A night at the CONCACAF Cup, from a USMNT supporter's perspective
I live in Los Angeles, but I watched the United States men’s national team crash out of the Gold Cup this summer in Pennsylvania. I was there because my buddy’s bachelor party was set to take place at the final in Philadelphia, where we dreamed of tailgating all day and watching the USMNT win the trophy again and book a trip to the 2017 Confederations Cup.
Only there was one problem. The United States opted not to join us.
Instead, the Americans lost in the semifinals, while Mexico won the tournament and forced a one-game playoff at the Rose Bowl for the Confed Cup ticket. The Rose Bowl had been a veritable house of horrors for me over the years. First, I watched my alma mater, Penn State, get run off the field by USC in January 2009. Then I watched the USMNT get run off the field by Mexico in the 2011 Gold Cup final.
Despite being snakebitten by both the stadium and the USMNT before, of course we were going to reclaim my buddy’s bachelor party at the CONCACAF Cup in Pasadena. Most of us lived in Los Angeles anyway. Screw it, never say die.
We loaded up my car with snacks, sunscreen and, ahem, “beverages” for a day of tailgating and cheering. The traffic north from the west side of Los Angeles was suffocating, because the Dodgers were playing Game 2 of their playoff series that night as well, but we still made it to our parking lot in under an hour.
Originally we had planned to take a shuttle to the stadium from our parking lot. When we pulled in, there was a lengthy line patched with red, white, blue and green that stretched all over the lot with different sections and switchbacks not unlike those you’d find at Disneyland.
I suggested we walk. It was only a mile and a half away. Screw it, never say die.
But my plan was voted against, partly because we were carrying stuff but mostly because it was 97 freaking degrees out.
So after a comfortably air-conditioned ride trimmed our trek in half, we walked and walked and walked to Lot 6 on the northwest side of the Rose Bowl, where we located the rest of our group.
By that time, though, my buddy was close to closing up shop and starting our own personal march into the stadium, fashioned after the marches organized by the American Outlaws USMNT supporters’ group. We needed to tailgate fast. This was going to take some doing.
Thirty minutes of Jersey Mike’s subs, kicking around a ball and, ahem, “beverages” later, we marched toward the stadium, putting all the classic USMNT chants on audible display and trading barbs with Mexico fans along the way.
The funniest exchange came when we paused right before heading into the stadium to finish our food and drinks. We chatted up a group of Mexico fans and began trying to find a common ground beside soccer.
The conversation steered toward a certain faux-haired real estate mogul-turned-presidential candidate who has had, shall we say, a “stand-offish” relationship with the Mexican people in the past.
“We don’t like him,” one of the Mexican fans laughed.
“We don’t like him either,” we responded.
Boom. Common ground.
We made our way to our seats, which were in the lower bowl at the south end of the stadium. Enclosed by fellow USMNT fans, we were insulated from the Mexico fans, who in truth comprised at least three quarters of the attendance. Watching a game from behind either goal is always an odd experience. You have no depth perception and you have to work harder to watch the game, if that makes sense.
One thing that doesn’t change is the anxiety. I tapped the shoulders of my friends in approving relief after each Mexico attack fizzled out. I handed my drink to my girlfriend because my body was a jumble of nerves.
It didn’t take long for Mexico to go up 1-0, thanks to a 10th-minute goal by Javier Hernandez. Our balloon was poked, but not even close to popped with all that time remaining. If anything, we hoped it would light a fire under the USMNT, which had started the game flat and permissive. It did, and five minutes later Geoff Cameron equalized on a header.
In truth, I had concerns about the bleachers on which we were standing long before Cameron scored. The front half was disturbingly wobbly, and after the goal, the eruption among our sea of stars and stripes sent people falling forward and backward, a messy web stitched together by the embrace of elation.
I’d love to dip into my bag of clichés and say the game was back-and-forth from there, but it was mostly just forth for Mexico and back for the United States. Still, our defenders were composed and covered well for each other.
At least until extra time, when Oribe Peralta tapped home a nice piece of build-up play. 2-1 to Mexico, with only about 24 minutes left. I was still optimistic, and voiced it to my friends. Screw it, never say die.
The faith was rewarded three minutes into the second period of extra time, when Bobby Wood tied the game for the USMNT again. If the first goal celebration was an explosion, the second was a nuclear test in the atolls.
I slipped off the bleachers not once but twice. My brain had zero recognition of the dangers of my jubilation. I’m sure it was the same for the rest of the fans. It’s a miracle our ankles stayed intact.
It was also sort of a miracle the USMNT had a chance to win. We built off the goal with a swell of pressure that yielded wide eyes but nary a winner.
Then, two minutes from penalty kicks, Paul Aguilar scored. Seriously, that’s all it looked like from our vantage point. They didn’t show replays in the stadium, so it wasn’t until I got home and rewatched the goal on TV that I realized what a sumptuous strike it was. Credit to Aguilar.
The USMNT fans, meanwhile, were silenced abruptly, our momentum slamming into a wall decorated in the three colors of Mexico. It was hard to muster further optimism. It was hard to say anything, really. After coming from behind twice, this truly felt like the death knell.
And it was. We exited the stadium as the Mexican team and its fans celebrated. We headed back to our cars dead-eyed yet determined to leave as soon as possible, a condition best described as a combination of the trudging slack-jawed zombies of The Walking Dead and the rampaging attack zombies of World War Z.
Our bodies ached from all the walking, yelling and jumping. We were dehydrated from the heat. The line for the shuttle back to our parking lot was long. The veil of restored Mexican superiority lingered over the Rose Bowl and its immediate vicinity.
This loss hurt. Everything the USMNT had built over the past few years seemed to crumble down. So what’s next?
The first 2018 World Cup qualifier in a month. My friends and I are already pumped.
Screw it. Never say die.
