Moore's Four-Goal Game

On This Day in 1993, Four Goals From an Unlikely Source Couldn't Mask the Deeper Questions About American Readiness

The week after Fullerton had provided temporary relief—eight goals against the Cayman Islands on November 14, the most in American soccer history since 1885, a deluge that washed away months of finishing frustration in a single afternoon. Dominic Kinnear and Joe-Max Moore had each scored twice. Mark Chung added two more. The scoreline felt like vindication, proof that the Americans could finish when given space to operate. But the opposition—a Caribbean nation playing its first match against the United States, missing its best players, overmatched from the opening whistle—made the performance impossible to evaluate. It was goal-scoring therapy, not preparation.

The mathematics had improved marginally: 8-11-12 (WDL) after the Jamaica win, 9-11-12 after the Cayman Islands. But the pattern remained unchanged. Against organized defenses willing to concede possession and pack numbers behind the ball, the Americans struggled to create quality chances. Against overmatched opponents who couldn't maintain defensive shape, they could score freely. The World Cup would feature neither scenario exclusively. It would demand the ability to break down teams that would sit deep and force the issue. The composure to withstand pressure from teams that would attack with technical quality was something the Cayman Islands couldn't imagine.

By December, two matches remained before the calendar turned. El Salvador would arrive at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum on December 5, presenting another opponent more interested in survival than competition. Then came Germany at Stanford Stadium on December 18—the real test, the defending World Cup champions arriving to deliver the lesson the Americans desperately needed before roster decisions hardened into World Cup reality.

The El Salvador match unfolded exactly as the coaching staff expected and secretly feared. The visitors fielded a makeshift squad featuring just two players from their World Cup qualifying team, filling the rest of the roster with under-21 players who lacked the international experience to trouble organized opponents. Before 7,618 spectators, the Americans controlled possession completely, created chances with maddening regularity, and finished with clinical efficiency that had been absent against legitimate competition.

Moore, a 5-foot-8 midfielder being deployed at center forward for just his third international start, dismantled El Salvador's loose defensive shape with four goals—the first American to accomplish that feat since Archie Stark scored four times against Canada in 1925. Moore's first two came in the opening half, capitalizing on space that simply wouldn't exist against competent defenders. His positioning was intelligent, his finishing assured, but the opportunities themselves revealed more about El Salvador's disorganization than American attacking sophistication. "I had a lot of opportunities in the box today," Moore acknowledged afterward, the understatement capturing both his performance and its limited significance. "I'm just so happy we could score seven goals. This should give us a boost going into our game against Germany."

The boost felt hollow even as it materialized. Kinnear added two more goals, continuing his recent scoring form. Hugo Perez—born in El Salvador, now representing the country that had granted him opportunity—scored once against his homeland, the personal narrative more compelling than the tactical insight. The final tally reached 7-0, the Americans registering 27 shots to El Salvador's solitary effort on goal. The statistics documented dominance without revealing readiness. "I am proud with the score and nothing more," Bora Milutinovic admitted, his candor cutting through any temptation to celebrate. "We do not play a good game."

The coach understood the trap these mismatches created. The team desperately needed to solve its finishing crisis, but scoring seven against El Salvador's under-21 squad provided no evidence they could break down the Swiss at the Silverdome or the Romanians at the Rose Bowl. The European-based players who might elevate the attack—Roy Wegerle, Earnie Stewart, Eric Wynalda—remained with their clubs, training at levels these domestic exhibitions couldn't replicate. The Americans were refining a formula without access to their best ingredients.

One genuine positive emerged from the December afternoon: Marcelo Balboa returned. The veteran sweeper, who had suffered a catastrophic knee injury on April 17 and wasn't expected to recover until sometime in 1994, entered in the 61st minute. His mere presence on the field represented a triumph over medical projections, as his 76th international appearance tied him with Tony Meola for second on the all-time American list. "It felt fine," Balboa said of his reconstructed knee. "I had butterflies, but it was fun. Great."

The butterflies mattered more than the scoreline. With Fernando Clavijo and Cle Kooiman still recovering from their own knee surgeries, with Paul Caligiuri and Peter Vermes sidelined, Balboa's return stabilized a defensive corps that had been improvised by necessity. If the Americans were going to advance from their World Cup group, they needed Balboa's experience and positioning. His return timeline, accelerated beyond reasonable expectation, provided the coaching staff one fewer crisis to manage.

The record improved to 10-11-12, a symmetry that captured American soccer's position: balanced precariously between competence and mediocrity, capable of neither sustained success nor complete collapse. Two blowout victories did not answer the essential questions about finishing against organized opponents. The injury crisis had been partially resolved, but the European-based players remained unavailable. Time was running out, and the final test of 1993 would reveal exactly how unprepared the Americans actually were.

Germany arrived at Stanford Stadium on December 18 with the defending World Cup champions determined to erase recent disappointing results against Brazil and Argentina, and they delivered the physical lesson the Americans needed. Before 52,397 spectators, Stefan Kuntz grounded Jeff Agoos with an elbow in the opening minutes, establishing terms the Americans rarely experienced in domestic exhibitions, and their legs accumulated bruises that told stories statistics couldn't capture. The Americans held through grit and German inefficiency, trailing just 1-0 through 78 minutes before two German corner kicks produced two headed goals—the set-piece vulnerability that tactical adjustments couldn't eliminate—and a late breakaway completed the 3-0 defeat. "You should see our legs," Alexi Lalas said afterward, his voice mixing admiration with resignation. "If this is what they do in a friendly game, it's tenfold in the World Cup. They were kicking us all over the field. That's why they're the best in the world."

The day after the Stanford Stadium match, the World Cup draw convened in Las Vegas, a 90-minute extravaganza featuring James Brown and Barry Manilow that would determine whether the Americans' year of troubled preparation would prove sufficient. When the selections concluded, the United States found itself grouped with Colombia—which had demolished Argentina 5-0 during qualifying—with Switzerland, which had defeated and tied Italy, and with Romania, possessing all the threat of higher-profile European teams without the glamour.

"Believe me, if this thing was fixed, it wouldn't be fixed with Colombia in the U.S. group," Alan Rothenberg admitted, his dark humor acknowledging the draw's severity. The Americans would open against Switzerland at the Silverdome on June 18, return to the Rose Bowl for Colombia on June 22, and then face Romania on June 26. Advance to the round of 16, and the year's struggles would be forgiven. Exit after three matches, and every finishing crisis, every injury, every missed opportunity for European-based players to train together would be catalogued as failure.

Standing in Las Vegas, processing the draw that would define American soccer's future, the coaching staff understood their peculiar inheritance from 1993. They had integrated European training principles at the Mission Viejo facility. They had survived catastrophic injuries that would have devastated teams with less organizational depth. They had scored seven against El Salvador and eight against the Cayman Islands, proving they could finish when given space to do so. They had held Germany to 1-0 through 78 minutes, proving they could defend when motivated by desperation.

What they hadn't discovered was whether any of this mattered. Whether set-piece reliability and defensive organization could compensate for finishing inconsistency. Whether physical resilience could overcome technical limitations. Whether a team that had spent the year preparing separately—European-based stars with their clubs, domestic players at Mission Viejo, injured veterans in rehabilitation—could cohere into World Cup competitiveness when assembled in June.

The answer would determine whether the United States merely participated in their home World Cup or actually competed for advancement. As the closing days of December approached, they reflected on a year that had stripped away the romanticism of international preparation, revealed both systematic progress and persistent problems, and left the essential question unanswered: Were they good enough? June would tell.