An Open Letter to the
Lightning Soccer Club
from Jimmy Hardin
Captain of Lightning 80
Gold
1998 U18 National Champions
Dear Lightning Teammates, Current Youth Players, Coaches, and Parents,
After reading Marshall Leonard’s letter, I decided to write something to share with the Lightning community. I think that he had a great idea to write to the Club and share a little of what the team meant to him. Thanks, Marshall.
My name is Jim Hardin, and my story is a little different, but it ends the same–with our National Championship this past summer in Phoenix.
Life Lessons from Lightning Soccer
As most soccer people in Georgia know, our team is the first ever Georgia team to win a youth National Championship. Many people, however, do not know the entire story behind this team. Our team, the ’80 Gold, is like a microcosm of the history of the United States, if I may use that simile loosely. There was a war for Independence (Separation from United and other clubs to form the 1994 squad), a War of 1812 (Our loss to United in the Open Cup of 1997 and the subsequent rivalry), a Civil War (in which players threatened to leave, and the team’s future was in jeopardy), and finally, an emergence as the powerhouse of the world (National Champions).
In the beginning, the team (which I mean when Jack Handy, Stephen Williamson, Alex Balasco, I, and then Travis Larrison came over), a put-together of players from various parts of Georgia, was very much like the United States during the Constitutional times–melting pot (or salad bowl in most cases)–with a common goal, to play the highest level of soccer. Our team had existed before, but not on the level of a State Champion or National contender, just as citizens in the New World thought of themselves as Americans, but didn’t have their own standing army. Once some players broke apart from the Uniteds and TYSAs--America’s severance from British rule--many people began to talk of the shift in power to the southern parts of Atlanta. Our team was still not used to each other then, and we went through many trials, such as losing to United, a very bitter pill for us former United players, which parallels the British’ (United) sacking and burning of Washington. We rallied the next year, however, and overthrew them in the Fall 1995 Open Cup. We advanced to the semifinals in the following summer Regionals, a feat that surprised me very much because of the strength of our group–North Texas, South Texas, and North Carolina–the three best teams other than Florida. We lost to Memphis F.C. in the semifinals, but our hopes at returning the next year were very much raised.
That summer, with the addition of Marshall Leonard and Jarrod Blake, we were feeling much cockier, which is the term I use because we didn’t have any good reason to look past the State Cup. Sporting an even stronger squad, we suffered yet another loss to United, but this time it counted, knocking us out of contention for the Regional title ("National" hadn’t even entered our minds yet). By this time, I had reluctantly become captain, and I felt as though the team’s failure was on my shoulders since we had beaten them a year before when I had not been captain. Phil Neddo had given me the designation, but I only wanted to lead on the field as I had been–to me, being captain meant calling people for practice and organizing warm-ups. After the setback in the State Cup, things could’ve gone downhill. And they did. For a brief period, our team rode the euphoria of Justin Koehler’s 1997 overtime goal in the semifinals–and our defeating of United in the next game came without much opposition. Soon after, however, we had our own Civil War in the period before the Regionals of 1998–players threatened to succeed from the team, calling guys to come to practice was like telling them to stab themselves with rusted knives, and team morale was at an all-time low. I no longer wanted to be captain–I was not proud of my team nor wanting to be the one to answer to Phil. Phil left for Hawaii, like when Lincoln was killed, and I felt that our team’s hopes left with him. But then it happened–well, not yet. Chaddy took over and organized a rigorous training schedule for the summer.
Because of his leadership–he has this commanding, quiet demand respect hovering around him–the players busted themselves all-out for training in June. We put off jobs, girls, and even family for a short while because the guys started to realize that there weren’t going to be any more "next year"s. Alex Pama, Brian Moore, and Stevie Muccillo helped out a great deal, taking time out of their lives also to help us fulfill what seemed like our last words. In late June, behind our other-wordly keeper, Jermie Frankson, and new coach–no longer our "stepfather" (as Chaddy dubbed himself in that wise, English voice of his) but our FDR leading us out of the Depression and into WWII, we ran over competition until the Final. Everyone knows the outcomes of those games, but not the little nuances in the background. Being hurt in pre-tournament training, it pained me to know that I would have to watch the guys from the sideline. Before the first game in Columbus, we ate at a buffet-style restaurant. In the parking lot I stopped Chaddy and told him something–that I wanted Marshall to be captain with me, because I couldn’t play, and we needed someone on the field to lead. Being the youngest player by far, some would think that his leadership wouldn’t be enough for our strong-willed individuals–but as I and I’m sure the others noticed, Marshall wasn’t just a very talented young player–he had maturity way beyond his years and certainly beyond most of the players on the team. I was still skeptical that what I had decided would work out, because I didn’t know if a few of the guys would respect Marshall’s leadership. Besides Jarrod’ suspension for one game as a result of missing team curfew, there were no problems, and Marshall exemplified the great leader. Luckily for me, I got in the final game and was actually a part of the winning goal. Finally, I felt as though I contributed something–like I was a part of this great team, which had far exceeded my expectations. I was very proud of the guys at this point.
After having some days off for rest, we resumed training for Nationals. Most of the guys were just happy to be going, but some kept talking about winning the whole thing. There was much hoopla and ceremony in Phoenix, but the look in everyone’s eye was of pure determination. We opened with the Colorado Rush, and I found myself playing right outside midfield, partly because I was hurt, and partly because I was well enough to contribute. After they scored on us in the first minutes, Chaddy quickly changed the lineup. In the second half, down 1-0, Ryan Richards, back to the team after having been indisposed during Regionals, lifted a nice cross to Jarrod Blake at the back post. Jarrod threaded the ball with precision between the post and the keeper–with his head! The team went crazy, and the whole momentum swung to our side. I guess being from Georgia and training in sweltering heat, we were much more accustomed to the 100+ inferno in Phoenix than the Colorado team–but not that accustomed. I found myself entering the game near the end of regulation, with fresh, but wobbly legs. I had told Chaddy that I was fine to play, and the truth was that I was scared out of my mind of screwing up. I was at sweeper for the first time since high school soccer, which was more than three months before, and this was during a 1-1 National semifinal game. Previously, I hadn’t played for over 20 minutes at a time, but then was not the time to be thinking about those things. Surrounded by guys who had played 90-100 minutes that day, I felt obligated to keep our goal free from any chances, or break every bone in my body trying. In overtime, Benny Landis broke through and scored the winning goal. After a barrage of crosses in our own penalty box, the final whistle blew. We were going to play in the National Championship Game! For some, as I later thought that the Baltimore Stars must’ve thought, just getting there was good enough. Not for us.
We had one day off to build up enough jitters and nervousness in which to play the final game. The final game. In my fifteen years of playing soccer, I had used that term some two-thousand times. The "final game of such-and-such tournament is tomorrow, dad. What time are we leaving?" Or, later when I could drive myself: "okay, Trav (Travis Larrison), who’s turn is it to drive to the finals tomorrow for the Lightning Classic? Yours or mine? We sure as heck aren’t letting Steve and Handy drive." But for the first time in my life, and I didn’t even know it then, I was actually playing in the final game. Benny Landis knew, and so did Matty Doggendorf–they were going to colleges without soccer. But all of us knew that that game was our final game as a complete Lightning squad. As we loaded up the van to drive over to the stadium field, it felt like we were playing our final farewell to youth soccer. And we were. Getting off of the van and walking to the field, I envisioned every game that I had ever played. From the first muppets game, to my first classic game, to my first Lightning game–all of the tournaments, all of the games, all of the times my dad took off work to take me somewhere–or the Gwinnett guys loaded up the car in front of Travis Larrison’s house, trying to beat our best time to Fayetteville (turning right past the QT)–I thought of them all. As I looked around at my teammates, into the faces of kids that I had fought alongside for years, I knew that they were thinking the same things. This was our last game. We were going to win.
Lining up in our familiar two-line warm-up, a warm-up no different from the one we had been doing for years, we glided over the field like fog over a dreamlike moor. My legs felt strong and ready, as did our team. We huddled before the game, and guys said something to the degree of "okay, we’ve always said to play each game like it was going to be our last. Guys, this is our last. Let’s make it count," and we jogged to our positions waiting for the whistle. No one knew just then how we would respond. Would we play like Regionals again? Or would it be like the first half against Colorado, when we had no heart? Then, the whistle blew, and I remember Jarrod Blake pouncing on the ball like a lion on its prey, and our whole team responded, controlling the ball with poise and determination. Baltimore never knew what hit them. When they had the ball, they seemed more than willing for us to take it, and take it we did. Starting at sweeper and feeling at home for the first time, I felt a rush as I streaked over to tackle a tall forward of theirs. I slid because he was already past me, but I got the ball, and the back of my head clipped his shin. He fell down and left the game for some time, and I received a yellow card. By going full speed and not hurting at all, I knew that things were going my, and our, way. Later, I took the ball and dribbled up the field, something rare for my style of just collect and pass–but none of their forwards pressured; they just dropped back, and so I wanted to draw them out. When they finally did, I saw Stephen making a medium-paced diagonal run to the left side, and I just lofted it into him, not expecting much except to keep possession in their end. What he did next was unbelievable, flicking the ball over his shoulder and the defender’s head, and driving it into the back of the net. Finally, after so many opportunities (not mentioned earlier), we had scored! Then, we exploded. We dominated the rest of the game, more than in any other game that we had ever played together. When the smoke cleared, we had won 3-1–with Ben Landis and Matty (now Matt, as he’ll correct you) Doggendorf, the two guys not playing in college, adding the final two goals. In the euphoria of the celebration, calls were made back home where time was in the wee hours of the morn’ in Atlanta, cigars were smoked (the young kids should know that I don’t condone smoking unless you win a national championship!), and the fog of the dreamlike day for me didn’t rise until months later. This team had such a strong affect on me that I couldn’t play for anyone or any team that lacked the same kind of determination. So, after only a few weeks into pre-season here at Harvard, I hung up my boots.
I will never forget my final game, Dad, Mom, Tom, Al, Chaddy, Alex Pama, Travis, Jack, Stephen, Alex Balasco, Marshall, Jermie, Aaron, Matty, Roby, Brantley, Ben (Beavis), Tye, Dustin, Justin, Jarrod, Ryan. Thanks.
I will always think fondly of my time with Lightning. Thanks, Lightning parents, Phil Neddo, Kevin England, Craig (whose last name I could never pronounce), David Rice, Bo Avent, Nathan Pryor, Garrett Staines, Michael Bertlesbeck, Andrew Valesky, and Brent Parker for the time that they gave to this team, as well as all of the staff coaches at Lightning, the alumni (even Keith Dumas J), and the Red Team guys who helped to keep us from getting too cocky.
And for the young guys and girls still playing, I hope that if you get some things from what I have written, that you:
Thank you to all of my teammates, and good luck to all of the future National Championship contenders.
Go Lightning!
Jim Hardin
Captain, Lightning ’80 Gold, 1998 U-18 National Champions
Freshman, Harvard University