21 through a mixture of knee, ankle, and hamstring injuries. But he was back the following season, captain and - a one-game suspension aside - ever present in the first fifteen matches after the takeover. Fittingly, he scored in Eddie's first match in charge, started on the day the turnaround really began at Leeds, and forced his way back into the team again for the final five matches of that season as the miraculous revival was complete.

Thereafter, of course, he largely warmed the bench or the treatment table, as Burn, Botman, and Schär displaced him. But even then he returned for a run of 20-odd games in 23-24, including that Champions League night against PSG and the four group games that followed, before being stricken by the cruciate injury that effectively ended his United career.

By nature, he doesn't leave behind a personal highlights reel of YouTube clips. He wasn't that kind of player. His worth wasn't measured that way. As if to prove the point, a quick ask around the TF brains trust for memories yielded just a crunching tackle against Everton in 2022.

Even by the standards of centre-backs, he was solid, rather than flashy. He chipped in with goals, but I struggle to remember any that were spectacular, decisive, or turned games. I had to be reminded (thanks, Ed) of the winner at Swansea on the day Rafa was absent through illness. Getting booked against Chelsea for time-wasting even though he was a substitute is probably the abiding more recent memory - back when we were a dirty, hard-nosed, cynical, we-don't-give-a-shit winning machine.

But I do remember being stood behind his mum and family in the away end at Hillsborough in the promotion season, and having all (well, most) of my miserable cynicism melt away. Here was a young lad to be proud of, who had pulled himself out of a difficult start to his United career and single-handedly established himself as a leader and a role model. You could see what that meant to his family.

In that season, he did more than anyone else to turn the club around. And for that reason, he has his place in our modern history assured. Like David Kelly before him, an unlikely saviour when we were staring into the abyss.

All the players who outlasted the grim, barren, increasingly desperate years of Ashley and Bruce deserved their day in the sun at Wembley twelve months ago. That Murphy, Krafth, Wilson, and Joelinton were there on the pitch in black and white that day was entirely fitting. That wasn't a wholly sportswashed triumph. Its foundations lay in the past.

And those foundations rested on the shoulders of the club captain who lifted the trophy that day. We all owe him.

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen sold; he led.

Matthew Philpotts

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Image: Brian Minkoff-London Pixels • CC BY-SA 4.0

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