On This Day in 1980, Moyers' Double in a Rain-Soaked Victory Restored Pride But Couldn't Salvage a Failed Qualifying Campaign
The mathematics of elimination are merciless. By the time the United States took the field against Mexico on November 23, 1980, the dream of reaching Spain for the 1982 World Cup had already been extinguished. Canada's draw with Mexico at Azteca Stadium a week earlier had sealed the Americans' fate, rendering their final match a footnote to a disappointing campaign. Yet on a rain-drenched evening at Lockhart Stadium in Fort Lauderdale, before a sparse crowd of 2,126 die-hard supporters, the United States would accomplish something that had eluded American soccer for nearly half a century.
The road to elimination had been paved with frustration and missed opportunities. When Canada arrived in Fort Lauderdale on October 25 for the opening match, Coach Walt Chyzowych had deliberately chosen Florida's Lockhart Stadium's grass surface over traditional California venues where Mexican supporters dominated the stands. Against Canada, the Americans controlled proceedings completely, dominating possession and outshooting their northern neighbors 14-9. Yet dogged Canadian defending and goalkeeper Tino Lettieri's heroics frustrated every American attack. Ricky Davis saw a point-blank effort stopped by Lettieri in the 53rd minute, while Mike Stojanovic struck the crossbar for Canada. The scoreless draw left the Americans with a single point and mounting frustration.
The return fixture in Vancouver on November 1 exposed deeper cracks in the American foundation. Canada dominated the first half with tactical discipline that the Americans couldn't match. Robert Iarusci headed home from a Gerry Gray free kick in the 24th minute, then Branko Segota converted a controversial penalty—Ty Keough was judged to have fouled Stojanovic—to give Canada a 2-0 halftime advantage. Greg Villa's late header from a Davis corner kick provided only consolation in a 2-1 defeat.
The reasons for the disjointed performance became subjects of bitter debate. Chyzowych believed the team remained divided along the fault lines of the players' strike vote taken during their European tour. Some players spoke of a West Coast-East Coast split, with native-born Americans convinced that Chyzowych favored naturalized citizens. Whatever the cause, the Americans were passive and tentative when they needed to be decisive.
The journey to Mexico City felt ominous from the outset. The team arrived only a day before the match. Their promised bus to the training facility never materialized—they took taxis instead. When they finally reached the field, the gates were locked until Angelo DiBernardo's Spanish explanations gained them entry. They trained for exactly twenty minutes before darkness fell. The lights remained off.
What transpired the following afternoon at Azteca Stadium, before 80,000 roaring Mexican supporters, bordered on humiliation. Mexico struck in the 24th minute, then delivered a devastating three-goal blitz in ten minutes before halftime. After the interval, they added a fifth. Greg Makowski was sent off. Davis converted a penalty kick in the 76th minute—becoming just the eighth American to score against Mexico in Mexico—but the 5-1 final score represented a comprehensive dismantling. Seven days later, Canada's draw at Azteca confirmed what everyone already knew: the United States was eliminated.
Which made the rematch in Fort Lauderdale a peculiar affair. With nothing to play for but pride, the Americans took the field shorthanded. Steve Pecher and Makowski were suspended. Keough remained injured. Greg Villa and several others had been recalled to their clubs. Some 2,000 empty seats testified to public indifference toward a dead-rubber fixture. Yet something shifted in the American preparation—perhaps the weight of the humiliation in Mexico City, perhaps the desire to salvage something from the wreckage.
Chyzowych deployed Davis as sweeper, with Boris Bandov and Larry Hulcer as fullbacks and Colin Fowles as stopper—a makeshift backline necessitated by suspensions and injuries. In the attack, Steve Moyers partnered with Njego Pesa, while Mark Liveric joined DiBernardo and Ringo Cantillo in midfield. Arnie Mausser, who had endured the Azteca nightmare, stood between the posts. The rain began falling before kickoff, turning the grass surface treacherous.
The breakthrough arrived in the 31st minute. Hulcer, the St. Louis native, delivered a precise free kick into the penalty area. Moyers, positioned perfectly, rose above the Mexican defense and powered a header past Ignacio Rodríguez. The sparse crowd erupted as the Americans celebrated their first goal on home soil in the qualifying campaign. The lead lasted nine minutes. Hugo Sánchez, the Mexican legend only weeks away from his transfer to Atlético Madrid, struck a free kick that Mausser initially saved. But the rebound fell kindly for Sánchez, who headed the ball into the net in the 40th minute to level the score at halftime.
The second half unfolded in driving rain, making ball control hazardous. Then, in the 65th minute, fortune smiled on the Americans. A Mexican defender, attempting to clear danger, misplayed the ball 15 yards from his own goal. The loose ball fell directly to Moyers, who required no invitation. His right-footed shot rocketed toward the corner, giving Rodríguez no chance. The California Surf forward had struck twice, and the United States led 2-1.
Three minutes later, the match descended into ugliness. A confrontation between Mexico's Mario Trejo and the United States' Pesa escalated beyond words. Guatemalan referee Marco Antonio García Regalado brandished red cards for both players, reducing each team to 10 men. Mexico pressed desperately for an equalizer in the final quarter-hour, but the reshuffled American defense held firm. Mausser commanded his penalty area with authority, atoning for the Azteca disaster. When the final whistle sounded, the Americans had accomplished what no United States team had managed since 1934: defeated Mexico in a World Cup qualifying match.
"We wanted this game," Moyers declared afterward. "We worked for each other and gave an all-out effort. We didn't do that in our other games. Tonight we jelled. We showed that we were one of the better teams tonight." The victory meant different things to different constituencies. For the players, it represented validation that they had the ability to compete, even if organizational dysfunction had prevented consistent performance. For Chyzowych, it was bittersweet vindication. The following day, New York Cosmos president Ahmet Ertegun and captain Giorgio Chinaglia called a press conference demanding the coach's resignation. For Davis and his teammates, the win was also a defense of their embattled coach.
But Chyzowych accepted the victory with clear eyes about American soccer's institutional failures. In a post-match critique that resonated far beyond Lockhart Stadium's empty seats, he issued a stark warning. "The whole administration needs to be revamped," he declared. "The authoritative body which runs soccer in the country, in theory, must start doing so in practice. The USSF must start laying down mandates and establishing policies in every league in the United States. If it doesn't do that, we will remain behind the eight-ball. We've got to start asserting ourselves, and we need full-time professionals. They can't do this as a sideline and expect the coaches to work miracles."
The Mexico victory would be Chyzowych's final match as United States head coach. He resigned shortly thereafter, shifting his focus to youth development while assistant Bob Gansler assumed caretaker duties. The national team wouldn't play another match for 16 months. For Mexico, the defeat was an embarrassment so profound that the match tape—broadcast by Televisa—reportedly vanished into the federation archives. Leonardo Cuéllar, the Mexican midfielder, would refuse decades later to discuss the game with documentary filmmakers, his silence speaking volumes about wounds that never healed.
The Americans had achieved something historic on that rain-soaked November evening. Moyers' two goals had ended a 46-year winless streak against their southern rivals, providing a moment of triumph amid a failed qualifying campaign. It was a victory without consequences, but also a victory with meaning—proof that American players could compete, that the gap wasn't insurmountable, that better days might eventually arrive if the sport's infrastructure could match its players' passion.
They called it Dos a Uno—over two decades before Dos a Cero would become American soccer's rallying cry. For the 2,126 faithful who braved the rain at Lockhart Stadium, and for the players who finally conquered their demons, it was a milestone worth celebrating even as the World Cup sailed on without them. The United States had beaten Mexico. In the Dark Ages of American soccer, that alone felt like victory enough.
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